Stolen Souls

8

GALYA DIDN’T KNOW how long she’d hidden in the shadows before making her way through the fenced-off yards to the rubble and steel of this building site. She had spared one glance over her shoulder to see the big Lithuanian slam his huge fist into the policeman’s head. She had heard the sickly slapping of fist on flesh as she ran, and for a short while, the policeman’s cries.

Lorries and cargo containers stood sentry outside a warehouse, along with piles of rusting machinery and giant sacks of concrete. She found the dark pools between them, immersed herself there where the orange streetlights couldn’t touch her.

Soon she heard the BMW’s engine rumble as it advanced along the road, nearing her hiding place. It came into view, only meters away. It stopped, a door opened, and the big Lithuanian climbed out. His breath plumed around him.

Galya clasped a hand over her mouth in case he saw the warm air seeping from her lungs.

He stood staring into the blackness. For a moment, she was certain he looked directly into her eyes. His body leaned forward as if he were about to take a step closer to her hiding place, but Sam called from inside the car, “We have to go.”

“She here,” the Lithuanian said.

“There’s no time. The cops will be on their way. They’ll be here any second. For fuck’s sake, come on.”

The Lithuanian turned to face him. “You no say me what do.”

“What?” Sam peered out at him, his face slack with disbelief. “I’m not having this out with you now, for Christ’s sake. Get in the car or I’m leaving you here.”

The Lithuanian’s shoulders slumped. He returned his gaze to the shadows. “I know you here,” he said. “I know you speak English. I not stupid like this man. You stay in dark. I find you, you dead. Tomas brother find you, you dead. Police find you, you dead.”

Galya shrank further into the black. The Lithuanian took one more step forward.

“Yes,” he said. “Arturas own police. Police give you to him. Then you dead. Arturas hurt you bad, hurt you long time. Then you dead.”

He drew a finger across his throat and grinned.

“Come on,” Sam said. “I’m not asking again.”

The Lithuanian climbed back into the BMW. Its tires skittered on the ice before he closed the door, and the car disappeared from her view.

How long ago had that been? How long had she hidden in the dark there? The shivering had become uncontrollable, her limbs jerking and bucking. She knew she had to move or the cold would get her. She had seen it before, how the hypothermia took old Vasyl on the neighboring farm. With no money for fuel, he had burrowed into a pile of rags at the bottom of a wardrobe to die. Like an animal, Mama had said, digging its own grave.

It was the arrival of another car saying Harbour Police on its flank that got her on her feet. Galya clung to the shadows as she fought to put one foot in front of the other, her arms and legs feeling like they belonged to a drunkard. The icy air robbed her of her balance as she tried to quicken her pace.

A foolish part of her almost welcomed the growing numbness in her feet, blocking the stinging pain, but then she remembered how Papa had lost parts of his own to frostbite. She wiggled her naked toes to keep the blood flowing to them.

Through the stacked sacks of concrete and lorry cabs, in the orange-lit distance, she saw the policeman kneel beside his fallen colleague. While his attention was on the stricken man, Galya emerged from the darkness to cut across the road and lose herself in the night.

She had half run, half walked perhaps a quarter of a mile or more, keeping the rumble of the motorway on her right, water on her left, when she heard the sirens. That was when she had come upon the stretch of steel skeletons, a row of buildings under construction.

Galya squeezed through a gap in the barrier that had been erected around the site. Four stories of girders rose up above her head. She kept to the edge of the site, her focus on the ground in case a hole might swallow her. For every step she took, she first explored the earth and stones with her toes. Her vision failed as she moved further into the site and away from the streetlights.

An old church stood adjacent, on the other side of the plywood wall, its arched windows showing no light from within. Galya skirted its perimeter until she reached the far side of the building site and found a hinged door secured by a padlock and chain. She pushed against it, opening a gap of only a few inches, and crouched down. Her slender shoulder fit through the opening beneath the chain, but her head jammed tight in the gap. Coarse wood scratched her cheek. She put all her weight against the barrier, and splinters dug at her ear as she squeezed her 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.”