Galya pushed upward, got to her feet, and fell against the chest of drawers. She leaned against it for a time, allowing her balance to return, before going to the window and pulling aside the thin curtain.
A single pane with no handle. Black paint coated the inside of the glass. Tiny gaps at the edges of the pane let in a small amount of light. Here and there, the paint had been scraped by what looked like fingernails. Without thinking, Galya touched those places, tested the paint’s consistency with her own nail.
Who would paint out a window? Why?
Someone with things to hide, she thought.
Fear rose inside her, a small bubble of it, but growing.
Galya crossed the room, using the wall to support herself. She knew before she tried it that the door would be locked. It stood solid in its frame, not even a millimeter of give. She ran her fingertips along its edge, felt the scratches in the thick paint.
She put her ear to the cold, slick surface and listened again. Still and silent beyond the door.
Galya took a breath, held it in a moment of indecision, then called, “Hello?”
Quiet like a graveyard, not even the sound of traffic in the distance.
She placed a palm against the painted wood, held it there as if she might feel the heartbeat of the house, then pulled it back and slapped the door twice.
“Hello?” she called again, more strength behind it.
Something answered.
Galya stepped back from the door.
The howl came from somewhere above, the sound of a wounded dog, or a beast awaiting its turn in the abattoir.
Galya did not call again.
Instead, she returned to the bed and sat on its edge. She chewed her thumbnail as she thought, fighting to keep the fear down in her belly, not letting it climb to her mind where it would drive all reason from her.
This man, Billy Crawford, did not mean to help her, that much was obvious. So what was his intention? The scratches on the windowpane and the door—someone had been locked in here before. Someone had clawed at the paintwork trying to find a way out.
And what had happened to that person?
Galya remembered what the man had told her at the table as he gave her bitter coffee to drink.
“I am the sixth,” she said.
Her hand went to her mouth, but it was too late, the idea had already escaped her.
Tears stung her eyes as the fear crept up from her breast into her throat. Five had come before her, five had scratched the door and the window, five had sat where Galya sat. Had they wept? Had they screamed?
She would not weep.
She would not scream.
Whatever this man intended for her, whatever desires made him lock her in this room, she would not submit to fear. Instead, she would act.
Galya rubbed the tears away with the heel of her hand, stood, and went to the chest of drawers. She opened the first one, looking for something, anything hard enough to break glass. It was empty save for a sheet of old newspaper lining the bottom. So were the second and third drawers.
She pulled the top drawer out as far as it would go, felt the bump as the runners reached the farthest extent of their travel. She lifted and pulled again, freeing the drawer from the chest.
It was poor quality, but solid and heavy. She went to the window. The curtain came away with one tug and fell to the floor. She gripped the drawer by the corners and held it up to shoulder height. With her body’s weight behind it, she rammed it into the windowpane.
The glass held.
Galya pulled the drawer back, once again slammed it into the glass. Still the window stayed intact.
The howling from above resumed, a voice cracked by pain and sorrow.
She struck the glass again and again, every bit of her strength channeled through it, until the drawer split and fell apart in her hands. The glass stood firm. The voice above rose and fell like a siren. Galya collapsed to her knees among the fragments of wood and offered up her own cries.
27
BILLY CRAWFORD SAT on the threadbare couch in his living room, his back straight, his hands on his knees, listening to the muffled wails above his head. He’d been in prayer for over an hour now. He had neither a clock to tell him so, nor a watch on his wrist. He’d always had an innate sense of time. He went to bed at the same hour every night, and awoke at the same time every morning, had done since he was a boy. Never been late in his life, people would say about Billy Crawford, if they ever talked about him.
The crying and howling from above continued.
It didn’t worry him. No one would hear. The old threestory semi stood well away from any other buildings, just off the Cavehill Road, on the outskirts of the city. It backed on to waste ground, and the adjoining house had been derelict for years. It had changed hands several times as property prices rose and fell, but as yet no developer had tried to turn it back into a home. With the state of the economy now, it would be years before anyone would look at it again.
In addition to replacing all his windows with tempered double glazing, he had insulated the wall cavities. Little or no noise could enter or leave the house.
Let the girl cry all she wanted.
The first girl had cried a lot.
They all had.
He had drowned them out by singing unto the Lord.
“What a friend we have in Jesus,” he sang, his voice resonating deep in his barrel chest, “all our sins and griefs to bear.”
He closed his eyes and felt the shape of the words on his tongue. “What a privilege to carry,” he sang, “everything to God in prayer.”
The wailing from above grew stronger, but his voice swelled, filling the house, blotting out all else until it was the only sound in the whole wide world.
28
LENNON KNOCKED ON the door and waited. A Do Not Disturb card hung from the handle. A maid smiled as she pushed a trolley laden with sheets and towels past.
He knocked again.
A smartly dressed man of early middle age emerged from the elevator along the corridor. A briefcase in one hand, he studied the signs indicating the layout of the floor, evidently searching for a room number, before approaching the door at which Lennon waited. The suited man rapped the door twice with his knuckles. It opened instantly and he stepped inside.
“Excuse me,” Lennon said.
The door closed in his face. He didn’t see who had opened it, only caught a glimpse of the suite beyond, including leather armchairs and a huge flat-screen television.
He hammered the door with his fist.
The suited man opened it. “Can I help you?”
Lennon peered over his shoulder. “I’m Detective Inspector Jack Lennon, PSNI. I need to speak with Mr. Strazdas.”
The man blocked the doorway with his body. “Identification.”
Lennon smelled a lawyer. He produced his wallet and showed his ID.
“I’m David Rainey,” the man said. “I represent Mr. Strazdas. Maybe I can help you?”
“It’s a personal matter.” Lennon leaned forward, trying to see more of the room.
Rainey straightened his back, using what height he had to obscure Lennon’s view. “I have Mr Strazdas’s
