I didn’t take in the scenery that flashed past through the black-tinted glass-I was too tired-but my body registered every twist in the lane, and the sudden jerks and jolts when he braked and turned. This gangster-type needs some driving lessons.

He had some potato chips wrapped in a paper bundle on the passenger seat beside him, and every now and then he would plunge his left fist in, grab a handful of chips and cram them into his mouth. Grab. Cram. Chomp. Grab. Cram. Chomp. Not very refined. The chips smelt fantastic, though. The smell of the cigar, the lurching motion as he steered with one hand and stuffed his mouth with the other, the low dragging pain from my period-it was all making me feel queasy and hungry at the same time. In the end, hunger won out. I wondered what language this gangster type would talk. Belarusian? He looked too dark for a Belarus. Ukrainian? He didn’t look Ukrainian. Maybe from somewhere out east? Chechnya? Georgia? What do Georgians look like? The Balkans? Taking a guess, I asked in Russian, “Please, Mister Vulk, may I have something to eat?”

He looked up. Our eyes met in the rear-view mirror. He had real gangster-type eyes-poisonous black berries in eyebrows as straggly as an overgrown hedge. He studied me in that offensive way, sliding his eyes all over me.

“Little flower vants eating?” He spoke in English, though he must have understood my Russian. Probably he came from one of those newly independent nations of the former Soviet Union where everyone can speak Russian but nobody does. OK, so he wanted to talk English? I’d show him.

“Yes indeed, Mister Vulk. If you could oblige me, if it does not inconvenience you, I would appreciate something to eat.”

“No problema, little flower!”

He helped himself to one more mouthful of chips-grab, cram, chomp-then scrunched up the remnants in the oily paper and passed them over the back of the seat. As I reached forward to take them, I saw something else nestled down on the seat beneath where the chips had been. Something small, black and scary. Shcho to! Was that a real gun?

My heart started hammering. What did he need a gun for? Mamma, Pappa, help me! OK, just pretend not to notice. Maybe it’s not loaded. Maybe it’s just one of those cigar lighters. So I unfolded the crumpled paper-it was like a snug, greasy nest. The chips inside were fat, soft and still warm. There were only about six left, and some scraps. I savoured them one at a time. They were lightly salty, with a touch of vinegar, and they were just-mmm!-indescribably delicious. The fat clung to the edges of my lips and hardened on my ringers, so I had no choice but to lick it off, but I tried to do it discreetly.

“Thank you,” I said politely, for rudeness is a sign of minimum culture.

“No problema. No problema.” He waved his fist about as if to show how generous he was. “Food for eat in transit. All vill be add to your living expense.”

Living expense? I didn’t need any more nasty surprises. I studied his back, the creaky stretched-at-the-seams jacket, the ragged pony-tail, the thick yellowish neck, the flecks of dandruff on the fake-leather collar. I was starting to feel queasy again.

“What is this, expense?”

“Expense. Expense. Foods. Transports. Accommodations.” He took both hands off the steering wheel and waved them in the air.

“Life in vest is too much expensive, little flower. Who you think vill be pay for all such luxury?”

Although his English was appalling, those words came rolling out like a prepared speech. “You think this vill be providing all for free?”

So Mother had been right. “Anybody can see this agency is run by crooks. Anybody but you, Irina.” (See how Mother has this annoying habit of putting me down?) “And if you tell them lies, Irina, if you pretend to be student of agriculture when you are nothing of the sort, who will help you if something goes wrong?”

Then she went on in her hysterical way about all the things that go wrong for Ukrainian girls who go West-all those rumours and stories in the papers.

“But everyone knows these things only happened to stupid and uneducated girls, Mother. They’re not going to happen to me.”

“If you will please say me what are the expenses, I will try to meet them.”

I kept my voice civilised and polite. The chrome-bar tooth gleamed.

“Little flower, the expense vill be first to pay, and then you vill be pay. Nothing to be discuss. No problema.”

“And you will give me back my passport?”

“Exact. You verk, you get passport. You no verk, you no passport. Someone mekka visit in you mamma in Kiev, say Irina no good verk, is mek big problem for her.”

“I have heard that in England…”

“ England is a change, little flower. Now England is land of possibility. England is not like in you school book.”

I thought of dashing Mr Brown from Let’s Talk English-if only he were here!

“You have an excellent command of English. And of Russian maybe?”

“English. Russian. Serbo-Croat. German. All languages.”

So he sees himself as a linguist; OK, keep him talking.

“You are not a native of these shores, I think, Mister Vulk?”

“Think everything vat you like, little flower.” He gave me a leery wink in the mirror, and a flash of silver tooth. Then he started tossing his head from side to side as if to shake out his dandruff.

“This, you like? Is voman attract?”

It took me a moment to realise he was referring to his ponytail. Was this his idea of flirtation? On the scale of attractiveness, I would give him zero. For a person of minimum culture he certainly had some pretensions. What a pity Mother wasn’t here to put him right.

“It is absolutely irresistible, Mister Vulk.”

“You like? Eh, little flower? You vant touch?”

The ponytail jumped up and down. I held my breath.

“Go on. Hrr. You can touch him. Go on,” he said with horrible oily enthusiasm.

I reached out my hand, which was still greasy and smelt of chips.

“Go on. Is pleasure for you.”

I touched it-it felt Like a rat’s tail. Then he flicked his head, and it twitched beneath my fingers like a live rat.

“I heff hear that voman is cannot resisting such a hair it reminding her of men’s oggan.”

What on earth was he talking about now?

“Oggan?”

He made a crude gesture with his fingers.

“Be not afraid, little flower. It reminding you of boyfriend. Hah?”

“No, Mister Vulk, because I do not have a boyfriend.”

I knew straightaway it was the wrong thing to say, but it was too late. The words just slipped out, and I couldn’t bring them back.

“Not boyfriend? How is this little flower not boyfriend?” His voice was like warm chip fat. “Hrr. Maybe in this case is good possibility for me?”

That was a stupid mistake. He’s got you now. You’re cornered.

“Is perhaps sometime we make good possibility, eh?” He breathed cigar smoke and tooth decay. “Little flower?”

Through the darkened glass, I could see woodland flashing past, all sunlight and dappled leaves. If only I could throw myself out of the vehicle, roll down the grassy bank and run into the trees. But we were going too fast. I shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep.

We drove on in silence for maybe twenty minutes. Vulk lit another cigar. I watched him through my lowered lashes, puffing away hunched over the wheel. Puff. Stink. Puff. Stink. How much further could it be? Then there was a crunching of gravel under the wheels, and with one last violent lurch the mafia-machine came to a halt. I opened my eyes. We had pulled up in front of a pretty steep-roofed farmhouse set behind a summery garden where there were chairs and tables set out on the lawn that sloped down to a shallow glassy river. Just like England is supposed to be. Now at last, I thought, there will be normal people; they will talk to me in English; they will give me tea.