descended upon the cell, hanging like a thick, weighty fog. Kirra barely moved in the day following the escape attempt, and couldnât keep her thoughts from turning to the matter of Lenaâs body.
She knew, of course, that Lena would not be given a funeral, and her family, wherever they were, would never know what had happened to her. In all likelihood, her body had been dumped someplace where it would be impossible to find, with the only person in the world who cared about her death unable to scrape together anything at all to honour her.
The injustice of Lenaâs death, combined with her own guilt, festered within Kirra like a disease. It never relented and it never eased. It was the kind of thing someone might be admitted to hospital for, where theyâd be administered a constant supply of pain relief, because no one could be expected to function in this kind of agony. It felt like Balcescuâs drug raging inside her, but this time there wasno antidote. The only thing that could possibly help was if Lena appeared at the door, alive and safe. Kirra just wanted her back. That was all. She just wanted that to be somehow possible. She wanted to rewind time so she could stop Lena, or convince her to run away by herself. She wouldnât have done that, of course. Kirra knew that. Lena had died because of her selflessness. If only she hadnât been so generous, hadnât been so loyal, so kind.
Kirra noticed she was no longer being provided with meals. Clearly, Lena had been solely in charge of Kirraâs well-being, because, as soon as she was killed, Kirra seemed all but forgotten about. In her grief, though, she didnât really care.
Late in the afternoon, two men came and pulled her from her cell. Sheâd never seen either of them before. The constant turnover of guards used to interest her: where did the old ones go? How did they hire the new ones? Sheâd wondered in particular about those she saw regularly. Did they have parents, wives and children? Were any of their families aware of the nature of their jobs? Now, her lack of familiarity with them helped; it made it easier to keep hating them.
The men steered her towards the shower room, and Kirra readied herself for the humiliating process to come. As they went they passed two other people in the corridor. One was a guard, wearing the dark clothes they all seemed to favour â a sort of uniform Latham had probably prescribed for them. The other figure caught her attention: a male prisoner stumbling along in a pitifully disoriented fashion, wrists cuffed tightly together at the front, a black bag tied securely over his head.
Before Lenaâs death, Kirra might have twisted back to get a better look. She might have been curious, might have wanted to know more. But the new prisoner wouldnât change anything. He wouldnât bring Lena back. He wouldnât help Kirra get home.
Â
When Kirra was returned to her cell, she slid onto her blankets in her usual corner. Her hair was still damp and frosty and she began the tedious task of combing it out, remembering how Lenaâs hands had once carefully untangled the strands as though they had been spun gold. Lost in the memory, it took a while before her gaze fell on the adjacent corner. She froze.
The new prisoner was there â there in her cell â pressing against the wall as though the room was six sizes smaller than its actual size. The cuffs hadnât been removed and the black bag was still tied firmly over his head. He was tall â taller than her by a foot at least â and broad. His fingertips were bright white in the freezing cold and each fingernail was encrusted with a lining of dirt. His clothes were bulky and weatherworn, indicating that he was quite used to cold weather. His padded jacket had holes in one pocket and lint balls infesting the collar, and his jeans were marred with grass stains. He brought a strange, alien smell into the cell: a
She knew, of course, that Lena would not be given a funeral, and her family, wherever they were, would never know what had happened to her. In all likelihood, her body had been dumped someplace where it would be impossible to find, with the only person in the world who cared about her death unable to scrape together anything at all to honour her.
The injustice of Lenaâs death, combined with her own guilt, festered within Kirra like a disease. It never relented and it never eased. It was the kind of thing someone might be admitted to hospital for, where theyâd be administered a constant supply of pain relief, because no one could be expected to function in this kind of agony. It felt like Balcescuâs drug raging inside her, but this time there wasno antidote. The only thing that could possibly help was if Lena appeared at the door, alive and safe. Kirra just wanted her back. That was all. She just wanted that to be somehow possible. She wanted to rewind time so she could stop Lena, or convince her to run away by herself. She wouldnât have done that, of course. Kirra knew that. Lena had died because of her selflessness. If only she hadnât been so generous, hadnât been so loyal, so kind.
Kirra noticed she was no longer being provided with meals. Clearly, Lena had been solely in charge of Kirraâs well-being, because, as soon as she was killed, Kirra seemed all but forgotten about. In her grief, though, she didnât really care.
Late in the afternoon, two men came and pulled her from her cell. Sheâd never seen either of them before. The constant turnover of guards used to interest her: where did the old ones go? How did they hire the new ones? Sheâd wondered in particular about those she saw regularly. Did they have parents, wives and children? Were any of their families aware of the nature of their jobs? Now, her lack of familiarity with them helped; it made it easier to keep hating them.
The men steered her towards the shower room, and Kirra readied herself for the humiliating process to come. As they went they passed two other people in the corridor. One was a guard, wearing the dark clothes they all seemed to favour â a sort of uniform Latham had probably prescribed for them. The other figure caught her attention: a male prisoner stumbling along in a pitifully disoriented fashion, wrists cuffed tightly together at the front, a black bag tied securely over his head.
Before Lenaâs death, Kirra might have twisted back to get a better look. She might have been curious, might have wanted to know more. But the new prisoner wouldnât change anything. He wouldnât bring Lena back. He wouldnât help Kirra get home.
Â
When Kirra was returned to her cell, she slid onto her blankets in her usual corner. Her hair was still damp and frosty and she began the tedious task of combing it out, remembering how Lenaâs hands had once carefully untangled the strands as though they had been spun gold. Lost in the memory, it took a while before her gaze fell on the adjacent corner. She froze.
The new prisoner was there â there in her cell â pressing against the wall as though the room was six sizes smaller than its actual size. The cuffs hadnât been removed and the black bag was still tied firmly over his head. He was tall â taller than her by a foot at least â and broad. His fingertips were bright white in the freezing cold and each fingernail was encrusted with a lining of dirt. His clothes were bulky and weatherworn, indicating that he was quite used to cold weather. His padded jacket had holes in one pocket and lint balls infesting the collar, and his jeans were marred with grass stains. He brought a strange, alien smell into the cell: a
Similar Books
