Follow You Home

  She hung up.

  The more he thought about it, the more he realised Camelia was right. Hell, Alina had probably planned to get herself, Daniel and Laura kicked off the train. Cause a big fight with the guards, make them so angry that they would feel compelled to stop and eject her and the Brits. Then she would sneak the stuff . . . the coke—it was safe, he reminded himself, if it was only in his head—out of their backpacks and find someone to buy it.

  Furious, he went into the bedroom where Alina had left some of her artwork, the comic book she’d been working on for months, and tore it into shreds. He didn’t feel any better so he punched the wall, but that hurt like hell. He yelled, making the cat shoot out of the room, and then looked around at the dump where he lived. He needed that money. He’d planned everything he was going to buy. The new TV, the gaming chair, the bearskin rug. He had been robbed.

  She wasn’t going to get away with it.

  He found a small, cheap room in a Breva hotel that smelled of cabbage and cabbage-induced farts and threw his bag down on the bed. He felt like a bounty hunter, retracing Alina’s steps.

  He had already been to the station where Alina and the Brits had been kicked off the train. It was a spooky place, not a soul in sight, unless you counted the little pack of dogs that were hanging around. One of them growled at him and he chucked a stone at it, making it yelp and run away. He spotted a map pinned up inside the abandoned waiting room and kicked in the door so he could go inside and take a proper look.

  Where would they have gone from here?

  He wandered out to look at the abandoned village, the quiet road. It was possible they’d hitched a lift, but how much traffic would there be in the middle of the night? None. Surely they would have headed towards the nearest town, Breva. He imagined them sitting here, waiting for first light, then walking into town along the road. That’s what he would have done.

  So here he was, having trekked through the forest, lovely in the morning light. Alina had been here. He could sense it. He had a photograph of her and he took it around town, going into bars and shops, asking if anyone remembered her. No one did. They all looked at the photograph with blank eyes. The young people asked him what it was like in the big city and he told them about the great riches there, how it was a place where dreams came true. He took a local girl with haunted eyes back to his fart-stinking room and showed her his genius beneath the sheets until the guy in the next room banged on the wall. The next night there was another girl, and the night after that there were two. He had intended to stay in town for a few days, until he either found some useful information about Alina or failed. He ended up staying for over a month.

  Back home he was a nobody. An ant in the colony. Here though, as the exotic stranger, the man from the big city, he was a somebody, and he liked it. Maybe he could stay here forever, sleep his way through all the girls in town, although that was risky. He’d already had to hide out for a few days after the boyfriend of one of the girls he’d slept with found out about them and came looking for the out-of-towner. Despite his pumped body, Ion was a yellow-bellied chicken when it came to violence; it was one of the reasons the gangs back home wouldn’t let him join. And on top of the danger from jealous boyfriends, he was running out of money, and there were no jobs here even if he wanted one.

  He needed the money he would get from selling the cocaine. And if Alina had already sold the coke and spent the cash, he would make do with revenge.

  But he had no way of finding her, no leads. Until he met the policeman.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Alina had been here for forty-nine days now. She had counted the sunsets. A couple of times she’d panicked, sure she’d forgotten the number, but then it had come back to her. Little Luka was almost crawling now, rolling over and smiling at her. He was going to be a big, strong boy. She felt pride swell in her belly.

  Her period had arrived yesterday. When the monster saw the blood he hit her, punching her again when she laughed and mocked him, told him she would rather die than bear his child.

  She watched Luka playing with the wooden rattle the monster had left in the cot and wondered what Ion was doing right now. What had he done after he got off the train? Was he waiting for her to call him? Had he worried when she didn’t get in touch? Did he care? She knew he wouldn’t have reported her absence to the police, because of the cocaine. He would be too scared of questions. But what about the plan? What did the English couple do next? Did they carry the drugs unwittingly to England? Did Camelia rob them as planned? She could picture Camelia and Ion now, having decided to split the proceeds in two, pleased that she had vanished. When the monster raped her she conjured up pictures of her former boyfriend and the hate consumed her, created a force field that protected her from the reality of what was happening. It had been his stupid fucking idea, his fucking stupid fault. She lay in her bed and imagined hurting him, a red rage enveloping her, and her fantasies flickered between smashing the monster’s face with a brick and smashing Ion’s face, until the two became interchangeable. When the monster hit her, it was as if Ion had hit her. When the monster parted her legs, she remembered how Ion had done the same, and she regretted every second she had given to him.

  And what about Daniel and Laura? At first, she had been convinced they would seek help, go to the police. They had come here to look for her, had escaped—thanks to her!—and she was sure they would send people to rescue her. That night, the monster had shot the two women in this room, replacing them with her. She had watched as he dragged the bodies from the room.

  On her first full day here, chained to the bed, trying to be brave, to be defiant, she had heard voices downstairs, and was convinced the police must be here, asking questions. She screamed until her throat felt like it was bleeding. But no one came, not for hours, and then it was just him, the monster, and that was the first time he’d beaten her, little Luka watching from between the bars of his cot. That night, she had woken and sensed someone standing over her. Two people, she was sure. But she felt too groggy from the beating to focus, and she soon slipped back into unconsciousness.

