Perfect Prey

by Laura Salters

  A sudden influx of sadness catches me off guard. I imagine Erin here: scared, ashamed, depressed. An unwanted child, a vulgar secret, a fear of the men around her. Smith, Andrijo, her father. Kieran Riddle. Kristijan Kasun. I touch my fingertips to the clasp of our bangle, not even trying to blink away the tears that’ve started to pour. I’m frustrated at my past self, too. For not paying enough attention to her, not reading between the lines of everything she said, not taking a second look at the flashes of fear in her eyes that I wrongly assumed to be of Lowe.

  I came here on a whim. Bought a bus ticket, hoped that it’d become clear what to do once I was here, once I was looking at the place. And it is clear. My gut is telling me to go inside.

  Is that foolish? Will they know I’m a fraud? The website says they help victims emotionally and psychologically, not just physically. They can’t force me to have a medical examination.

  Or am I attaching too much significance to Feminaid, just because it’s the place that ties together Kasun and Tim? In the context of Erin’s pregnancy test, it seemed so crucial, so pivotal to her disappearance, but the more I look at this cheerfully sterile shopfront, I struggle to imagine why on earth she’d come here instead of visiting her local GP. We have free health care in the UK, through the National Health Ser­vice, and doctors are sworn to a little thing called the Hippocratic Oath, so word would never get out about her unwanted child. It makes no sense to travel to a random city in a random country to seek help.

  Unless she was so far along that the NHS wouldn’t let her abort. But I think of her still-­petite frame and it seems unlikely.

  Maybe she did have an abortion on the NHS, and she was coming here for counseling. I know waiting lists for the NHS mental health ser­vices are months and months and months long right now. Was she struggling so badly that she’d pay for a Serbian clinician to help her? But that doesn’t make sense either. The original abortion would show up on her medical records, and the police would’ve known about it all along.

  Which they could’ve. Would Ilić have told me? He’s just lied to my face about Andrijo’s apartment, and he’s always stressing the importance of discretion. Has he ever told me anything concrete about the case? No. So why would he have told me this?

  I’m standing on the street, letting pedestrians dodge around me as I sob quietly. I need to move, need to do something, but this is all so paralyzing, and it’s becoming impossible to tell whether my million-­miles-­an-­hour mind is a symptom of my anxiety, my obsession with finding Erin or if I’m actually on to something. I can’t remember what it’s like to have a quiet brain. I’m not sure I want to. The silence might cripple me.

  For lack of anything better to do, I take a deep breath and go inside.

  INSIDE IT SMELLS like bleach. The linoleum floors squeak as I walk over them. It’s modern, like Povezivanje, but more toned down. A lot of white.

  An impossibly slim, acne-­scarred receptionist sits behind a white counter, staring at nothing. She’s not flipping through a magazine, or tapping away on her phone under the desk, or clacking on a keyboard. She’s doing nothing. And it’s disconcerting. There’s something so clinical about it. So devoid of . . . anything.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I approach her, and she snaps out of her trance with a polite smile, which I can tell she practices very hard. It’s the perfect mix of unassuming and nonjudgmental and neutral.

  “Zdravo,” she says, maintaining the smile as she speaks. It’s an art form.

  “Hi,” I say, trying to mirror her placid grin. “English,” I add apologetically.

  “No problem. How may I help you today?”

  My throat goes dry. “I, uh . . . I’d like to speak to someone. In private. About . . . about something that happened three weeks ago at JUMP.”

  She reads the subtext ultraprofessionally. “No problem. We have a counsellor available shortly. Were you looking to talk to someone right away? If you want to come back this afternoon, that’s fine, too. Whatever works for you.” Smile.

  “Now is great. Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Nothing is a problem for this woman. “Can I ask you to fill out this form while you wait?” She hands over a white clipboard with a questionnaire and a tiny biro attached. Gestures to the waiting room, where there are two other girls waiting. There are more potted plants than patients.

