Chapter 11: Nadia’s Fee

There is a space in the night where Piggy floats, raw and weightless, the echoes of her own sobbing blotted out by the memory of men’s laughter. Then: the subtle click of the lock, the hush of rubber soles. Piggy’s eyes open, vision rimmed with the afterimage of the camera’s red diode.

Nadia enters with a mask—standard-issue blue surgical, pleated tight over her high cheekbones, hair in a net. She moves with the brisk, practiced economy of a ward nurse and a mortician combined, arms gloved to the elbow, an apron over her ordinary jeans and sweatshirt. The only skin visible is her brow and her eyes, which are dark and uncannily steady.

The bed is a mess: wet, reeking, a mosaic of sweat, lubricant, and viscous residue seeping into the plastic under-pad. Piggy is bound at the wrists and ankles, the straps slick and beginning to gnaw at her skin, limbs splayed like a pinned insect. The humiliation should be maximal, but she is so far past shame that she no longer knows the coordinates of her own body. She only knows hurt, and the fact that the camera is still running.

Nadia surveys the scene without comment. She picks up the wireless GoPro, powers it down, and sets it neatly on the nightstand. Then she kneels on the mattress, the apron making a crisp noise. Piggy expects a slap, a kick, some violence, but instead Nadia’s gloved hands are gentle. She tests the ankle cuffs, checks the abrasions, then works the straps off with slow precision. When both legs are free, she bends them at the knees, tucks them together, and drapes a small towel over Piggy’s thighs.

She moves up to the headboard, leans close to unbuckle the wrist restraints. At this range, Piggy can smell a trace of deodorant—lime, almost medicinal—cutting through the stink of herself. The mask is tight enough that she can see the shape of Nadia’s lips, the full width of them, and wonders if she is frowning or smiling under there.

The second the straps release, Nadia seizes Piggy’s wrists and clicks them together with a pair of black plastic cuffs. A practiced twist, a ratcheting sound, and Piggy’s arms are locked palm-to-palm at the small of her back. The flesh of her forearms is blotched with welts and sticky with old tears. Nadia offers her a bottle of water with a straw.

“Drink,” she says, not unkindly.

Piggy’s lips tremble, but she drinks—short, uncertain sips, the water cold enough to ache in her molars.

Nadia waits, then takes the bottle away, sets it on the floor. “You will walk,” she says, and it is neither command nor request, just the statement of a law.

Piggy’s legs betray her. She tries to stand, but her knees buckle, and it is only Nadia’s arm under her armpit that keeps her upright. The sudden proximity—Nadia’s torso, her breath, the muscled support of her bicep—is as much a shock as the cold. Piggy nearly swoons, and for a second she thinks Nadia will let her fall. Instead, Nadia guides her forward, step by small step, bare feet sticking to the laminate floor.

The bathroom is already prepared: lights are on, towels set out, a roll of blue shop wipes on the edge of the tub. The tiles gleam, sanitized. The shower head is looped down to the taps, hose coiled like an instrument in a surgical tray.

Nadia slides the cuffs up, pinning Piggy’s hands higher on her back, then sits her on the closed toilet. Piggy’s flesh puddles and sags; she notices, dully, the way her belly creases, the smudge of blood at her inner thigh. She expects more orders, but Nadia just opens the cupboard, sets out a bottle of antiseptic, a tube of something in Czech, a pack of latex finger cots.