27

A blindingly bright light wakes me up, the harsh rays slicing through my eyeballs and a piercing sharp laser beams directly into my skull.

‘You go now. I work, OK?’

I blink, trying to stop a multitude of stars from flashing in front of my eyes, trying to focus on whoever is standing in front of the window, silhouetted by the sun. It takes me a moment to realise that there is no balcony. I sit up too quickly and my head spins. The sheet that’s covering me slips down, and I realise three things, all at once: I’m naked, I’m not in the hotel, and I have no idea where I am.

‘Fuck,’ I mutter. My voice is a rasp. My throat burns. ‘Could I have some water, please?’

The figure walks towards me, bottle outstretched. The man is fully dressed, suit trousers and a crisp white shirt. He has a handsome face and neatly gelled dark hair. He’s not like any of the Russian men I’ve met so far.

I’ve no idea who he is.

I take a greedy gulp of the water. It’s cold, and soothing as it flows down my throat. I pause, then take a couple of slow sips. I’m trying to buy time, trying to work out what I’m doing here, and whether I can somehow get back to the hotel, where I want to curl up in bed and forget that the last few days have happened.

He picks up a jacket and slides his arms into it, and I notice them bulge against the unyielding fabric of his shirt. He glances around the room. ‘This place is shithole. I drive you home.’

I sit up further, pulling the sheet up to hide my nakedness. Judging by the chafed feeling between my legs and my raw, stinging nipples, I’m pretty sure he’s seen it all already. Unless there was someone else on this mattress with me. At the moment, I’m not willing to place any bets.

He tosses a pile of clothes at me, and I hastily pull them on. Wafting the sheet releases the fetid stink of dried bodily fluids, and I have a sudden urge to vomit, but I manage to hold it back and finish getting dressed.

He mutters various things in Russian as he walks through the flat, me trailing behind him like a lost puppy. He’s right. The place is a shithole. Paint is peeling off the walls, the floors are mostly bare or partly covered with dirty, fraying rugs. There’s a stale, musty smell throughout, a mixture of mould, spilled drinks and old smoke. I have to breathe through my mouth, taking small, shallow breaths until we reach the fresh air outside.

‘Whose flat is this?’ I ask, at last, as if it has only just occurred to me. In truth, I’ve been racking my brains since I woke up. As for my suited saviour – I don’t even know his name.

He turns round, and sneers. ‘You don’t remember?’

I say nothing.

‘We met in bar. You were with other men. I helped you. This place…’ He sighs. ‘My brother owns this place. It’s not nice place, but you said no hotel.’

‘What about your place?’

He holds up his left hand, and his gold ring sparkles in the sun.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ I mutter. I’m about to say more, but he’s already in the car. I climb into the passenger seat, and I’m considering asking him more questions, when his phone rings.

He hesitates for a moment, then swears under his breath and picks up the phone. I look out of the window as he starts the car and pulls out of the gravel driveway, yammering away on his phone in rapid-fire Russian. I don’t pick up any of the words, but the tone is clear, from the tinny voice on the other end, someone – a female – isn’t happy. He ends the call then throws the phone into the central console, accelerating onto the main road, swerving around other cars. They are all driving too fast, weaving in and out, and I feel a wave of nausea hit me again. I swallow back bile and cling on to the seat.

Maybe it would do everyone a favour if I died right now.

I consider grabbing the steering wheel and ploughing us into the path of a lorry, and the thought of it triggers a memory that I’ve tried hard to supress.

Six months before. Pondicherry, India. Faded French colonial grandeur with hordes of people sleeping rough in the middle of the streets. So pretty, everyone told me. Fine if you don’t go out alone. Don’t go out at night. It had been fascinating watching how people travelled around there – open-backed trucks stuffed full with men, old British cars, clapped out but still full of charm. Tuk-tuks. Motorcycles with Mum, Dad and Junior piled on top – only the driver wearing a helmet. I’d told Michael that I didn’t want to go on the back of the ancient, whiny little scooter, so he’d forced me to drive it instead.

I remember the dusty roads, lined with people walking barefoot, laden with packages and baggage. Skinny cows and goats weaving in and out of the traffic. Horns blaring in the blazing sun … and Michael, gripping on to the seat, shouting in my ear, telling me to slow down, to be careful. I was careful though, Michael, I wasn’t the one who got caught coming out of someone else’s room after an all-day, all-night party, fuelled by potent cocktails and too much coke. He thought I’d been asleep, but I’d woken in the night, mouth parched and head pounding – and I’d gone to the kitchen, hoping that the party-goers were long gone, and I could down some water in peace. Ignoring the mess of the place, knowing we’d lose the deposit on the small apartment that we’d rented together for the month. It had been a blissful month, for me, at least. I didn’t sense that Michael had grown bored of me … or perhaps he hadn’t – perhaps he was just another man, lured away by the siren’s call when his mind wasn’t working at its full capacity.

