The Last Girl by Stephan Collishaw

can’t hear you.’
    She turned angrily, brandishing the dustpan full of glass. ‘It’s not enough that I have to clear up my own apartment, I have to come up and clear up after your drunken orgies.’
    â€˜I never asked you to,’ I said belligerently, my head sore.
    â€˜I’m just supposed to watch you killing yourself, am I?’ she shot back. ‘That would be a good Christian attitude, wouldn’t it!’ She marched off into the kitchen and emptied the glass into some newspaper, which she folded carefully before putting it into a plastic bag. ‘You’re going to have to wait till tomorrow for the rubbish,’ she called from the kitchen.
    â€˜I know when the rubbish van comes,’ I said.
    She wandered back out of the kitchen rubbing her hands. ‘Well, it’s a bit tidier now. That’ll have to do for the moment. I’m busy, I can’t go chasing round after you all day long. I’ll pop down to the shops later to get a few groceries.’
    â€˜You don’t need to,’ I said.
    She grunted derisively again, as though I was an imbecile. She poked about on my desk, rooting among the papers.
    â€˜What are you after there?’ I asked.
    â€˜Where do you keep your money?’
    â€˜I’m not telling you where I keep my money.’
    â€˜Suit yourself, you can pay me when I come back.’
    I sighed, irritated, and pulled out my wallet. I took a creased five Litas note out and tossed it to her. ‘Here. Just buy some bread and milk.’
    She picked up the note and poked it into her pocket. As she turned to leave she noticed the pictures of the women on the wall.
    â€˜What’s all this then?’ she asked, her voice alive with the expectation of gossip.
    â€˜Nothing for you,’ I said angrily.
    â€˜Nuh!’ she said, nose in the air, and shuffled off to the door not looking back.
    â€˜Grigalaviciene!’ I called as she disappeared through the door.
    â€˜What is it?’ she shouted back, not reappearing.
    â€˜Thank you,’ I called testily. She grunted.

Chapter 10
    As I sat in my chair by the window, watching the build-up of clouds, the hours passed slowly. The thought of the missing manuscript gnawed at me. I had arranged to meet Jolanta for lunch at the Filharmonija café on Thursday. That gave me two days.
    Hour after hour I paced the floor of my apartment. I half thought about sending Grigalaviciene out to the café, but in­ the end decided not to. By early evening I could stand it no longer. Despite the shaking of my hands I pulled on a thick coat, buttoned it up to my chin and left the apartment. The stairs seemed unusually steep and perilous and I had difficulty descending them. I clung tightly to the banister, my eyes straining at the steps in the dim light of the stairwell. Hearing my door, Grigalaviciene poked her head out.
    â€˜Where are you going?’ she asked.
    â€˜Mind your own business,’ I told her.
    â€˜You trying to kill yourself or what?’
    â€˜I’m just going for a walk.’
    â€˜You’re not in any fit state to go wandering around in the darkness,’ she said. I noticed something akin to concern in her rough voice. I sighed and carried on down the stairs.
    â€˜Don’t blame me if you kill yourself,’ she shouted, slamming the door behind her.
    The night was not cold but I could not stop shivering. My legs felt weak and my head ached. I pressed slowly on through the dark narrow streets of the ghetto towards the café at the corner of Pilies Street, where I had been drinking. The streets were quiet. The café, though, when I got there, was quite busy. Mainly young students drinking beer. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of coffee and cakes. I pushed through the chairs to the counter where a harassed young woman dashed from the coffee machine to the cake stand and back.
    â€˜Yes?’ she said as I got to the front of the