Curling her body into itself on the bottom bunk, she nursed her bleeding arm. The skin was broken in two crescents above her elbow. She didn’t like it when he bit her. It was always painful, but this time he’d drawn blood. Hopefully she wouldn’t catch a disease from his putrid saliva. He had made sure she suffered for leaving this morning. And now he had taken poor Sara, who’d only been trying to help her and little Milot. So much for giving the security guard at the gate a blow job. He had allowed her to go out, but the others had come after her anyway. They must have followed her. Or followed Sara. Did they actually know where she had been? She hoped not. And now she and Milot were back here. Incarcerated. She should have run when she had the chance. But where could she have gone? What was done was done. She’d kept her mouth shut. She hoped Sara would too.
Pain itched between her legs. No matter how much she scrubbed herself afterwards, she was sure something remained, feeding off her insides. She tried to ignore the soreness and thought of other things worrying her.
She hadn’t seen Kaltrina for days. No one would tell her where her friend had gone. Terrible things happened in this place, Mimoza knew that. Most people were too afraid to utter a word, but Kaltrina had opened her mouth. And now she was gone.
All she could hope for was that the detective lady would help. She had thought it too dangerous to go to the police station; how could she make them believe her? So she’d taken a chance and gone to the address, the one written on a piece of paper he’d given her with the badge. Before he had abandoned her in their homeland. It seemed like a lifetime ago and she didn’t want to think about him now.
The door opened and Sara limped in. She stood in the middle of the room, a black statue in the moonlight. Mimoza smelled the same horrible odour from the young girl, that still clung to her own body. Sara had been punished for helping her.
‘Don’t cry,’ she said, rising up on her elbow, wincing in agony.
Sara wrapped her arms tightly around herself and stared through the window, tears shimmering on her face.
‘Come. Lie beside me.’ Mimoza reached out and grasped the girl’s hand. It was slick with sweat. Sara turned and lay down beside her.
Cradling her, Mimoza was careful not to wake her son, who was snaked against the wall in her bed. She soothed Sara like she’d done with her little boy earlier.
Sara heaved with sobs until they eventually petered out, but her body still shuddered every few seconds and Mimoza listened to the shattered breathing until the girl drifted at last into a fitful sleep.
Milot stirred, murmuring.
‘Shh,’ she said.
The sheet rustled with her movement. Gently she traced a finger over his forehead, whispering a soft lullaby in his ear. She loved him so much, her spine tingled. He was all she had left in the world. And he’d been dragged with her on her long, harrowing journey. Was it her fault it had turned into a tortuous nightmare? He was her son, and if she’d made a mistake, she would rectify it.
‘Where will it all end?’ she mumbled in her mother tongue.
With no answer to her question, sleep evaded her, and she was still awake when she heard the door open. As Sara was dragged to the floor, Mimoza tried to catch her. Familiar rough hands pushed her away and Sara was pulled out into the hallway, screaming.
When the door slammed, Mimoza cradled her weeping son, silently praying for one small mercy.
‘Please don’t let them harm my Milot.’
Twelve
He lifted the iron sheeting with his gloved hands, tugging it to the side of the trench. With a shovel he quickly dug out the loose clay. When it was deep enough for his intended purpose, he walked the short distance back to his white van.
The temporary Men at Work signs he had erected at both ends of the narrow street a few minutes earlier ensured uninterrupted work. It was 4 a.m. and Ragmullin was asleep. The intermittent vibrations of cars along Main Street caused him little concern. No one was coming down this road. Rear shop entrances to his left and a car dismantler’s yard to his right. A small block of half-empty flats further down. All lifeless in the dead of night.
With a quick glance around to be doubly sure he was unseen, he unlocked the rear doors, dragged down a narrow ramp and wheeled out a wide wheelbarrow covered with a piece of dark green canvas.
Making his way in the dark to the hole, he removed the canvas and tipped the wheelbarrow. The body tumbled into the ground. He laid her out and began shovelling the clay on top of her. Her pale skin darkened with each soft thud of earth. When he had finished, he hauled the iron cover back in place as silently as possible, though he was sure there was no one around to hear a thing.
He checked his surroundings one more time before lifting the canvas and placing it on the wheelbarrow, then hurrying back up the street to his van. When he had everything inside, he pushed up the ramp and went to collect the signs. Back in the van, he smiled to himself as he headed away. He was getting closer and closer to his target.
Job done.
Kosovo, 1999
He didn’t know how many days he had walked or how long he had lain in the bushes. But his trousers were soiled and his feet bleeding. He looked at the darkening sky and listened to the many trucks passing by on the old dirt road. Why couldn’t he remember? Why was his mind full of black holes?
‘Hey, young fella, what you doing down there?’
He hadn’t heard the truck stop. Curling into himself, he prepared for the gunshot. Maybe it would solve everything for him. Feeling a hand grab him by the shoulder, he yelped like a helpless dog.
‘Don’t be afraid. You’re safe with us.’
A slight wind kicked up, blowing a cool breeze over his bare chest. He understood a little English. He’d learned it at school. That seemed so long ago. The man was dressed in an army uniform. Another soldier glared down from the cab of their big green truck.
‘Are you lost, son?’
He’d called him son. But he wasn’t anyone’s son. Everyone was dead.
Looking up at the soldier, the boy was surprised. He had a face like Papa. Before Papa had… Before the war.
The soldier glanced at his comrade. ‘Bring him with us?’
‘Well, hurry up. We’ve been driving since Macedonia. I’m fucked.’
‘Come on then.’
The soldier lifted the boy and the driver hauled him into the cab. Sitting between the two of them, the boy scrunched his elbows into his body, making himself as small as possible.
‘You hungry?’
He nodded.
‘Here you go. Have a bag of Tayto crisps. Got them sent over from home.’
The boy wished the soldier would stop talking. He opened the bag and began munching. He was starving. How long since he’d eaten? Another black hole.
‘You don’t talk much,’ the soldier said. ‘Eat up. We’ll be at the chicken farm soon.’
The boy did as he was told.
Day Two
Tuesday 12 May 2015
Thirteen
The birds were singing a tune only they recognised. The dawn sunlight eased through a slit between the windowsill and the blind. A shard of light cut across the bed like a steel knife.