  For days after that, she waited, but still no one came.

  And with every day that passed, her hatred of the English couple grew.

  The light between the window boards told her the sun had been up for a couple of hours but the monster hadn’t come to see her yet. Luka was crying, hungry, reaching out for her from his cot. Her chest ached, seeing him like that, but at the same time she allowed hope to flare. Maybe the monster had gone away, or was dead. OK, so her ankles were chained to this bed, but if she had enough time she was sure she could free herself.

  But then the door opened and, as always, she braced herself. Would he discover that her period had started? Beside her, Luka whimpered as someone came into the room and switched the light on.

  It wasn’t the monster. This man was older, with a bald head. Despite his age he looked fit, with broad shoulders and a body with more muscle than fat. She recognised him but her head was so muddled she couldn’t remember where from.

  She began babbling immediately. ‘You have to help me, I’m being kept prisoner here, a man kidnapped me. Are you the police? Oh God, please God, have you come to save me?’

  He ignored her, walking over to the cot and lifting the baby, stroking his head and making little noises to comfort him. Luka was a good boy and he soon fell quiet. The man turned him this way and that, inspecting him. Finally, he nodded and put him back in the cot, handed him a bottle of milk and watched as the baby lay drinking it.

  He turned to her. He appeared to be amused. Where did she know him from? She thought she had it but the knowledge slipped away.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked her face.

  He spoke to her in their native language. ‘You’ve done a good job, looking after the little baby. Well done.’ He patted her hand.

  ‘Luka,?
?? she whispered.

  ‘You gave him a name?’ He smiled. ‘I like it . . . but he’ll have a new one soon.’

  She blinked at him. She was so weak, hungry, sucked dry of life and energy. She was filthy and needed a hot bath and tampons and clean clothes. Tears crawled through the dirt on her cheeks.

  ‘Are you here to save me?’ she asked.

  He stroked her face again, brushing away a teardrop then squinting disapprovingly at the grey smudge on his thumb. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Not you. Not now. I’m here to take little Luka.’

  She jerked upwards, trying to push herself up onto her elbows. ‘No!’

  The man shushed her. ‘Don’t worry about him.’ He laid a hand on her bare belly. His palm was ice cold. ‘Soon, if all goes well, you’ll have a baby of your own to look after.’

  He stood up, the mattress creaking, and walked back over to the cot, bent to lift Luka, who had drained the bottle, foamy milk streaking the plastic.

  The man walked towards the door.

  Alina cried out. ‘Please, no, don’t take him. He’s mine. He’s my baby. Luka!’

  The man stopped, tipping his head to examine her tear-streaked face. The way he looked at her reminded Alina of a farmer appraising livestock. For a single wonderful moment she thought he would change his mind, let her keep the baby. Instead, he lifted Luka’s little chubby arm and made the baby wave. ‘Bye-bye, Mama,’ the old man said in a shrill voice. As Alina sobbed, the old man laughed and carried the baby out of the room. She heard his heavy footsteps thumping down the steps.

  Several days passed. She couldn’t sleep without the soft, snuffling sounds the baby made. She cried as if she was his real mother. When she wasn’t thinking about Luka she tried to remember where she’d seen the old man who’d taken the baby away, but the inside of her head was so cloudy that every time she thought she had the answer it slipped away.

  Shortly after dawn on the third morning without Luka, she heard a knocking sound from below. Somebody was at the front door. She wanted to cry out but was afraid of incurring the monster’s wrath. She stayed silent and could make out men’s voices coming from below. Three of them, she was sure. That made sense: the monster, the old man and the newcomer.

  They talked for a while, and then she heard footfalls on the stairs. At least two people coming up. She braced herself, pulling the wretched blanket over her body.

  The old man came in first, switching the light on, followed by a fat man in a policeman’s uniform. For a moment, hope surged inside her.

  ‘She’s pretty,’ the fat policeman said. He stepped closer to the bed. He had large hands and broken veins on his nose. A drunk. Alina’s father used to have veins like that.

  ‘Isn’t she?’ said the old man. ‘One of the best we’ve had.’ He pulled the blanket off her. ‘Alina, take off your gown.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Do it,’ he snapped, raising a fist. The policeman watched, wearing an inscrutable expression.

  Arms shaking, she pulled the gown up over her head, exposing her naked body. It was freezing in the room and she hugged herself, shivering.

  ‘You want a go with her?’ asked the old man.

  ‘No. It’s OK. A little early in the day for me.’ The policeman chuckled. ‘These days, I mainly like to look.’

  Too fat and weak to get it up, Alina thought.

  The old man nodded in an understanding way. ‘Well, now that you’ve seen, we can go downstairs where it’s warm.’

  ‘Oh, must we?’ the policeman said, his dead eyes still touring Alina’s body. ‘We can chat here, yes?”

  The old man laughed and waved a hand. ‘Oh, yes. You’re not going to tell anyone, are you, Alina?’ He laughed again. ‘Take your arms away from your chest, girl. Show us what you’ve got. That’s it.’

