The Last Girl (15 page)

Jonas scratched his head. He winced when Ivan raised his voice. ‘Of course I saw him.Just like Kasimov said, he was drinking at the bar in Zirmunai. You heard him, he drinks there all the time. Every night. What you getting so worked up about?'

Ivan frowned. ‘So tell me! I want to picture it. We got to do the job this week, Kasimov is on my back. I need to get it right. I need to go through the whole thing in my head, so that it'll be natural.'

Svetlana took a cigarette and stood in the doorway. She watched the two men but tried not to listen; she did not want to know what job Kasimov was paying them to do. Ivan stood up, pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around him. The blue plastic bag that had been on the end of the bed slipped off, the sheets cascading out across the floor. Jonas leaned forward, suddenly animated. His eyes fixed on the scattered pages and the blue bag.

‘That's it!' he exclaimed.

Svetlana started. She flicked the cigarette out into the courtyard and stepped forward to pick up the papers.

‘That's what?' said Ivan.

Jonas leapt quickly from his seat and scrabbled on the floor, gathering the sheets, grabbing hold of the plastic bag before Svetlana could reach it.

‘What's the matter with you?' Ivan said.

‘I've had this crazy old guy on at me. He left a bag in the cafe the other night. A blue plastic bag, he says, full of paper. It's some book he wrote or something. He's pretty desperate to get it back.'

Svetlana pulled the bag from his hands and bundled the sheets into a pile. ‘Give them me,' she said. ‘Keep your hands off.'

Ivan stared down at the two arguing on the floor at his feet. He kicked out at Svetlana and grabbed Jonas by his collar, yanking him to his feet with the front page of the manuscript still in his hand. Svetlana stumbled back, holding the rest of the papers tight to her chest.

Ivan shook Jonas hard. ‘I don't give a fuck about any old men, I've got a job that needs planning.' He threw the blanket back onto the bed and pulled on a jacket. ‘Let's go for a drink.'

Reluctantly Jonas followed him out into the courtyard. Svetlana watched them go, not letting up her grasp on Daumantas' package. Once they had gone she sprang across to the bed, where the last of the papers lay scattered. She gathered them together carefully. As she was sliding them back into the bag, Jonas entered. He looked at her, then at the bag in her hands. She stood up slowly. Jonas pointed at the bag, but she stopped him.

‘Forget it.'

Jonas seemed about to say something. He shuffled forward. Svetlana glared at him fiercely.

‘Come one step closer,' she said, ‘and see what I do.'

For a few moments longer he lingered, his eyes on the bag in her hand, judging whether he could take it by force.

‘I'll be back,' he said, licking his lips, nervously. He folded the sheet he held in his hand and slipped it into his pocket. ‘I'll be back for it, Svyeta.'

When Jonas left, Svetlana's eyes flicked quickly about the room. In the corner, by the wall, was the bed and by that the one armchair. Against the opposite wall was a small table, with the television perched on it. In the corner by the door, a sink, a small cooker with two hobs. On the floor, laid over the twisted, old wooden floorboards, a threadbare rug.

She held the bag in her arms, tightly. She feared that at any moment Jonas might return with Ivan. Her eyes searched for some space where it might be hidden. Somewhere she could be sure he would not look. For a moment her eyes rested on the pile of junk in the darkest corner where, she now knew, Misha kept his savings hidden. Not there. If Ivan searched the room it would not take him long to discover. She worried then that if Ivan did search the room he would find Misha's money.

Down on her knees, she peered beneath the bed. Bags of clothing, thin and ragged sheets, broken toys. The floorboards creaked under her knees as she shifted. The floorboards. The thought struck her. She examined them. The wood was old, worn, but it was nailed down fumly. She ran her fingers along the edge of the boards, finding their ends, examining the rusty nails, prising at them with her fingertips.

In the courtyard she heard the sound of voices. She paused and sat up. She listened, tense and still, straining to hear. Her fingers tightened around the plastic bag. Male voices, low, hard to distinguish. She rose and stepped stealthily across to the door. Peeping out into the courtyard, she saw· two men sat in the sun, beer bottles in hands. Neighbours.

