head through. A thin cry escaped her as she lost skin and hair to the wooden edges before she finally forced her other shoulder through. She fell to the ground and snaked her torso and hips between the panels. But for the stinging frost, she might have rested there a moment.
Instead, Galya fought her way upright. Her limbs were back under her control at last, the wild shivering spasms abated at least for now.
A fence, perhaps ten feet tall, stood opposite, a car park and new-looking apartment blocks beyond it. Lights shone in a few of them. Could she ring their doorbells, ask for the use of a phone? Possibly. But how would they react to a strange foreign girl disturbing them in the early hours? A pay phone would be better.
Day or night, he’d said.
The kind man.
Galya saw a car parked at the end of the street, its windows steamed up, its front wheels on the pavement, a streetlight shining down on it. Beyond that, an open gate.
Move, Galya told herself. If she kept still, the cold would start to gnaw at her again. She made for the gate. Her soles stung with every step. God only knew what kind of state they were in. Worry about that later, she thought. Get shelter, get help.
A bar stood at that end of the fenced-off street, the old building standing lonely and defiant against the new structures that sprouted up around it. A sign advertising Guinness hung over the door. No noise from within.
As she drew close to the car, she saw its nose had butted up against a junction box at the base of the light. Its rear passenger-side door looked like it had not quite found home. Was it open? Maybe she could slip inside, get out of the cold for a little while.
It was an old car, boxy and dented. The kind she used to see back home in her village, held together with rust and hope. Galya reached for the handle. Condensation obscured the interior. She swallowed, pulled, and stepped back.
A man lay snoring on the backseat, curled in a fetal position, a tall bottle clasped to his chest. Disturbed by the chill draft, he snorted and pulled a coat up to his nose. The stale smell of alcohol borne on warm air drifted from the car.
Galya guessed this man had emerged from the bar with the intention of driving home, and got no further than this. Defeated by his own stupor, he had climbed into the back to sleep it off. Short in stature as he was, he hadn’t needed to draw his legs up too much.
And he had small feet.
Galya regarded his trainers. Cheap, even a girl from Ukraine could tell. But better than raw bare feet on this icy ground. She took a breath, held it, and gripped one of the laces between her forefinger and thumb. It came loose with a gentle pull. She grabbed the heel and worked it free.
The man gasped and huffed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m up,” he said, his words sodden with sleep and drink.
Galya froze.
He did not open his eyes. Soon, his snoring resumed.
Galya exhaled. She undid the other lace and dislodged the remaining shoe.
The man’s eyes opened, focused on nothing. “Aye, aye, I’m coming, hold your horses.”
Again, he sank back into his slumber.
Galya slipped the shoes onto her feet, ignoring the odor from his socks. They were at least two sizes too big, but they would do. She flexed her toes in the sweaty warmth.
A glint caught her attention. There, in the footwell, a mobile phone and some loose coins. She leaned in and across the drunk. The bitter smell of him seeped in through her nose and mouth. The coins rattled against the phone as she scooped them up. The man’s eyes opened again, now staring directly into hers.
“Sure it’s early yet,” he said.
“Yes,” Galya said in English. “It’s early. Go back to sleep.”
9
HERKUS HAD CALLED at half a dozen bars that Tomas frequented. No one had seen Tomas or Darius, they said, and he believed them. People seldom lied to Herkus, even if they didn’t know who he worked for. He had one of those faces that inspired truth-telling. Only the very bravest, or most stupid, would consider lying. There were few brave men in the bars he had trawled over the last two hours, but plenty of them were stupid. Even so, he was satisfied they had been sincere when they told him Tomas had not darkened their doors that night.
With a heavy heart, Herkus drove to the last bar he could think of. This time of night, the doors would be closed, but if Tomas and Darius were in the mood for drinking, then the opening hours would be flexible.
He parked the Mercedes on Holywood High Street, directly opposite the Black Stove Bar & Grill. At first glance, the Black Stove seemed like an upmarket place in a well-to-do part of Greater Belfast. And to many a customer, it was exactly that, but its owner was far from respectable. Not that he was a criminal, at least not in the sense that Herkus understood. He was not a bad man, as such. Clifford Collins merely had certain tastes that only women of a particular profession could satisfy. So, now and again, Clifford played host to Tomas. If Clifford hinted that he might have liked payment for the food or drink served to Tomas and his friends, then he would be quietly reminded that Tomas would settle his bill by simply not calling Clifford’s wife and telling her the specifics of her husband’s more exotic pastimes.
Herkus crossed the street. The heavy outer door stood open. He tried the glass-paneled inner door, but it was locked. A dim glow burned within. He peered through the frosted pane, looking for hazy shapes that might pass for human. He could make nothing out but variations in light and darkness. Keeping his eyes to the glass, he rapped the door with his fat knuckles.
One of the dark shapes moved.
“I see you,” he said in English. “Open the door.”
He knocked again, harder.
“Just a minute,” a voice called. Herkus recognized it as the high whine of Clifford Collins.
“Open now,” Herkus said.
A shadow approached the other side of the glass. Locks snapped, and a chain jangled. The door opened four inches, Clifford peeping out through the gap.
“Tomas is here?” Herkus asked.
“No,” Clifford said. “I haven’t seen him since the weekend.” The little man’s voice quivered as he spoke, but his eyes said he was truthful. And relieved.
Why would he be relieved? Perhaps Herkus had asked the wrong question.
“Darius is here,” Herkus said. This time, it was a statement of fact, not a query.
Clifford shook his head from side to side, his mouth slack as he scrambled for the correct answer. Eventually he said, “No,” and the lie was plain to see.
Herkus didn’t hesitate. He took one step back and kicked the wood, his full weight behind it. Clifford squealed and backed away. The chain held. Herkus kicked again, then once more, and the door swung inward.
“Stay there,” Herkus said to Clifford as he entered.
Clifford nodded and sat at a table.
There at the back, huddled in a booth, Darius and one of the two moronic Irish brothers who ran whores from that flat toward Bangor. He believed this one went by the name of Sam.
But no Tomas.
Sam kept his hands on the table, his face pale, sweat glistening on his forehead. He looked very much like a man in fear.
Herkus spoke to Darius in Lithuanian. “Where is he?”
Darius stared at the granite tabletop. “Who?”
Herkus approached the table. “You know who.”
Darius gave a strained laugh. “You mean Tomas?”
Sam flinched at the name.
“Yes,” Herkus said. “I mean Tomas.”
“I don’t know,” Darius said.
