The walk back to the hotel passes in a blur. A blur of tears, humiliation and anger. I thought I was getting to know Carrie, but I don’t know her at all. Not only did she push me away, but she laughed at me, and made the others laugh at me, too. The song is still swirling around in my head. My song, spoiled now, by her. Carrie screaming it across the room. Laughing. Smoking. I felt like I’d been stabbed in the heart. The last thing I saw was her face, pink and sweaty, hair plastered to her forehead, mouthing the song lyrics at me. Sergei laughing, arm around her neck. Saying something in Russian, and the other men laughing.
Then she disappeared. Sucked back into the crowd.
The other men tried to get me to stay, but they were rough-looking, wearing tracksuits, drinking too many beers. Chattering and nudging each other. Staring at me with hunger in their eyes. I know what they wanted. They smelled wrong. It felt wrong. They called my name, tried to get me to stay – and for a moment I worried that they would try to stop me from leaving, but they gave up pretty quickly. There were plenty of other girls there to entertain them. Girls in short, tight dresses. Too much hairspray, and no time for the likes of me. Carrie seemed to fit in with them better – she is like a chameleon; she can adapt to any environment, get on with whoever she’s with: the old folks on the train, the Mongolian farmers, and now these people. These people that I don’t trust at all.
I don’t even care where she is now.
The streets are quiet, eerie. This is not a town filled with revellers. I wish I could grab my stuff now, and jump on a train out of here, but I know there are no trains tonight. I think back to our arrival, my time in the market where I had fun, felt alive. I’d been so excited about the party.
I pass a café that still has its lights on, but there is no one inside. I’d like to sit somewhere on my own, have a drink. Maybe try and speak to the person working in there. Someone who hasn’t humiliated me. The people in the market were friendly, but the ones at the party weren’t. They might’ve been, if they hadn’t been taken in by Carrie.
Like I’ve been.
I should’ve known it was too good to be true – meeting her like that, having her bring me along on this trip. Who does that? Impulsive people? I’d always thought I was impulsive – ready for anything, excited by new experiences – but Carrie is something else. She’s used me up and spat me out.
I wander the streets for a long time, trying to calm down. I lose all track of time, as things rattle around in my head. Taunting me. I lose my bearings, ending up in several unfamiliar streets, but I keep going and somehow I find myself back at the hotel. I glance down the alley, and I pause for a moment, thinking that someone is down there. A noise. Did someone cry out? I take a step closer, but it’s too dark. There are no lights from the balconies. I shake my head. A fox, maybe. Or a wild dog. It’s late, the sky already changing hue as the sun starts its ascent. I need to get inside. I need to sleep.
The receptionist doesn’t lift her head as I walk past. She has headphones in, and I can see the flickering light of a TV show reflecting back from her computer. I take the stairs instead of the lift, trying to prolong the journey. I don’t expect Carrie to be in there. I don’t care if she is or she isn’t. First thing tomorrow, I’m out of here.
I hear the voices before I get to the door. Muffled grunts, the thump, thump of the bed post against the thin partition wall. I can’t tell yet if it is coming from our room or not. I pause outside the door for a moment, dredging my keys from the bottom of my bag. I am completely sober now. Any happy buzz I’d felt from the drinks I’d had early on at the party are long gone, and now all I want to do is curl up in bed and go to sleep. If that noise is coming from the room next to us, hopefully I can block it out with a pillow over my head.
The scream comes as I turn the key in the lock. I freeze. What do I do now? If someone is being hurt, then I should help them. But what if I’m wrong. Was it a scream or was it a cry of pleasure? And which room is it coming from? I push open the door, and then I realise.
It’s coming from our room.
Carrie is lying face down on the bed, her face towards me. The man is on top of her, unbuckling his jeans. Pressing down on her. She cries out again, and I know for sure it’s a scream, not a cry of pleasure. Her eyes find me there and widen as big as saucers.
‘Violet…’ she whispers.
‘Shut up,’ the man says. ‘You want me to hit you again, you filthy bitch?’
My heart is thumping hard now, and I feel like I might throw up.
Carrie tries to shake her head, to signal that it’s OK, but I know it isn’t. But I also know that the man hasn’t seen me yet. He’s too engrossed in what he’s doing.
The red mist descends. I have been on my best behaviour. I have let her take centre stage. I’ve reined myself in, tried to be who she wanted me to be. But I can’t maintain this façade now. Not when this is happening right in front of my eyes.
Her eyes plead. Don’t come in. Don’t get involved.
He’s up on his knees now, pinning her with one arm, holding his bulging cock with the other. She’s stopped struggling. She closes her eyes.
He still hasn’t seen me. I walk slowly into the room, glad that I am wearing flat shoes – good drinking shoes, I think, with a smile. They make no sound on the lino floor. I pick up the lamp from the desk and carefully pull the plug from the wall. I notice there’s a bottle of vodka sitting there that wasn’t there before. I hesitate. Bottle or lamp?
He’s back on her now, grunting. Thrusting. Her eyes are now tightly closed, and he has one hand around her neck. I watch for a moment longer and then I raise my arm – the lamp is not as heavy as I thought, or perhaps adrenaline really does give you superhuman strength.
His breathing is faster now. His grunts are like the squeals of a disgusting fat pig.
But he’s not a pig. He is a wolf. A predator. And no matter what Carrie has done to me, I will not allow this to happen.
I take another step, and Carrie’s eyes fly open as I bring the base of the lamp down on the back of his head. Again. Again.
Again.
Carrie screams, and I throw myself onto the bed, pushing him off her onto the floor. I put a hand over her mouth. Blood is still coursing through my veins.
‘Shhh,’ I say. ‘You have to be quiet.’
Her eyes dart to the side, and I see what she can see.
He’s moving. Trying to pull himself up. He puts a hand to the back of his head, then looks at it quizzically. There’s a lot of blood, but head wounds tend to be like that.
Carrie opens her mouth to scream once more, and I launch myself back towards him, lamp in hand. I hit him in the face this time, and he staggers back, tripping over his own feet. Out of the open door and onto the balcony. He is trying to speak, but only bubbles of blood come from his mouth.
Carrie grabs hold of my T-shirt from behind.
‘Stop,’ she says. ‘Stop!’
But I can’t.