She hurried back across the room. Lifting the rug she ran her fingers over the wooden boards. The tip of her finger clipped a loose nail. It cut her. The blood oozed up quickly and she pushed the finger into her mouth and sucked it. She examined the board. It appeared moveable. Taking a spoon from the sink, she prised it up. With a little resistance it shifted. The nail squeaked as it moved in the wood. And then it was out. She lifted the board away. There was a space beneath it, quite wide enough to slip in the plastic bag. Carefully she did so. She pushed it through the gap and away from the hole.

As Svetlana withdrew her fingers, her nails brushed against something. It was cold, smooth. She hesitated. She knelt down and tried to peer into the gap, but it was too dark. Cautiously she slipped her arm back into the space and felt around in the darkness. Her fingers touched it. It moved. A metal box. A small metal box. She clutched at it and drew it to the gap.

It slipped out easily. She laid it on the bed. Replacing the floorboard she pushed the old rusted nail back into the hole, pressing it down with the palm of her hand until it lay flush with the others. Rolling back the rug she smoothed it out. Nothing showed. She rinsed her fingers in the bucket of cold water under the slow-dripping tap. Only then did she turn her attention back to the metal box that lay on the rumpled sheets.

It was old and coated with dust. The corners had rusted. Taking a cloth, she wiped it carefully, revealing the decoration on its side and the writing. The writing was odd. The first thing that struck her was that it was not Lithuanian, as she might have imagined. Nor was it Polish. The distinctive script was not Cyrillic either. The box was red and the writing yellow. Faded and dirty now. Hard to imagine that once it must have shone, have reflected the sun. The lid that sealed the top of the box had rusted closed. It would not budge when she tried it. She fetched a knife and slid it inside, moving it along to loosen the corroded metal. When she levered it, the metal bent. Finally she had to bend the metal back on all sides before it gave way and dropped off.

What had she been expecting to find? Treasure? Gold coins? It had rattled when she shook it gently. There was something metal inside. But she had not opened it in the hope of finding money. It was curiosity that made her fingers fumble, as she scooped out the contents.

There were three objects inside the box. She laid them one beside the other on the bed. A handkerchief, a ring and a medal. Nothing more. She looked inside the tin. The corners were brown with rust. The metal glistened still, a little.

The ring was gold. A thin band. A wedding ring. She lifted it carefully. It had fitted a slim finger. She tried it on her own and found that it would only slip over the knuckle of her smallest. She pulled it off quickly. It accentuated the thick, red knuckled roughness of her hands. She examined it closely. There was no inscription engraved on it.

The handkerchief had been white. It was grey now, with large growing lakes of brown where the rust had spilt out over it. In the corner, carefully embroidered, were the initials of the owner. It puzzled Svetlana that somebody had taken the trouble to hide a handkerchief. The ring and medal had not been wrapped in it; it was not there for functional purposes. It had meant something to the person.

The last object was a small metal disk with a hole punched into it. The Lithuanian emblem was printed on the disk, crudely. Itwas a cheap medallion and it too had been infected with the rust. Svetlana rubbed the brown crust between her fingers, revealing more of the knight astride his horse, sword flourishing in the air above him.

Who, Svetlana wondered, had hidden these humble treasures? Three personal relics, dull with age. She gathered them into her hands and pressed them to her. There was something pitiful about them. She placed the mementoes back into the rusted box, but did not replace the lid.

She held the box on her lap and gazed down into it. At the flotsam of life, hidden, cherished. Hidden memories. She had not seen her father again. That night was the last. He had kissed her earlier, when she had gone to bed. She knelt and said her prayers. She crawled in between the cool sheets. He came in and leaned over her. She did not open her eyes. She sensed his presence above her. His beard. His large face. She pulled her face down under the sheet.

Later – after – she opened the door. It was dark outside, a freezing wind blew in and lifted the curtains. Her mother stood in the door of the bedroom and told her to close it. She turned and stared at her. Her mother withdrew.

Svetlana closed her eyes. She leaned back against the wall. The two men were still talking in the courtyard, their voices a murmur, a quiet, drunken argument. She felt weary. Not tired, a deep weariness that suffused her whole body. She lay on the bed, cradling the metal box against her breast.

