Angel and the Assassin: Be Brave

thin,
    silky robes with nothing underneath. One of them smiled at the other in response to
    something she said, and for a moment they were just young girls cooking together
    and not slaves held against their will. Looking closer, Angel saw the bruises on
    their arms, and the auburn-haired girl had a horrible deep purple bruise on her
    neck. Briefly they looked at him and then ignored him.
    Outside the kitchen door was another door under the stairwell, which must go
    down to the cellar. The hallway to the front door was long, and two more doors led
    off it. To his left was Dudek‟s office, its door now closed. Angel wandered along to
    the first room. The door was open, and it was empty. He carried on to the front
    room, which looked out onto the street. The door was slightly ajar. This was where
    the men were playing cards. They spoke French, and one of them spoke it with a
    heavy English accent. Denbigh. Shit! He’s still here.

    Angel and the Assassin: Be Brave

    147

    Angel ran on tiptoe back to the kitchen. The girls had prepared plates of food
    and put them on a tray. One of them handed him a plate, which he took. Then she
    opened the cellar door. He was about to follow them down when Dudek came out of
    his office again. Angel met his eyes briefly. He kept his chin pressed into his chest,
    partly to look afraid and partly because he was afraid.
    “You‟ll sleep in the cellar with the girls unless I want you with me. Eat and
    then go upstairs to the front bedroom. I‟ll be up soon. Don‟t keep me waiting.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The cellar steps were narrow and dark. Angel negotiated them carefully,
    following the girls around a corner. What he found shocked and disgusted him.
    Small, dirty windows near the ceiling allowed a little light in. Aside from that, there
    was only one fluorescent strip light overhead, which gave the girls a strange pallor.
    There were at least eight girls sitting quietly. They looked up at him, only slightly
    surprised to see a boy. One of them spoke to him, but he had no idea what she said.
    Another repeated it in French. “Are you new? Did you just get here?”
    He nodded, and they went back to their food.
    Rows of bunks were closely packed together. A few chairs and a table around
    which the girls sat took up most of the space. The smell was worse than upstairs,
    though the girls looked clean and were trying to make the best of themselves by the
    looks of the toiletries scattered about. A small vase with some flowers stood in the
    middle of the table in an attempt to brighten the horror of their prison cell. A small
    bundle on one of the lower bunks moved a little. Angel‟s eyesight had adjusted
    quickly to the lowered light, as it always did, and he made out a sleeping child, her
    blonde hair tumbled over her small shoulders.
    He’s here somewhere.
    With a quick look at the girls, who paid no attention to him, Angel left his
    plate on the table untouched and walked quietly out of the makeshift bedroom.
    Another door stood closed just down the smelly, dim passage. With his hand on the
    door handle, he paused. Either Daddy was in there or he wasn‟t, and if he was, he
    could easily be dead.
    Center yourself. Breathe. That’s what Daddy says.
    The door opened with a creak. Angel stepped inside. It was a boiler room, and
    there was no window at all. In the darkness, Angel allowed his eyes to adjust. When
    he could see a little, he began to scan the room. A water heater wrapped in
    fiberglass insulation took up about a quarter of the space. A filthy sink was
    attached to the wall next to it. Against the far wall, a figure lay stretched out, and
    by the length and size of it, it had to be Daddy. Again Angel drew a calming breath
    and proceeded toward him. Something above brushed his head, and Angel looked
    up. It was a light bulb with a string hanging beside it. One tug on the string and the
    room settled about him with a dim light. The figure on the floor moved when the
    light came on.

    148
    Fyn Alexander

    A few steps and he knelt down and stroked the bruised, swollen, barely
    recognizable face and ran his hand over Daddy‟s side. Daddy had never had any
    body fat to lose, but he‟d lost muscle and looked much thinner. His body was a mass
    of bruises and contusions as if he had been beaten repeatedly. The room was chilly,
    and the concrete floor was damp as well as cold. Daddy felt very cold to the touch.
    His parched lips opened, and the word Ekaterina came from a dry throat