The Jewel of St Petersburg by Kate Furnivall Page B

from the gulf, and neither of them was wearing a coat or gloves or even a scarf. Everything had been abandoned at La Gavotte. She could almost see blood congealing in Katya’s veins. She was killing Katya. All over again. She headed straight for the nearest door. It was split down the middle and patched with strips of rough planking, but she banged on it hard. After a long wait it was opened by a child, no higher than her hip.
    “May we come in? Please. Pozhalusta. We’re cold.”
    The boy didn’t react. His face was crusted with scabs, and one filthy finger picked at a ripe spot on his chin.
    “Pozhalusta,” she said again. “Is your mother here?”
    He stepped back and she thought he would swing open the door for the wheelchair to enter, but instead he pushed it shut. She banged the wood so hard that the crack widened.
    “Open the door,” she shouted. “Otkroite dver.”
    The door eased back just enough for one blue eye to peer up at her. “What do you want?” a girl’s voice asked.
    “My sister is freezing to death out here. Please let us in.”
    But she’d learned her lesson and didn’t stop there. This time she accompanied her request with a push against the door that took the child by surprise, so that she stumbled backward. Before she could recover, Valentina had the wheelchair and herself inside the dim hallway and the door firmly shut behind them. The musty reek of rat droppings loitered on the stairs.
    “Thank you,” she said. “Spasibo.”
    In front of her huddled three filthy urchins, two identical boys and a girl with dirty blond hair. The twin boys were nervous, their clothes torn and misshapen, trousers not meeting their ankles. The girl, younger than her brothers, was staring at the wheelchair with wide-eyed curiosity.
    “Is your mother in?” Valentina asked.
    The girl pointed to a door without shifting her gaze from the spokes of Katya’s chair. “Is it a bicycle?” she whispered.
    One of the boys clipped her lightly around the ear. “Don’t be stupid, Liuba. It’s for cripples.”
    Valentina opened the door the girl had indicated and pushed the chair into a small room that was only fractionally warmer than the air outside. A stained sheet was draped over a section of the window in an attempt to keep out the cold, turning the air gray and streaky. It smelled of damp plaster and unwashed bodies.
    “I’m sorry to intrude.”
    A woman was breast-feeding an infant on the end of a narrow bed. Her body was as scrawny as an old woman’s, but her eyes were still bright and young. She was wearing fingerless mittens, a brown scarf knotted around her head. She fastened the front of her dress.
    “What do you want?” Her voice was tired.
    “My sister and I need help. Please...” Valentina hated to ask for something from this woman who so clearly had nothing to give. “My sister is cold. She needs warmth. Some hot food.”
    “My children need hot food,” the woman said sullenly, “but they don’t get any.”
    Valentina took Katya’s cold hand in hers and massaged it vigorously. The woman immediately placed the infant on the bed and went over to the small black stove in the corner. She opened its metal door, a tiny wisp of flame within it, barely alive. No wonder it was so cold. Using tongs, the woman removed a heavy stone that lay inside the stove, wrapped it up in a blackened piece of toweling that lay ready for the purpose, and placed it on Katya’s lap. Katya’s hands burrowed under it.
    “Can’t you put more wood on the fire?” Valentina suggested.
    “No.”
    “I have money.”
    The three children edged closer. The girl held out a grubby palm. “We can buy firewood.”
    Valentina had to trust them. She pulled two white ten-rouble notes from the purse in her pocket, even though she knew it was far too much for firewood. “Bring some food too. Hurry! Potoropites!”
    All three children vanished.
    “Here, take this.” The woman held out the blanket from the bed. Valentina