had never understood. She was aware of her body all the time, knew it was being violated, counted the number of times; she’d lie there naked and calculate the total of twelve times a day for three years.
She had a body, no matter how hard they tried to take it away from her.
For her, they didn’t have faces, that was how she coped.
She had tried to warn Lydia, calm her down. Nothing worked. It was as if she changed the moment she had seen the newspaper article. Her reaction had been so strong, her eyes glowing with hatred. Alena had seen Lydia humiliated, resentful, but never like this, so full of hate. She regretted having shown Lydia the newspaper, should have hidden it instead, or thrown it away, as she had thought at first.
Lydia had stood up to Dimitri, straight-backed in front of him and said that from now on she intended to hold on to the money, it was her they screwed and she deserved to keep what they paid. He’d struck her in the face at first, it was his usual reaction and Lydia must have expected it. She hadn’t backed off, just told him that she didn’t want any customers for a bit, no one lying on top of her, she was too tired and didn’t want to do it any more.
Lydia had never protested before. Not aloud to Dimitri, that is. She had dreaded the blows, the pain and the gun he sometimes pointed at their heads. Alena sat down on the edge of the quay with her legs dangling. Three years. She missed Janoz so much it tore at her. Why had she gone away, why hadn’t she told him that she was going?
She had been a child.
Now she had grown into someone different.
It had happened suddenly, in that ship’s cabin. The Swedish man had held her down and spat in her face, twice, while he forced himself into her. The change had continued afterwards, a little more for every time someone stole from inside her.
She had stood in the doorway of her room, watching. When he got the whip out and held it in front of Lydia’s face, she had rushed in and jumped on him. Dimitri had never beaten them with the whip, only threatened to. When she tried to grab it, he kicked her in the stomach, shoved her into her room and locked the door, shouting that she’d get hers later.
She stared down into the water, waiting. She should go back. Home to Klaipeda. Home to Janoz, if he was still there. But not yet. Not until Lydia had been in touch.
She had counted the sounds, every lash, one by one. The police had arrived at stroke thirty-six. She had heard every single impact through the shut door, heard Dimitri lifting the whip to strike Lydia’s bare skin once more.
Her feet. If she stretched her legs, they would touch the water. She could jump in. Or she could get up and board the ship. Go home.
But not yet.
They had seen each other being raped. She had to wait.
They had searched the flat and someone had unlocked her door. Dimitri had been lying on the floor, clutching his stomach. She had been alone for a few seconds, minutes maybe, then suddenly she saw the policeman they knew, and panicked, ran the few steps to the front door, which had a big hole in it, but turned back to kick the knocked-down Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp hard in the balls with the pointed tip of her shoe. Then she had carried on running, out on to the landing, down the empty stone stairs, all five floors.
She reacted to the ring tone at once. She knew who it was.
‘Yes?’
‘Alena? It’s me.’
Hearing Lydia’s voice made her feel good. She was in pain, Alena could hear that. It was difficult for her to speak, but her voice, it was so good to hear her voice again.
‘Where are you?’
‘At the harbour.’
‘You’re going home.’
‘I was waiting for you to phone. I knew you would. Then…Then I could go home.’
The mobile phone had been a present from one of the faces she couldn’t remember. Alena had wanted gifts from customers who asked for extras, Lydia had preferred money. The things she got might be clothes, a couple of necklaces and sometimes a pair of earrings. Dimitri didn’t have a clue and didn’t know about the mobile phone either, of course. It was quite new; in return the forgotten face had been allowed to do extras with both of them together. Lydia had wanted the mobile; she thought it would be good to have at least one between them, just in case.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘When?’
‘When you get back home.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you miss it a lot?’
Alena caught her breath. She had a vision of what it had been like, kind of grim and messy. Klaipeda hadn’t been very nice.
‘Yes, I do. I want to see them all again. See what they look like. Maybe to find out what we would’ve looked like.’
She told Lydia about her escape, how she had fled down into Volund Street without turning back to look, not once, just running from the place she hated. Now, after twenty-four endless hours of wandering around in the city, she wanted to sleep, simply sleep for a while. Lydia didn’t say much. A bit about the hospital where they had been taken a couple of times, a bit about the bed, the food, the nurse from Poland who spoke Russian.
Not a word about the gashes on her back.
‘Alena?’
‘Yes, what?’
‘I need you to help me.’
Alena looked down again. For the moment the water was calm and she could see a blurred image of herself, the dangling legs and the arm and the hand holding the phone to her ear.
‘I’ll help you. Ask anything.’
Lydia’s breathing came slowly. She seemed to be searching for words.
‘Do you remember the cellar with the storerooms?’
Alena remembered well: the hard floor, the impenetrable dark at night, the damp air. Once, when Dimitri had some visitors to stay, he locked Alena and Lydia up in the cellar for two days. He needed their beds, he said, but never told them anything about the guests.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I want you to go there.’
The calm surface rippled in the wake of a passing motor-boat, the wavelets dispersing her image.
‘But they’re after me; I might be on the wanted list. I’ve got to be careful.’
‘I want you to go back.’
‘Why?’
Silence. Lydia didn’t reply.
‘Lydia, tell me. Why?’
‘Why? Because it’s not going to happen again. What happened to me will never happen again. That’s why.’
Alena got up. She paced up and down along the quayside, between the iron posts, which were taller than a man.
‘What do you want me to do there?’
‘There’s a bucket with a towel in it. In the storeroom. Underneath the towel you’ll find a gun. And Semtex.’
‘Semtex?’
‘Plastic explosive. And a detonator. In plastic carrier bags.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw it there.’
‘How do you know it’s Semtex?’