  The chairs are hard, white plastic with a terrible ergonomic design. I have to slump over the clipboard to be able to write a single word. I fill it out as vaguely as I can, entering a fake name and date of birth, and don’t declare my anxiety and depression when asked about preexisting medical conditions. One of the other girls, ghostly pale and beady-­eyed, watches me with suspicion. She’s very pregnant, resting a water bottle on her huge bump, but her limbs are tiny like they could snap between my fingers.

  When I finish, I take the form back to the receptionist, who reiterates that it’s not a problem and encourages me to relax in the waiting room. I down three cups of water from the cooler in the corner and take an uncomfortable seat. It’s eerily silent.

  I cannot imagine Erin here. It’s too painful. Clutching her stomach—­empty or not?—­and eyeing the clock, wondering if she’s made a mistake. Smith seemed genuinely shocked when I mentioned the possible pregnancy. But why? Why keep this from him? It’s a question I’ve pondered several times since I collapsed onto him in the churchyard. He’s arrogant, sure, and a little selfish. But what would compel her to keep this dark secret from her longtime partner? Especially if the baby’s his . . . which I have briefly considered to be debatable, but I felt like a traitor as soon as the thought crossed my mind. Erin is not a cheater.

  Unless she had no choice in the matter.

  Nausea ripples through me so fast I bend at the waist, hanging my head between my legs and gasping for air. Nobody says a word. Not even the robot receptionist for whom nothing is a problem. She’s seen it all before. She’s seen rape and abortion and the grim aftermath. It’s not a problem.

  I pop a pill from my bag, and another, because even though my last overdose made me so drowsy I fell asleep on the floor, right now I’d give anything not to be awake.

  I want to leave. Desperately. But I force myself to remember the link: Andrijo is connected to Kasun, and Feminaid links Kasun to Tim. Tim, who’s looking less and less innocent as time goes on. Yet again, I find myself thinking of Brodie Breckenridge. Did she visit this place, too?

  All my energy is focused on suppressing the vomit rising in my throat, so when the receptionist calls my name and asks me to go to room three, it takes me a few moments to rise. The other girls give me strange looks, but honestly, I’ve never cared less what other ­people think of me, and for a girl with crippling anxiety, that’s not a good sign.

  The clinic is small and looks like my GP’s office back home. Desk and chairs and potted plants, an examination table covered in a fresh sterile sheet. Smiling medical professional with thick-­rimmed glasses, sleek brunette bob and a tan so deep her skin is like leather.

  “Hi, Carolina,” she says, voice husky, accent stilted. “Please, come in. Take a seat.”

  I do, cheeks already burning, heart already racing, stomach already filling with self-­loathing over the lie I’m about to tell. Real girls go through this every day. And I’m about to pretend I’m one of them.

  “How can I help you today? Would you mind telling me why you’re here?”

  The three cups of water have done nothing to quench my dry throat. Remembering how to form words is easier said than done. “I’m . . . I’m here because I was raped. At JUMP, three and a half weeks ago. And . . .” I go all out. Try to see how they’d have treated Erin in the same situation. “I’m pregnant.”

  It’s such a loaded statement, heavy with pain and darkness, and yet she barely reacts. Like I say, she sees this every day, multiple times a day. It’s not uncommon. The na
usea ripples again.

  “I see. I’m sorry, Carolina. Is this the first time you’ve seen a medical professional since the incident?”

  “Yes. I took a home test.”

  “And you didn’t report the incident to the police.” No judgment. She’s as neutral as the receptionist.

  “No.”

  She doesn’t ask why, doesn’t push for more details. Just makes a note on my chart. “So you haven’t been checked for sexually transmitted diseases?”

  “No,” I reply, a little alarmed that her next question is a medical one. I kind of expected her to focus on the psychological trauma. Hastily, I add, “I’m not really looking for a physical examination or anything. I just wanted to . . . talk to someone. Is that all right?”

  “Sure,” she says, with no amount of certainty. “Although I’d really recommend having a medical professional determine whether you are, in fact, pregnant, and whether or not you’ve picked up any STIs. You don’t want to leave these things undiagnosed for too long. Plus, for your own peace of mind, knowing is better than not knowing.”

