The Last Girl by Stephan Collishaw Page A

queue, displaying none of the new manners the West had brought. I hesitated a moment. Behind me the queue had grown longer, stretching back to the door. I felt a hand against my back.
    â€˜Two nights ago,’ I began. ‘I was drinking here.’
    â€˜What do you want?’ the young woman cut in.
    â€˜I left something here,’ I tried to continue. ‘I left a bag here, a plastic bag. It had papers in it.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about that,’ she said annoyed. ‘Do you want something or not?’
    The hand against my back had become more persistent in its pressure. From farther back in the queue I heard a young male voice calling, ‘Come on, granddad.’
    â€˜It’s very important,’ I said.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ the young woman said again. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’ Her eyes had already started to wander to the customers behind me. Feeling helpless, I quickly ordered a coffee. As she stood at the machine making it, I continued, ‘I think the bag was blue. It is very important, it didn’t actually belong to me.’ But she could not hear anyway above the explosive splutters of the coffee machine. She slopped the coffee down in front of me.
    â€˜Litas,’ she said, and while I fumbled for my wallet she had already turned to the couple behind me with an apology. I laid the crumpled note on the counter and took my coffee. In the corner there was a seat and I made my way over there. A sweat had broken out on my face and I felt faint and sick. My hands shook so much, as I crossed the crowded room, that still more of the drink slopped over the side of the small cup into the saucer. At the table I slumped into the metal chair and rested my head in my hands. I closed my eyes and tried to stop my head swimming. After a couple of minutes the nausea began to subside. I felt exhausted.
    It had been a mistake to come to the café at this hour; it was crowded. As one group left, another pushed in loudly through the doors. I glanced at my watch. It was eight o’clock. I sipped the coffee slowly, hoping that the crowd might thin out, taking some strain off the girl behind the counter.
    By nine business in the café seemed no less hectic and I was beginning to despair. I knew that it would be sensible to go back home and come again in the morning, when things would be quieter. My eyes had been on the young woman behind the counter continually. She did not stop. Her long hair was tied back neatly, but as time wore on, strands came loose and flapped across her face. Perspiration shone on her forehead. Occasionally she forced a smile for a customer but otherwise her expression was strictly businesslike. It was a bit of a surprise therefore to see a real broad smile cross her face when the door pushed open just after nine, setting the small bell tinkling once more. Following her gaze my eyes jumped over to the doorway. A young man entered, his dark hair swept back, a scarf flung around his neck. He waved to the girl across the heads of the customers. It took me a few moments to recognise him.
    He made his way to the back of the café and disappeared through a doorway. The girl called out to him as he disappeared and he shouted something back I could not hear above the noise of the chatter. My heart jumped with a spasm of joy and relief. I got up and pushed through the chairs and tables, excusing myself. Passing the counter I made for the door through which the young man had disappeared.
    â€˜Hey!’ the girl called after me. ‘You can’t go in there.’ She leapt out and grabbed me before I managed to push through the door. I tried to shrug myself free, but she held my sleeve tightly.
    â€˜Where do you want to go?’ she asked. Recognition flickered across her face as she looked at me. A wearied, intolerant tone inflected her voice. ‘That door is for staff only. If it’s the toilet you