Free The Last Girl by Stephan Collishaw

only slightly from the mouthpiece to shout back into his own apartment.
    â€˜Turn that music down! Blyad!’ The line clicked and then growled in my ear. I slammed my receiver back onto its squat body.

Chapter 12
    Aware that it was almost twelve, the time we had arranged to meet, I trudged slowly up Castle Street. I could not force myself to walk faster. With each step I longed to turn back and make my way home; I could not face telling her I had lost the manuscript. Somewhere a church bell began to toll and the sound rolled across the rooftops. I glanced at my watch; it was twelve o’clock exactly. I hurried a little then, not wanting to be too late, but the streets were crowded and it took a good ten minutes to reach the Filharmonija. As I drew closer I glanced ahead gloomily to the restaurant where we were due to dine. Tables had been placed outside and the wind caught the edge of their cloths, lifting them, revealing legs suggestively. I braced myself and, like a man on the way to the gallows, forced my feet on.
    The small restaurant was bustling with activity. I glanced around the diners, searching out her face; hoping, fearing, I would see her. I sat by the window, close to the door. Not studying the menu, I gazed out past the brightly blooming window boxes. It was quarter past twelve. I rehearsed my speech.
    Late the previous evening, after my call to Jonas had convinced me there was no hope left, I realised I would have to tell her. I had half entertained the idea of pretending I still had the manuscript, explaining that I had not yet had the chance to read more than a few paragraphs of it, but that what I had read was good, that it had caught my imagination, the idea of the moral dislocation of war. It would be a good excuse to meet her again. But it would only delay the inevitable. The bag was not going to reappear. I could not doubt her response: disgust and fury at an old drunkard.
    No waiter came to serve me. I watched for her. She had been late for our previous meeting, I remembered. Where was she? Another bookshop? I pictured her looking at her watch, suddenly noticing the time. Rushing out.
    An unoccupied waiter strolled over. Not taking out a pad to write my order, he raised his eyebrows, questioningly, hands in his pockets. I glanced at my watch. Half past twelve. I hesitated.
    â€˜I’m waiting for somebody,’ I said finally. ‘I’ll wait until she comes. She won’t be long now.’
    He turned away, unconcerned. The street looked dismal and cold. Thick clouds had rolled rapidly over the city; the wind whipped the skirts of the tables viciously. A rose toppled over. The couple sitting outside called for their bill and hur­ried off. I found a cigarette and lit it. The blue smoke curled away above me, caught on a warm stream of air coming from a heater close to my feet. There was no sign of her.
    She had still not appeared by one o’clock. I worried. I hadn’t for a moment considered that she would not meet me, my nervousness over the lost manuscript had erased any other worries from my mind. My eyes searched the street. Twice a minute I glanced at my watch. Where could she be? Not late. Not this late. I beckoned the waiter.
    â€˜There hasn’t been a message left for me?’ He shook his head.
    â€˜Perhaps you could ask at the counter?’ I said.
    Irritation passed like a swift cloud across his face. He straightened up, however.
    â€˜What name?’ he asked curtly.
    â€˜Daumantas,’ I said. ‘Steponas Daumantas. I was expecting to meet a lady called Jolanta.’
    â€˜Jolanta?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes, Jolanta,’ I said flushing with embarrassment; I did not know her surname.
    He smirked and traipsed away slowly. Leaning against the counter he joked with the girl. She shook her head. Not bothering to walk back across to where I sat he shook his head at me, then continued his conversation with the girl.
    When I realised she would not