Read Online The Last Girl by Stephan Collishaw - Free Book Online

falling into a deep sleep. In the morning I awoke feeling much better.
    At eight Grigalaviciene banged on the door again. I opened it and let her in. She had a parcel of goods in her hands that she bustled through to the kitchen.
    â€˜I was at the market this morning,’ she explained. ‘I thought I would get you one or two things to save you the bother.’
    â€˜It’s no bother for me,’ I said, but, feeling brighter, added, ‘thank you.’
    She clicked her tongue at this uncalled-for pleasantry. Not acknowledging my thanks, she turned and appraised me with her sharp old eyes. ‘Well, you’re certainly looking a bit better this morning.’
    â€˜I feel it,’ I said, thumping my chest.
    â€˜ Nu , well, you don’t deserve it,’ she said, making her way to the door.
    â€˜What do I owe you for the vegetables?’ I asked. ‘Ten,’ she said.
    I fished in my wallet and gave her a note.
    â€˜Oh,’ she said as she left. ‘You had a visitor last night, while you were out.’
    â€˜I did?’
    â€˜A woman,’ she said pointedly.
    My heart faltered. ‘A woman?’ I asked. Jolanta. Could it have been? How could it have been? I thought. My mind raced as Grigalaviciene stood there coyly holding back her information. What other woman would come to visit me? Was it so hard, after all, to find out where I lived? I was in the telephone book.
    â€˜A young woman?’ I asked.
    Grigalaviciene pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. ‘Young? You wanting young women to come visit, are you?’ she said. ‘Well, she was younger than me, but, nu , most are.’
    â€˜For goodness’ sake,’ I said impatiently.
    â€˜She wasn’t so young you should be getting so excited about it,’ Grigalaviciene said disdainfully. ‘Svetlana, she said her name was.’ She shook her head and wiped her hands against the faded apron she wore, as if wiping the dirt of my business from her.
    â€˜Svetlana?’ For a moment I was startled.
    â€˜I don’t know what you’re up to and I don’t want to know,’ Grigalaviciene said, standing in the hallway outside my door, looking hungry for gossip.
    â€˜I’m not up to anything,’ I said, irritated. ‘What did she want?’
    â€˜As I said, I’m not a one for prying into your business.’
    â€˜Did she say what she wanted?’
    â€˜I’ve got better things to do with my time.’
    â€˜What did she want?’ I shouted.
    A 1ook of fury crossed her old face then. The creases tightened and her mouth set in an angry straight line. ‘She didn’t say what she wanted and I didn’t ask,’ she spat out. ‘And in future don’t go loading all your dirty business on me. It’s enough having to put up with your drinking and the fear of what violence you might do, without -’
    A roar of rage sprang from my own throat and Grigalaviciene, frightened, scuttled away to her own apartment. I heard the two sets of doors slam and the sound of locks turning. I slammed my own door.
    When I telephoned the number again that morning, a timid woman’s voice answered. It was Jonas’ daughter. Her father, she told me, was at work and would not be back till lunch. She did not know about a bag and said I would have to talk to her father about it. She agreed hesitantly to take a message. I left my name and telephone number with her.
    Slipping on my jacket I made my way once more down the stairs and across the parking lot to Jewish Street. The sun was out and the sky was a brilliant cobalt. The spires of the churches shone. The oppressive weight that had been lying on my heart lifted slightly. But a hot flush passed over my face at the mere thought of telling Jolanta I had lost the manuscript when I met her for lunch the next day.
    The café was closed and there seemed little sign of activity. The streets were busy. Tradesmen were