  The policeman made a low sound as though suckling the breasts his eyes were feasting upon.

  The old man went to the door and bellowed down the stairs. ‘Dragoș! Bring us a bottle of vodka and two glasses. Not too early for that, I trust, Constantin?’

  ‘Oh, no. Never too early.’

  The monster appeared—so his name was Dragoș—with the drink and glasses, like a butler in a black and white horror movie. He fetched two chairs too and, after Dragoș had left the room, the two other men sat down, adjusting their chairs to maintain a good view of her, and opened the bottle.

  ‘How’s business?’ Constantin asked without moving his eyes from her. Good God, was he going to jerk off right here and now?

  ‘Oh, not bad. Just did an excellent deal. But I could do with some fresh stock.’

  ‘I’ll let you know if anyone suitable crosses my path,’ said Constantin.

  ‘Yes. The demand for high-quality product is stronger than ever. Especially among Russians.’

  ‘But right now, you only have this one sow?’

  The old man nodded and Alina blinked. The policeman really had used the word for a female pig. She fought back the urge to spit at him. If she could free herself from these manacles, get her hands on a weapon . . . She zoned out, entertaining herself with bloody visions of what she could do to him with a sharpened stick and a small knife. I like to look. She’d pluck out his fucking eyes. No need to cut off his limp dick.

  ‘So, tell me what’s happening in town,’ the old man said. ‘That’s what you came here to talk to me about, yes?’

  Constantin nodded towards Alina. ‘A young man has been going around Breva, looking for this one, asking questions.’

  ‘Really? What does he look like?’

  ‘Hmm. Gym body, about five foot seven or eight, in his twenties.’

  Ion! Oh God, he was looking for her. He hadn’t given up. She tried to keep her face neutral but the old man was grinning at her.

  ‘That sounds like her boyfriend, from the train. How sweet. He’s come to try to find her. To save her.’

  The policeman glanced at Alina, who was still trying to keep her face from betraying her emotions. She didn’t feel completely alone anymore. Ion actually cared about her. In an instant she felt stronger.

  ‘But don’t worry. I have dealt with the situation. I have sent him off, searching for oranges.’

  Alina swallowed. This was an expression often used by the older generation, dating from the time when the fruit was impossible to find in the country’s shops.

  ‘Good,’ said the old man. ‘What about . . . an English couple? Any British visitors to Breva?’

  The old man stooped to pick up the vodka bottle as he said this, so he didn’t see the look that crossed Constantin’s face as he said, ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  Sitting upright again now, refreshing his glass, the old man replied, ‘Oh, just something I heard about.’

  Constantin shook his head and smiled. ‘We don’t get many visitors from England in Breva. Some steam train enthusiasts a while back, maybe one or two visitors to the Gold Museum. Oh, and a guy who was obsessed with werewolves.’

  ‘OK. Well, that’s good.’

  After the men left, drunk and slapping each other on the back, Constantin casting a final greedy but impotent look at her body, Alina pulled the dirty gown over her head and stretched out her arm for the blanket. She couldn’t reach it. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.

  Why had the policeman lied about Daniel and Laura? She had seen his expression. He had definitely encountered them. Had they tried to report what they’d seen? She could imagine them talking to Constantin, him promising to look into it, the naïve Brits trusting this corrupt policeman.

  Perhaps they thought they had done enough. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. Pathetic. Because she was still here. They were home, safe and well. And she had no doubt she was going to die here, the sow, slaughtered in an abattoir.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

&nb
sp; Ion sat on his bed back at home in Sibiu. The first thing he’d done when he returned, exhausted and dispirited, was call for his cat outside. But after two months, the creature had no doubt found someone else to feed it.

  After meeting the helpful policeman, Constantin, he had gone to Bucharest to look for Alina. According to the cop, Alina had been in Breva shortly after the incident on the train. The cop, who seemed much nicer than the bastards back home, went and spoke to the guy in the ticket office at the station who remembered selling a ticket to Bucharest to a girl matching Alina’s description.

  So Ion had gone to Bucharest. By this point, seven weeks had passed. Progress in the city was slow. He trudged around bars and seedy nightclubs, showing Alina’s photograph to club-goers and doormen. A week in, a heroin addict Ion met in a hostel said he was sure he had seen this girl dealing drugs, he wasn’t sure what exactly, at a club called Sapphire in a district called Dristor. Ion wasted another week hanging out at this sleazy place, but there was no sign of her, and no one else had seen her. Ion realised the heroin addict had been lying.

  Then something really shitty happened. He attracted the attention of a group of local gangsters, who wanted to know what he was doing, if he was trying to muscle in on their turf. They beat him up, put him in hospital for two weeks. As soon as he felt better, when he no longer needed painkillers every four hours, he came home.

  Shattered and sick of the fruitless search, he spent the last of his money on a bag of industrial-strength skunk and holed up with his Xbox. He could have stayed like that until hunger forced him out to find a job, to get on with life.

  And then Camelia had called him.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Did you find her?’

  He groaned into the phone. ‘No. She’s vanished from the face of the earth. A policeman in Breva—’