Box 21 by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström

her.
     
She had stood in the doorway of her room, watching. When he got the whip out and held it in front of Lydia’s face, she had rushed in and jumped on him. Dimitri had never beaten them with the whip, only threatened to. When she tried to grab it, he kicked her in the stomach, shoved her into her room and locked the door, shouting that she’d get hers later.
     
She stared down into the water, waiting. She should go back. Home to Klaipeda. Home to Janoz, if he was still there. But not yet. Not until Lydia had been in touch.
     
She had counted the sounds, every lash, one by one. The police had arrived at stroke thirty-six. She had heard every single impact through the shut door, heard Dimitri lifting the whip to strike Lydia’s bare skin once more.
     
Her feet. If she stretched her legs, they would touch the water. She could jump in. Or she could get up and board the ship. Go home.
     
But not yet.
     
They had seen each other being raped. She had to wait.
     
They had searched the flat and someone had unlocked her door. Dimitri had been lying on the floor, clutching his stomach. She had been alone for a few seconds, minutes maybe, then suddenly she saw the policeman they knew, and panicked, ran the few steps to the front door, which had a big hole in it, but turned back to kick the knocked-down Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp hard in the balls with the pointed tip of her shoe. Then she had carried on running,out on to the landing, down the empty stone stairs, all five floors.
     
She reacted to the ring tone at once. She knew who it was.
     
‘Yes?’
     
‘Alena? It’s me.’
     
Hearing Lydia’s voice made her feel good. She was in pain, Alena could hear that. It was difficult for her to speak, but her voice, it was so good to hear her voice again.
     
‘Where are you?’
     
‘At the harbour.’

 
‘You’re going home.’
     
‘I was waiting for you to phone. I knew you would. Then . . .Then I could go home.’
     
The mobile phone had been a present from one of the faces she couldn’t remember. Alena had wanted gifts from customers who asked for extras, Lydia had preferred money. The things she got might be clothes, a couple of necklaces and sometimes a pair of earrings. Dimitri didn’t have a clue and didn’t know about the mobile phone either, of course. It was quite new; in return the forgotten face had been allowed to do extras with both of them together. Lydia had wanted the mobile; she thought it would be good to have at least one between them, just in case.
     
‘What are you going to do?’
     
‘When?’
     
‘When you get back home.’
     
‘I don’t know.’
     
‘Do you miss it a lot?’
     
Alena caught her breath. She had a vision of what it had been like, kind of grim and messy. Klaipeda hadn’t been very nice.
     
‘Yes, I do. I want to see them all again. See what they look like. Maybe to find out what we would’ve looked like.’
     
She told Lydia about her escape, how she had fled down into Völund Street without turning back to look, not once,just running from the place she hated. Now, after twenty-four endless hours of wandering around in the city, she wanted to sleep, simply sleep for a while. Lydia didn’t say much. A bit about the hospital where they had been taken a couple of times, a bit about the bed, the food, the nurse from Poland who spoke Russian.
     
Not a word about the gashes on her back.
     
‘Alena?’
     
‘Yes, what?’
     
‘I need you to help me.’
     
Alena looked down again. For the moment the water was calm and she could see a blurred image of herself, the dangling legs and the arm and the hand holding the phone to her ear.
     
‘I’ll help you. Ask anything.’
     
Lydia’s breathing came slowly. She seemed to be searching for words.
     
‘Do you remember the cellar with the storerooms?’
     
Alena remembered well: the hard floor, the impenetrable dark at night, the damp air. Once, when Dimitri had some visitors to stay, he locked Alena and Lydia up in the cellar for two days. He needed their