Stolen Souls

71

GALYA WATCHED THE nice woman’s lips move, heard the words they formed, but little of it registered with her conscious mind. She talked about agencies, police, immigration, women’s rights, sometimes while holding Galya’s hand.

Sleep edged in, and Galya had to shake it away.

The woman was very kind, and was here to help, she said so over and over.

But the bed was so comfortable, even if every part of Galya ached or stung to one degree or another, and sleep was an insistent intruder.

Galya’s eyes had slipped closed when a cough stirred her. She opened them and saw the policeman lean in through the drawn plastic curtain that surrounded the bed. He said something to the kind woman, and she excused herself and left with him.

On her own, the bustle of the hospital became a soothing murmur, like the sound of a stream in the summer. Galya thought of Mama and Papa, and the small house she had grown up in, the smell of baking bread, Mama’s coarse skin, the road that led to her door. As she drifted deeper into the warmth of slumber, she saw the man with the moon face, the teeth in his hand, showing them to her, counting them out one by one, pointing out those that he’d taken from her mouth, and her finger exploring there, finding the gaps where they’d been, and then he wanted to show her something else, something bright and shining, something sharp, something—

A choked cry escaped her when the kind woman’s hand brought her back to consciousness.

“It’s all right, darling,” the kind woman said. “You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Galya slipped a finger between her lips, ran the tip over her teeth. When she found none were missing, she gave a silent thank you to Mama.

She looked from the kind woman to the policeman who stood behind her. He seemed exhausted, a bandage covering the cut on his chin.

“This is Detective Inspector Jack Lennon of the Police Service of Northern Ireland,” the kind woman said. “He’s the one who found you.”

Galya was not sure if she was expected to respond in some way, so she nodded.

“He’s been trying to sort out somewhere for you to stay once you’re discharged from here,” the kind woman said. “The police, they have special places for victims to stay, comfortable places. But it’s Christmas, and they’ve no staff to look after you there. The only other place they have is the cells in the station. You can stay there until after the holiday. You’ll be safe, but it won’t be very comfortable.”

“Cell?” Galya asked. “Like prison?”

“Or there’s another choice,” the kind woman said. “This police officer, he has a friend, a very nice lady, and you can stay with her. She’ll get you something to eat and somewhere to have a wash and some food. What do you think?”

Galya remembered accepting another man’s offer of help and the terror that followed. But one desire came to her mind and overrode all fears.

“A bath?” she asked, imagining warm water on her body, the cleansing of it, the heat.

“I don’t know about a bath with those dressings on your feet,” the kind woman said.

“Yes, a bath,” the policeman said. “We’ll keep your bandages dry somehow.”

Galya didn’t think about it for long.

“Please, I want to go to this place,” she said.