Phoenix and the Bag Man

Chapter 12: Aferdita

"Are you OK?" I asked.

"Stupid thing to say," said Phoenix.

"Especially as I can't do anything to help her anyway," I answered, tugging on the flex that bound me.

"Do you speak English?" I asked the heap in the bed. No reply. "Where do you come from?" Nothing. "Polish? Estonian? Bulgarian? Romanian?" I tried to imagine a map of East Europe. It remained largely blank, it could have had "unexplored" written across it.

The girl's breathing seemed ragged and uneven. She was more than just asleep. I didn't know what to do. My wrists were hurting. My shoulders hurt, my head still ached with a bastard of a headache and my leg wound throbbed and my stomach hurt. I was very, very hungry. I wondered what Mum and Dad were doing. I saw Katyia bustling around our kitchen laughing with Mum. I began to feel very very sorry for myself. Tears of self-pity were beginning to well up.

"Oh brilliant move. That's really going to help."

"Shut up!" I snapped. I remember shouting it out loud. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" I stood up and wrenched at my bonds as hard as I could, and twisted violently from side to side. My wrist burnt and I pushed the hard edged chair bit into the sides of my shins. "Shut-up!" I bellowed.

"Do something!" Phoenix screamed.

"Fuck you!!" I shouted back at her. I was so angry I didn't notice the pain. I was frustrated at not being able to move. I looked round at the chair behind me. It didn't look so strong. If I stood on one leg would be able to kick backward at the chair back. So I did it. I kicked it as hard as I could. I almost fell forward but balanced myself by pulling against the flex binding me to the radiator. I kicked again and again and again. The flex bit deeper and deeper into my wrists but the pain just made me more furious. Then the chair back broke, disintegrated with a couple more sharp kicks and the top bar came away. I pulled hard left and right and the tensioned flex pushed the broken pieces of chair away. I could reach the knot Sharkey had tied and now there was enough slack for me to manoeuvre my hands. I pulled randomly at the strands of the knot but nothing moved. I could not bend enough to see what my hands were doing. I tried to do it by feel but I could not. I needed to be able to see. I calmed myself a bit. An inspiration. I bent down and yes I could step one leg and then the other through the loop of my arms so my hands were no longer tied behind my back, but bound in front of me. I turned round and began to work out, unravel the stiff flex from the radiator. I suddenly realised I was standing in front of the window, in full view. There was no one out there but I crouched down out of sight below the windowsill. It was painfully slow unravelling the flex, which seemed to have a mind of its own. At last I pulled free but my fingers could still not reach the knots that bound my wrists together. I needed something to hook round the loops of the knot so I could pull a free end through. In the kitchen there were a couple of hooks screwed to the wall to hang towels on. I began to loosen the bindings. I pulled hard, I was in hurry, terrified Bullimore or Sharkey would be back any minute. The first hook fell out of the wall. I cursed and moved onto the second, being more gentle this time. Gradually the flex loosened until I could unpick the knot. I was free.

There was an open pack of sliced bread on the work top. I couldn't resist it. I grabbed two slices in each hand. I started stuffing my mouth with one while stuffing the other in a pocket. It was dry. It made me choke. I reached for the tap, leant over and drank from it. A habit my Mum hates. As I came up for air I caught my reflection in a broken mirror over the sink - it obviously doubled as a washing room - a mug of toothbrushes and toothpaste perched on the windowsill beside it. Bruised, bloodied, swollen eye, cut cheek, wild looking and I have to admit, a little bit staring mad. I reached for the backdoor handle, I was itching to get away, but instantly I knew I had to check the bundle on the top bunk next door or I would not have any peace.

Then what. Look for Katyia. Get the hell away. Just get away.

"Hey, are you OK? Can you say something," I was pulling back the blankets away from her face. It was a broad, round face, very red, strands of her brown hair plastered to it by the copious amounts of sweat that beaded on her skin. The breathing was ragged and laboured still, her eyes closed. She looked very young, a child really, and very ill. I didn't know what to do.

"I'll get you some water," I wanted so badly to go, but I couldn't. I got the water and pulled her up the bed best I could so her head was on the pillow. I tried dribbling water into her mouth, but most ran from her mouth onto the pillow. She was definitely unconscious. I stood down from the bed. What I need was help. The best I could do for her, I reasoned, for me and probably for Katyia too was to get away, and get help. I saw myself springing from a squad car with an army of police behind me. "This way!"

Then the girl began wretching. No warning and she still did not wake up. The smell was foul. I went to get something from the kitchen to clean her up. When I got back - I was seconds - she was choking, choking on her own vomit. Her face was going beetroot red. But still she did not wake up. I tried turning her from where I was but the bedclothes prevented it. I ripped them from the bed and chucked them across the floor. She was fully dressed, even had her trainers on. She had wet the sheets.

She was tiny. I lifted her off the bed and onto the floor in front of the window, and rolled her onto her side, packing the bedclothes behind her to stop her rolling back. She still choked, struggling for breath, I smacked her between the shoulder blades. She vomited some more, dry wretched and coughed, splattering the floor with sick which must have cleared her lungs as she began taking some deep breaths in-between the coughs. I wiped the vomit from around her mouth. She'd stopped choking at least. Her breathing seemed to ease but was shallow and uneven. I was scared. I had to go and get help. Even from Bullimore perhaps. Or find a phone. In the office. Yes. But then I heard raised voices. I thought I recognised one as Sharkey's as they drew closer. The voices spoke in a strange language, like the girl's, and there was no mistaking they were arguing. They had to be coming to the house. They would find the girl and get help but they didn't have to find me. I felt liberated. I was free to go. And find Katyia. Find a phone. Let the police sort it, after all the truth will out, won't it? I could hear the crunch of boots on gravel. I crouched down. If I ran for the back door they might see me through the window, so I ran up the stairs.

There were two choices. Right or left. I went right. A room like downstairs, filled with bunks but with metal windows front and back. I froze when I heard the front door open and the two arguing voices enter the house. Both voices stopped dead momentarily. I was looking for somewhere to hide. There was a brief exclamation and hurried footfalls on the bare boards. They had seen the girl.

"Michael!" called Sharkey's voice.

"Aferdita, Aferdita!" the cry came reverberating up through the floorboards. There were some other, desperate words and angry ones. I could hear Sharkey's reply, placating in tone but even I could understand the insincerity in his voice. The voice moved away and grew fainter - he must be looking in the kitchen. A conversation I could not understand but the undertones spelled out a story of their own. I looked out of the back window. It looked out over the flat roof of what must be the kitchen. I carefully opened it.

"Michael!" I could hear footsteps across the floor heading towards the bottom of the stairs. I began to climb out onto the roof.

"Michael!" Sharkey called into the other downstairs room. Then I heard boots on the stairs. I dropped down as quietly as I could onto the flat roof and pushed the opener shut and hid up against the wall as far from the window as I could. It was no good. He would still see me if he came to the window. So I slipped off the roof at the side, hung a second or two before dropping to the ground.