Charlie nodded sympathetically, but her face said it all.She would never be as rude or blunt as the desk sergeant, but it would be a hard sell to colleagues whom Helen had first abandoned, then flayed in the local press.Harder still for Charlie to waste what meagre political capital she had left fighting battles for her former mentor, especially with Chief Superintendent Holmes breathing down her neck.Helen was clutching at straws and she knew it.
‘Really sorry to have to cut and run like this,’ Charlie said, rising.‘And Iwillbe in touch if I turn anything up, but in the meantime, you take care of yourself, yeah?’
‘Sure thing,’ Helen promised, swaying slightly as she rose, steadying herself on the table.
‘Are yousureyou don’t need to get yourself checked out?’Charlie asked, delaying her departure momentarily.‘I know the wait in A&E is never-ending, but if you’re suffering from concussion, it’s better to be safe than sorry.’
‘It’ll pass and, besides, I’m not sure it’s really that anyway.I’ve been feeling terrible for days, to be honest, dizzy, nauseous and so bloody bloated.Who knows, maybe I’m just allergic to civilian life …’
Charlie grimaced at Helen’s joke, but her expression now seemed to shift slightly, a shrewd, almost quizzical look in her eyes.
‘Let’s hope it’s just that.Because if I didn’t know better, I’d say it sounds like you’re pregnant …’
With that, Charlie departed, waving a hand as she went.Helen watched her go, surprised, wrong-footed and, if she was honest, speechless.Of all the punchlines that Charlie could have supplied, she hadn’t been expectingthat.
Chapter 19
Swallowing her distress, Viyan tried to focus on the job in hand.More than anything now, she just wanted to get back to the dormitory, to throw off her clothes and bow her head under the pitiful excuse for a shower.She was desperate to scrub off the residue of the day’s grim duties, to feelcleanagain, but there was little chance of being excused yet.There was still work to do.
Work.Her whole existence, this whole place, revolved around the idea of unstinting labour.From the minute you were shaken awake in the morning to the moment you were marched to bed at night, Viyan and her fellow captives were compelled to work their fingers to the bone, whether it was cooking, washing or cleaning in the camp, or disposing of dangerous medical waste in the outside world.Idleness was not tolerated and illness forbidden, despite the fact that many of the workers suffered from fevers and breathing difficulties, thanks to the unsanitary conditions in which they were held.How bitterly ironic it was that Viyan had fled Turkey to escape the privations of a dangerous and unpredictable refugee camp, only to end up in even more unpleasant and threatening conditions in her adopted country.
Cursing angrily, Viyan re-doubled her efforts, feverishly scrubbing the kitchen counter.It was true that loyalty and industry was rewarded to some degree in this vile place, Viyannow allowed to work in the farmhouse after two years of diligent labour.But if anything this made her situationworse, Viyan forced to witness first-hand the luxury and comfort her captors enjoyed.Twice a day, she was expected to clean the kitchen, prepare the food and wash the dishes, in silence and without complaint.She was not allowed to rest, not permitted to use the facilities and expressly forbidden from enjoying even a crumb of the copious leftovers that were handed to her, despite the hunger pangs that assailed her night and day.Though she spent most of her life in the company of either her captors or co-workers, it often felt to Viyan that she was invisible, irrelevant, a non-person.It was almost as if, when they’d confiscated her passport and phone on that first night, the old Viyan had ceased to exist.Her captors certainly never used her name, her co-workers were too scared to speak to her and in truth sometimes it was only the excruciating pain of her day-to-day life that convinced Viyan that shewasstill alive.She felt like she was living in a vacuum, robbed of identity, of purpose, of hope, a zombie stumbling through a monotonous, remorseless existence.
Giving the counter one last angry wipe, Viyan was about to turn away when a noise outside startled her.For a moment, she was mystified by the strange screeching and hissing, but peering nervously through the window, she now spotted the articulated lorry coming to a halt in the dusty yard.
For a second, it was like stepping back in time.This battered, old lorry, with its grimy headlights, faded paintwork and dented Dutch plates was the same vehicleshe’dhidden away in, over two years ago now.It seemed hard to credit that she’d actually been excited as she’d climbed into her hiding place in the container, before they crossed the channel to England.For her it had been the end of a long and arduous journey and, she hoped, the start of a new life.How wrong she’d been.A wave of deep sadnessswept over her, as she watched the driver descend from the cab, throwing open the rear doors to release his human cargo.She knew full well the shock, dismay and anguish that awaited the truck’s inhabitants tonight.Even now they were starting to emerge, another assortment of the displaced from Asia’s varied disaster zones.They’d come seeking sanctuary, but instead had landed in Hell.