  I purse my lips. “Not today. But I will, I promise.”

  “No problem.” She lays down her pen, leans back in her chair. She’s older than I first thought, maybe in her fifties. “How are you doing, Carolina? You can tell me anything, you know. Everything you say inside these four walls will be treated with the utmost discretion.”

  I smile, but I’m pretty sure it comes out as more of a wince. “Thank you.”

  She waits patiently for me to explain how I’m doing, but I’m drawing a blank. Regretting my ridiculous decision to go through with this. I’m no actress. She’s bound to be able to tell that I’m lying. Who declines a medical examination so vehemently in this situation? What happens if she realizes I’m a fraud? Maybe she’ll refer me to a real psychiatrist. What kind of psychopath fakes a rape? On behalf of every sexual assault victim in history, I despise myself.

  “I’m sorry . . . I think this was a mistake,” I mumble, rising from my seat.

  “Carolina,” she interrupts, her voice still perfectly calm and measured. “I know this is difficult for you. But running away isn’t the answer. You need help. I can give you that.” She notices my hesitation. “It is natural to feel afraid and alone. We need to work through that. Please, sit down. We can talk for as long as you need.”

  I find myself sitting.

  “I met a guy at JUMP,” I blurt out. “He was drunk, but so was I. He got too forceful, too full-­on, and I tried to stop him. But we were back in his tent, and there was nowhere to run.”

  Shame. Deep, deep shame, larger than anything else.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she says.

  Heat floods me. She’s misreading my shame. “I didn’t say it was.”

  “No. But it’s natural in these situations to feel guilt for leading him on. It’s what the world wants you to feel. Please don’t. You told him to stop. That should’ve been enough.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Don’t be. Save your sympathy for someone who deserves it.

  I stare at my feet.

  “Have you had any thoughts about what you’ll do about the baby?”

  My neck snaps up at the change of pace. “Pardon?”

  “Do you plan on keeping it? It must be a painful reminder of that night.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Well, I’d be happy to talk through your options with you, if you like?”

  I splutter. “I know my options. Keep it or don’t.”

  Another smile, now so tranquil it’s perverse. “I meant your options at Feminaid.” She pulls a glossy leaflet from her top drawer. “You’re still very early, so a termination wouldn’t be overly traumatic, physically.”

  I stare at her. Is she trying to sell me an abortion? The calm pushiness on her face makes me wonder, only half-­jokingly, if she’s commission based. I look down at the leaflet she’s pushing into my hands.

  Pregnancy termination up to ten weeks: 250,000 dinar.

  Pregnancy termination up to twenty weeks: 500,000 dinar.

  “I thought abortion was only legal up to ten weeks in Serbia,” I manage. I read that fact somewhere in the article about Feminaid—­the one showing Kasun opening the Zrenjanin site ten years ago. The piece also said the country has one of the highest abortion rates in Europe. In 1989, sixty-­eight percent of pregnancies were terminated.

  “It is,” she answers. “Unless you have medical documentation declaring mental or emotional instability.” She looks at me meaningfully, and I find the subtext: she can give me that documentation.

  Suddenly, painfully, I find myself praying this is not the rabbit hole Erin fell down.

  “I have to go.”

  This time, grabbing the leaflet as proof, I make it to the door, through the white, white waiting room, past the calm smiles, bursting, gasping, onto the wet street.

  ILIĆ’S NUMBER IS saved to my phone, and even though he’s already dismissed me twice today, I need to talk to him. The voice in my head that something is wrong is growing louder—­a scream, a yell, a roar—­as I clutch the ugly leaflet in my hand.

  “Jovan Ilić.”

  “It’s Carina. I’m in Zrenjanin.”

  “Carina? Hold on.” The background noise dims as he cups a hands over the mobile phone speaker, then again as he exits the street and goes inside. Inside where. Andrijo’s apartment? Is he still there? He comes back on. “Carina? What’s wrong? Did you say you’re in Zrenjanin? Didn’t I only see you a ­couple of hours ago?”