He didn’t know I’d seen him sneaking out of the bedroom and into the living room. I’d gone through at midday, after a few hours of fitful sleep, and I’d tried to act like everything was normal.

‘Man, that was some night,’ he’d said. ‘I must’ve passed out.’

Sure, he did. After spending a few hours with that whore, Melissa. The bikini-clad Aussie with the too-white teeth and the too-even tan, and the voice that cut right through me.

If I’d had the chance, it would’ve been Melissa who had the accident – but she took off as soon as she woke up that day and I never saw her again. I think about her sometimes – I hear a voice, or I see a flash of expensively highlighted hair, and I think it’s her, but it isn’t.

I saw someone I thought was her when we were on the motorbike that day. My head snapped around, watching her disappear into the crowd, and I lost control, just for a moment.

But then I righted myself, and it was all going to be OK, until Michael shouted into my ear, ‘Watch what you’re doing, you stupid fucking bitch.’

I’d felt the surge of blood in my veins. My heart beating too fast. My brain fizzing with the onslaught of the adrenaline coursing through me. It was a risk, but I didn’t stop to think. I turned hard, gripping tight, as the back of the bike lifted off the ground and swung out fast. Michael wasn’t expecting it; he’d just got over the previous skid. The bike flipped, with me still attached and Michael not. I landed hard, the engine still running, the wheels whining, and I felt the shift in weight as he lost his grip and flew into the air, landing with a hard crack on the rocks that lined the side of the road. I let go of the handlebars and the bike pinwheeled away from me. People came running, shouting, from all directions. But I’d heard Michael’s skull crack open like an egg. Remember – it’s the driver who wears the helmet.

A terrible accident.

I was treated in the hospital for shock, but by the time his parents came to collect the body, I was long gone. Luckily, for me, they didn’t even know he had a girlfriend. Luckily for me, I was able to blend in, slip away, and before long, I’d met someone else.

The phone on the centre console rings again, and I snap back to the present. The car is weaving in and out of traffic, and he ignores it. I still can’t remember his name, but I see his ID badge, partially obscured by the ringing phone. He works at a bank. I turn away, facing out of the window, remembering now – the pub, the rough men … my saviour. I’d joked that I needed a loan. He’d joked that he would look after me.

Finally, I start to recognise the streets.

‘You can just drop me here. I can walk the rest of the way.’

He doesn’t argue. Just slams the car to a halt, a metre from the side of the road. I climb out, and I’m closing the door when he leans over and says, ‘Be careful.’ His voice is kind, and I think he means it. Then he yanks the door shut and drives off at speed, cars tooting horns behind him as he swerves into their path.

I walk to the far side of the pavement, away from the road, and I sit down for a minute on a low wall. My head is a mess, but I need to get myself together. I picture Carrie, and wish she was still with me. Too much has happened now for me to sort things out on my own – but she’s gone, and it’s all my fault.

I walk back to the hotel, keeping my head down, avoiding the gaze of people on their way to work, school – doing normal things. I feel like a mess, so I must surely look like one. As I pass the receptionist, she makes an uncharacteristic move.

‘Hey, lady,’ she says, ‘you still need to pay.’

I can’t deal with this right now.

‘I know. I know. I’ll sort it later, I promise.’

‘You pay by six, or manager will come,’ she says. Then she disappears back behind the counter, and the volume of the TV goes up again. Somewhere nearby, there’s the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor. A vacuum cleaner starts up.

I hurry up to the room, and see that the ‘do not disturb’ sign is still hanging on the door. Good. I hurry inside, locking the door behind me. The room still smells strongly of bleach, and I yank open the balcony doors to try and air it. As I do, the room seems to tilt around me, and the scenes from the night before flash in front of my eyes.

The blood. The balcony. Carrie screaming at me to stop.

I slide down onto the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. Staring across at the one remaining rucksack. You wouldn’t even know Carrie had been here at all. I stare at the rucksack with the contents spilling out of the top. The side pockets bulging with God knows what. And then I see it. A glimpse of silver poking out from the flat bottom pocket. Something that shouldn’t be there. Something that’s been left behind in a rush of panic.

Something that gives me a brilliant idea.