Would the flow of desperate souls ever stop?Or would there always be work for that Dutch thug?The dangers of illegal immigration, the casual cruelty of the gangmasters, was well publicized, government infomercials and social media postings warning desperate souls against gambling on thin promises.Yet still they came, risking all, losing all, ending up displaced and forgotten in a faraway land.Would any of them survive?Or would they all end their days here, a shadow of the passionate, hopeful people they had once been?
Viyan felt she knew the answer, realizing now that those who fell by the wayside would always be replaced by fresh arrivals, like the poor souls who’d just emerged blinking into the scruffy yard.In truth, there was only one solution to her current predicament.She had often thought about it, but had pushed the idea away as being impossible, dangerous, futile.But now there seemed no other way, her situation even more urgent following Selima’s horrific fate.Shehadto escape.If she ever wanted to see her family, her homeland, again, she would have to find a way out of this camp.The alternative was a slow, painful, agonizing death.No, she would not, could not let that happen.She had to get out of this place.
The only question washow?
Chapter 20
Dropping to her knees, she reached underneath the old, iron bedstead, her hands seeking out the handle and tugging the heavy trunk towards her.The weight made Leyla smile, testifying to the healthy state of its contents.Quickly negotiating the code on the padlock, she teased it from its mooring and lifted the lid.The stacked lines of £50 notes inside were a familiar sight, but still she let out a little gasp, bewitched by their beauty.
Picking up a wad of notes, she brushed it across her cheek, loving the smooth feel of it on her skin, before bringing it to rest beneath her nostrils.Slowly, Leyla breathed in the scent of it, closing her eyes in ecstasy.It’s a myth that money has no aroma, especially with notes as well-used as these.She loved to imagine the scores of previous owners, the notes thrust from hand to hand in shops, warehouses, car parks and shady alleyways, before ending up here, inherhands.All these notes, all this wealth, was now hers to do with as she pleased.As a child she’d had little money and certainly no power, which is why these piles of cash gave her such a charge.Money meant freedom, meant security, meant control.She’d worked hard every day of her life to earn it, but she now fought even harder to protect it.Trafficking was a lucrative but dangerous business, other gangs constantly trying to force their way into the profitable Southampton labourmarket.So far Leyla and her crew had repelled these clumsy incursions, but their triumph had come at a cost.Blood had been shed, bones broken, her own brother, Naz, losing an eye in the struggle for dominance.The low-life responsible for that particular outrage was now six feet under, but it still rankled Leyla, a blatant attack on her flesh and blood, an affront to both her authority and prestige.This was the price that had to be paid, however, and she knew for certain that she would sacrifice her own life, as well as those of her brothers and the hired muscle, rather than be bested by a rival gang.She would never be second place.She would never be the victim.She was the ‘Boss’, pure and simple.
Pocketing the wad of notes, Leyla shut the trunk and slid the padlock back in place.Pushing it back under her bed, she rose and crossed the room.Through the window she could see Visser crossing to the farmhouse, whistling loudly.She always looked forward to his visits, heralding not only a break from the monotony of camp life, but also the arrival of fresh merchandise.On this particular occasion, his timing was impeccable.After last night’s fun and games, they were one body down.
‘Is the lady of the house in?’Visser called up, his pronounced Dutch accent making her smile.
‘In the bedroom,’ she sang back, giving the heavy trunk another kick to ensure that it was fully out of sight.
Retrieving the wad of notes from her pocket, she gave it one last, tender stroke.It pained her to relinquish so much cash, but she never begrudged the Dutch trafficker his share.Without his regular deliveries, her operation couldn’t function.On cue, Visser appeared in the doorway.Crossing swiftly to him, she grasped his shoulders and kissed him three times in the traditional Dutch way.Disengaging, her eye dropped to the tattoo on his forearm, a tribute to the mysterious ‘Suzanne’,whom she had often wondered about, but never mentioned.Leyla’s relationship with Visser was cordial, but transactional.She would never consider asking him about his background, just as he would never dare ask about hers.Smiling warmly, she held out the notes to him, pleased to see the greedy expression in his eyes.
‘Your reward for a job well done.How was your crossing?’
‘Easy as pie,’ he purred, accepting the money.
‘Any issues with the authorities?The cargo?Anything I need to know?’
‘No, nothing,’ he replied, shaking his head.‘It’s all as we agreed.Five Turkish, three Syrian, two Afghans and a couple of Albanians.They are all exhausted and hungry, but they are quiet.They’ll be ready to start work in the morning.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Leyla responded.‘But you must be tired too, after your long journey,’ she continued, taking the Dutchman by the arm and leading him from the bedroom.‘Viyan is downstairs, probably standing idle.Why don’t you get her to fix you something to eat?Afterwards, she can make up a bed for you in the guest house.’
Her companion nodded happily, a wolfish smile tugging at his lips.