  Dry, my throat is so dry I can barely swallow. “Yes. I, erm . . .”

  Where do I start without sounding insane?

  Fuck it. That ship sailed a long time ago.

  “I came to see a Feminaid clinic I think Erin might’ve visited. For sexual assault victims. She . . . I know she might have been pregnant, and . . . and it made sense. They offer abortions.”

  “What clinic?”

  I tell him the name, the street. I’m met with silence.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” I continue hurriedly, desperate to keep his attention—­the attention I don’t deserve. “But Kristijan Kasun was Andrijo’s alibi, right?” I take a stab in the dark. My whole theory rests on that being true. A respected figure in the area. His boss. “And you’re searching Andrijo’s apartment, so I know he’s not clean. They worked together, him and Kasun. And Kasun is linked to Bastixair, and his son has Aubin’s, and so did Erin’s grandmother, and Kasun opened this clinic—­with Tim Halsey. It’s all connected. It all led me here. You know Tim was questioned as part of the Brodie Breckenridge case, right?”

  I’m babbling, and it makes so little sense, and suddenly I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the train of thought I was on—­the one that led me here. Was it really only a hunch? Did I really have so little to go on? It seemed so obvious at the time, but now, as I try and fail to land on the point of my story, I’m realizing how twisted my thinking has been over the last few hours. There’s nothing. Nothing concrete. I want the pavement to swallow me whole; I want to go back five minutes and not dial this number, want to go back five years and not lose my mind.

  But he doesn’t dismiss me. “You say Kasun opened this clinic . . . and Halsey was there.”

  My heart skips a beat. He’s listening. That means Kasun was Andrijo’s alibi. “Y-­yes.”

  Silence. He’s considering. Does that mean I may actually be on to something? Maybe Erin really was pregnant. Maybe this makes sense in the context of what he knows.

  What does he know?

  I need the full picture. I don’t have it, but I need it.

  Maybe they’re scared she went for an abortion, and she didn’t make it out alive.

  The nausea reaches a climax.

 
“Can you email me the address? We’ll come and find you.”

  That’s it. My heart stops dead. “You’re coming here? To Zrenjanin?”

  “Yes. What you’ve just told me makes sense in terms of something we just discovered in Marković’s apartment. And, Carina?”

  Chest thudding, I say, “Yeah?”

  What the . . .

  “Be careful.” There’s something like genuine concern in his voice. What the hell did he find? “Walk away from the clinic, go and get a coffee, and wait. I’ll phone you when we make it to Zrenjanin.”

  I hang up, legs weak, stomach cramping. I’m about to do as he says, about to turn and walk away, far away from this white, white clinic with the robotic receptionist and the wholesale abortions for half a million dinar as long as you can prove you’re as mental as me. But as I turn on my shaking heel, shoving my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, I collide straight into a sturdy figure. A sturdy figure I recognize all too well.

  Short, stocky. Shaven head. Close-­together eyes, a crooked nose. A smile that’s anything but friendly.

  Borko. Andrijo’s friend.

  Chapter Twenty

  August 3, Serbia

  IT TAKES US both a moment to react—­him with rage, me with terror.

  I want to turn and run, but I’m a split second too slow and he’s grabbed my wrist before I can usher my legs into action.

  “Borko? I . . .”

  What do I say? What do I do? Plead ignorance? Insist on coincidence? Stick with the tent story?

  He’ll never buy it. Not after what happened to Erin.

  And from the look on his face—­shock and irritation combined with something darker—­he isn’t as clueless in the case as he claimed to the Serbian police.

  “Let’s talk inside,” he mutters, but it’s not a question, and I have no choice in the matter.

  Tugging my wrist, tightly, painfully, he drags me back through the clinic door. Instead of turning right and entering the reception, he swipes a key fob to the door on the left. Some kind of storeroom. It’s freezing, windowless and smells of chemicals and plastic.