The sound of voices. A forest. A low hymn rising from the cone-strewn hollow, lifting on the pine-scented breeze. The birds were singing. The trees whispered. Svetlana's hand was in his. Her small white fist screwed up inside that large leather pouch. The singing was low, tentative, as though it was the very earth itself, fumbling to find its voice. They crept over the ridge and saw them. Gathered in the clearing, they stood in a group not far from the wooden cottage. Svetlana looked up as her father raised his hand in greeting. His large face was flushed with a smile.

Always when he spoke his voice was quiet. That was how she remembered it. They slid down the ridge into the clearing. Sunlight cut through the tops of the trees and fell in thick beams through the tall trunks. The ground was soft beneath their feet and she slipped on the pine needles as she descended from the ridge.

‘You must not take her,' her mother had said, before they went. She looked at her mother. A small, creased woman. Her father said nothing. He had his back to her and did not turn.

‘It's dangerous. You mustn't. If the police find out… God knows what they will do.'

‘God knows,' her father said, his voice calm and low. ‘And we must trust in Him.'

Svetlana slipped into sleep, clasping the metal tin to her tightly. The rust rubbed against her skin, colouring it.

He had taken her. How she had gloated. A warm flush of victory blushed her cheeks as she turned her back on her mother and put her hand into her father's. She looked round briefly as they left. Her mother stood in the corridor, lips pursed tightly, arms folded. Svetlana smiled.

The singing grew louder as they drew closer, their footsteps silent on the thick carpet of needles. Behind the group the cottage door was open and faintly she could hear the click and hum of a machine. The printing press, operated by an old man covered in ink, who came and stood in the doorway as they approached, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth. Her father began singing, his voice rose like that of a deep-throated bird, winging its way across the clearing, joining the voices of the group, who had turned to greet them.

When they knelt, the needles bit into the soft flesh on her knees. She pressed close to her father, her eyes shut tight. Screwed up. Her nose wrinkling. She did not listen to the melodic chant of the priest's prayer. Her father had slipped his arm around her. Opening her eyes suddenly, she saw the last rays of the sinking sun as they broke through the branches. The air was pink and, close to the earth, blue.

In their arms they took the newly printed books from the cottage. They smelled sharp and fresh. They loaded them into the back of the car and as he closed the door, in the gloom, her father raised his finger to his lips. Our secret, he said. You must say nothing, not even to your mother. Two nights later he was taken.

The weather in the morning was blustery. Dark clouds scudded across the rooftops and the wind blew the rain hard against the windows. Svetlana had one small bag of washing to do and she did it early. She wrapped the clean shirts carefully and slid the paper parcel into a plastic bag so that it would not get wet when she delivered it. As she stepped out into the squall, Jonas ducked into the courtyard, his collar turned up against the weather. Svetlana was glad of the excuse to avoid him.

Jonas rapped on the door and entered. Ivan was stretched out on the bed, an eye lazily on the television. Jonas slumped into the armchair.

‘That bag,' he said after a few moments, as though the thought had just struck him. ‘What did she do with it?'

For a moment Ivan looked at him, blankly.

‘Those papers,' Jonas reminded him. ‘The blue plastic bag.'

Ivan shook his head. ‘No idea.' ‘He called again last night.'

Ivan sat up and pulled a cigarette from the packet. He did not seem to be listening, absorbed as he was in the fuzzy image of the South American soap opera. Jonas glanced around the room. There was no sign of it. He bent over and glanced beneath the bed.

‘He seems pretty desperate to get it back,' he said. Ivan did not reply.

‘I thought he might offer some money for it,' Jonas added cautiously. Ivan's eyes flicked away from the screen. They studied Jonas' face. He lit the cigarette that had been dangling from his lips. After a few moments his eyes drifted back to the screen.

‘How much?' he said.

‘Not much, not much,' Jonas said. He tried to think of a sum. He couldn't say much or Ivan would want the business for himself. If he said too little Ivan would not be interested. ‘Twenty dollars.'

Ivan sat up. He walked over to the television and turned it off. Placing the cigarette on the edge of the sink, he rinsed his face in the water collected in the bucket.