Zoya

Zoya traces the crack in the window with a ragged fingernail. Her hands are dirty and raw with cold. The draft pierces through the ill fitting frame clattering like a death rattle. Zoya shivers violently. The grey winter’s day stretches endless and formless before her. She lets out a deep sigh and gets back into bed, burying herself deep under the torn patchwork quilt. She covers her head with the threadbare sheet and thinks that this is how she will look when she is dead. She curls herself up into the foetal position and a sob escapes from deep inside her.

As the thin mattress shifts, Babouska rolls towards her, hard and cold. Her hands rigid by her side. Her expression fixed. Her face is scratched and her pretty floral dress tarnished. The blooms she held in her hands, faded. Zoya cradles her tenderly, in emaciated arms, stroking her dull flaxen hair and murmuring childish endearments. ‘I won’t tell, I won’t ever tell’.

Babouska has secrets. Forbidden secrets buried deep inside.

Footsteps. Zoya freezes. A key rattles in the lock and a scabby arm thrusts a dinted enamel bowl into the room. It skids across the hard concrete flooring, skittering to a stop as it hits the bare wall, its sludgy contents slopping over the sides. Zoya remains motionless as the footsteps fade into the distance. Silence envelopes her once again. A hard outer shell. Somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe. Creeping out of bed, she snatches up the thin porridge and scuttles back. Under the sheet, she creates a den for them, another impenetrable layer. She mashes the lumps against the side of the bowl. And lifts the dinted spoon to her mouth, it is marble-cold and tasteless, but it is food.

Zoya sits Babouska up and tries to feed her. ‘Eat. You must eat.’ But the porridge dribbles from unresponsive lips and pools on stained sheets. Zoya scoops it up and tries to cram it into Babouska’s mouth, but it is no good. She swipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her night-gown, but the rough material fails to absorb her despair, instead it smears her grubby face with desolation, the elasticated sleeve cutting into her skin like hand-cuffs.

Zoya buries her head in her hands and rocks, to and fro, to and fro.

More footsteps, still Zoya rocks. A voice. One she doesn’t recognise. A scuffle, a crash, a ‘Sweet Jesus.’ And the sound of retching.

The man has never seen anything like it. He is shaking. How could anyone do this? And to their own flesh and blood. He kneels, although he’s not really trained for this. ‘It’s alright’, and he reaches out to her. She flinches and he curses himself for his clumsiness. He doesn’t know what to say. ‘It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.’ It sounds so feeble, so commonplace. The girl clutches something in her hand, so tightly her nails are digging in to her palm, but she doesn’t seem to notice. ‘What have you got there?’ He asks gently. But her grip tightens. ‘Never mind. You keep it.’ And he curls his fingers and nods. ‘It’s okay. Keep it.’

They have the woman in custody, the man tells his wife, pushing away a half eaten ready-meal. ‘Poor little mite’. And he shakes his head. ‘Pitiful’. His hands shake as he fumbles with a cigarette packet. ‘She kept clutching this object, couldn’t tell what it was at first. She held it to her, rigid. Even in the ambulance.’ And he clenches his fists and presses them to his eyes. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. ‘Seems it’s one of those Russian dolls. Well, the last few layers anyway. Tiny, battered. Kept calling it Babouska.’ And a tear breaks free and rolls slowly down the big man’s face. ‘Turns out it means ‘grandmother.’