The Last Girl by Stephan Collishaw

and Black tonight then,’ he said. ‘I’ll see Ivan this evening. Let’s say ten?’
    Reluctantly I agreed.

Chapter 16
    I did not meet Jonas at the Red and Black that night. I sat in the crowded, noisy bar for an hour before finally giving up on him. It was raining when I wandered home. I cursed him, not knowing then that he was living his last hours. Or, perhaps, was already dead. Heavy-heartedly I dialled the number at the top of Jolanta’s note.
    Jolanta answered the telephone, sounding cheerful and relaxed. Her baby was shouting and the voice of another woman soothed it. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, hearing my voice. ‘I’m glad you called.’
    The words eased my heart, as words have not for many years now.
    â€˜I wanted to thank you for last night,’ she said.
    â€˜I was worried about you,’ I told her. ‘I am worried about you.’
    â€˜I’m fine now, you don’t need to worry any more,’ she assured me.
    â€˜What happened?’
    â€˜It’s hard’ to talk now,’ she said, her voice low, confidential.
    Then she said brightly, ‘Why don’t you come out to see us? The country is lovely now. Get away from Vilnius for a day.’
    I paused, taken aback. The desire to see her was so sharp I could not respond for a few moments. ‘I don’t even know where you are,’ I said.
    â€˜Svencioneliai.’
    â€˜I have no car.’
    â€˜Nor do I,’ she said. ‘But I managed it! You can stay the night. Mama would like that.’ She laughed.
    â€˜Are you serious?’ I asked. A nervous old man.
    â€˜Of course,’ she said, and her voice sounded bright with delight.
    â€˜Then I shall come.’
    The next morning I caught the bus to Svencioneliai. The route took us out north, along the grass banks of the Neris, its water running fast and smooth. I sat back in my seat, closed my eyes and allowed the city to drop away behind me.
    The fields shone under the clear blue sky. The sun rose above the trees, stealing the dew from the tips of grass on the verdant banks of the road. The small villages that we passed through were quiet; wizened ladies, scarves tied tightly around their balding skulls, hobbled out into their gardens, or met on dusty street comers to share a juicy morsel. Soviet era Zigulys rattled along the rutted, pockmarked streets. At midday the bus pulled into the centre of Svencioneliai. I walked out to the farm on the edge of the village, following the instructions Jolanta had given me on the telephone.
    â€˜Steponas!’ Jolanta called, seeing me at the gate.
    She was sitting on the back step of the cottage, peeling potatoes on to a sheet of newspaper. She dropped the potato and knife and jumped up to greet me, wiping her hands on the flowery apron she was wearing. Beneath the apron she was wearing a loose shirt and jeans. Her hair was tied back, behind her head, and on her forehead was a dark smudge from her dirty hands. Her eyes flashed in the sunlight. The dark rings around them were fading. Her skin shone. Her whole body spoke of the freshness of the country.
    â€˜Mama,’ she called as she let me in through the gate into the large yard. A handsome woman poked her head out of the yellow, wooden house.
    â€˜Steponas is here,’ Jolanta called. Against my protest Jolanta took the small bag I had packed. ‘Come and meet my mother,’ she said, dancing along the path beside me. I was bewitched once more by her, by those eyes, her dark hair. A shiver ran down my spine, a shiver of pleasure and fear. This was a beautiful haunting.
    Her mother stepped out to greet me. ‘Egle,’ she said and we shook hands. The middle-aged original of her daughter. And the impression was there too, the faint shadow of her in the eyes, the hair and the way she held her head. Older, though, older as I never saw her. Older as I could never see her, never gave her the chance to be. Rachael, I