He stood and walked to the door, opened it, and left her alone in the room. Galya stared at the paper and the numbers printed on it. She lifted the cross from her breast, turned it in the light, brought it to her lips, kissed it.
Hard, quick footsteps approached from beyond the bedroom door. Galya bunched up the piece of paper and stuffed it beneath the pillow on the bed beside her. She lifted the chain over her head, ready to stash it with the phone number, but the door opened. Galya clenched her fist around the cross as Rasa entered and asked, “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Galya said.
“That’s right,” Rasa said as she approached the bed. “Nothing.”
“He just—”
Rasa’s open hand struck Galya’s cheek, the impact followed by heat, heat followed by pain. “Nothing. You didn’t do a thing for him.”
“He only wanted to talk,” Galya said as her throat tightened with tears. She held up the cross. “Look. He gave me this.”
Rasa’s hand lashed out again, leaving its stinging mark on Galya’s other cheek. “Men don’t want to talk,” she said. “Men want to fuck. You ungrateful little bitch, after everything I’ve done for you.”
Galya could hold the tears back no longer. “But he didn’t want—”
She cried out as Rasa grabbed a fistful of hair and hoisted her to her feet. “They only want to fuck. That’s all you’re here for.”
Rasa threw her against the chest of drawers, sending makeup and lotions spilling. The mirror teetered on its stand before tipping and crashing to the floor, shards scattering.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Rasa said, marching to the door. “Clean it up.”
Galya got to her knees as the door slammed shut. Pieces of broken mirror lay around her. She wept as she gathered them up and dropped them in the small bin that sat by the chest.
Maybe the kind man could save her. Maybe he couldn’t. It didn’t matter either way, not if she couldn’t get away from here, away from Rasa and the men she had sold Galya to. Soon another man would come, a man who wasn’t kind, and she would have to do things for him. Her stomach soured at the idea.
Galya reached for the largest piece of glass, long like a blade, and saw the cross and chain lying curled upon it.
“I’LL TAKE YOU to my house,” Billy Crawford said as he put the van in gear and moved off. “You’ll be safe there for now. Put your seatbelt on.”
Galya did as she was told. He noticed the deep red on her clothing and her hands.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
She stared straight ahead. “I killed a man.”
The seatbelt gripped her tight across her chest as he stood hard on the brake pedal. He unclasped his own belt and climbed out of the van. The headlights made his wide face glow white as he crossed in front of her and approached the passenger side. He yanked the door open.
“Get out,” he said.
Galya stared down at him.
“Out,” he said.
She undid the seatbelt and lowered herself to the ground.
“I can’t help you,” he said. “You have to go.”
“You said—”
“I can’t. It’s too dangerous.”
Galya’s breast tightened with alarm. “You said you would help me.”
He paced, his gaze shooting in every direction. “If the police are looking for you, they’ll …”
His words trailed away, and he bit his knuckle.
Galya felt something crumble inside herself. This strange, kind man had given her hope. Would he now take it away, abandon her out here in this cold city? Her chest hitched as she fought tears.
He stopped pacing, ran his hands over his face. “Tell me what happened.”
“We have to go away from here,” Galya said.
He gripped her arms in his coarse-skinned fingers. “Tell me what happened.”
“A man came, a Lithuanian. He says he will break me, show me how to do it right. He holds me down on the bed. He hurts me. I push him off.”
She mimed the actions with her hands, shaping the words into English as she spoke.
“I have a broken glass from the mirror. When I broke it, I wrapped it in cloth from the bed so to make a knife. I told him let me go. He was angry. He was shouting. He tries to take the glass from me. I didn’t want to kill him. I just want to go home.”
He released her arms and backed away. “It’s too much risk,” he said, more to himself than to Galya. “I can’t, not this time.”
Galya tugged at his shirt. “Please, sir, you say you would help me if I go away from them.”
He brushed her hand away. “Not like this. The police will come for you. I can’t—”
A siren in the distance stopped him talking. His shoulders rose and fell, his breath misting in plumes between them.
“Calm down,” he said.
Galya knew he was not addressing her.
He turned a circle, looking all around him, until his eyes settled on the number plates on his van. He looked back to Galya.
She reached beneath the neckline of her bloodied sweatshirt and withdrew the pendant that clung to the chain around her neck.
“You gave me this,” she said, showing him the cross. “You say Jesus will protect me. He did. He showed me how to go away from that place.”
He closed his eyes, engaged in a silent communion with himself. His eyes opened, his breathing slowed, his decision made.
“All right,” he said. “Come with me.”
16
SUSAN STEPPED BACK to allow Lennon to enter her apartment. He held the envelopes he’d taken from the postman he’d intercepted downstairs.
“You look like shit,” she said.
“Thanks. Ellen up yet?”
“Half an hour ago,” Susan said, leading the way to her kitchenette. “She’s in Lucy’s room. I was just about to make breakfast for them. Coffee?”
“Please,” he said, taking a seat at the table.
He set the mail addressed to Susan to one side and opened his own. One bill, an overdue notice, and a card with an An Post stamp and a Finglas postmark.
Susan spooned instant granules into two mugs and poured boiling water over them. Without asking, she added two sugars to his, stirred, and set the mug in front of him.
“Take it easy for ten minutes,” she said. “Ellen’s happy playing anyway.”
Lennon smiled in thanks and took a sip.
The Christmas card was a cheap supermarket job, all gaudy colors and saccharine sentiment. He looked inside and felt his nerve endings jangle.
The only mark it bore was the letter T, two lines intersecting as if drawn by a child.
He stared at it, his mind racing through possibilities. A sick joke, maybe. Or perhaps he misunderstood, the shape etched on the card being nothing other than the pair of scrawled lines they appeared to be.
Susan hovered by his side, asked, “What’s wrong? You’re shaking.”
“Nothing,” he said. He closed the card, the image of the Traveller’s knowing grin burning in his mind.
