Both rose at the crack of dawn and, over coffee and rolls, the root cause of Viyan’s anxiety became clear.Helen had struggled to get much out of her guest the previous night, but now in stumbling, broken English, Viyan revealed the full extent of her trauma.Her arduous journey to the UK, her imprisonment on a remote farm, the backbreaking labour and, most shockingly, the inhumane violence.Helen was devastated to learn of Selima’s gruesome murder, but oddly it was not this, nor the violence meted out to her, which troubled Viyan the most.It was thoughts of those left behind that consumed her.Helen now learned that Viyan had left her family in Turkey – her mother tending to Viyan’s young children, Salman, Defne and Aasmah.When she’d left them to come to the UK, they’d been living ina dangerous, unsanitary refugee camp, relying on aid handouts to survive, running the gauntlet of local hostility and the overt prejudice of government officials.It was a desperate situation, the thought of which obviously tortured Viyan.She’d had no contact with them since she left Turkey two years ago, no idea whether they were still living, still together, still safe.She’d been allowed no phone at the farm, no method of communication whatsoever, so first thing this morning she’d asked to borrow Helen’s phone, promising to pay her back for the call when – if – she could.
Helen dismissed that idea out of hand, taking time to help Viyan navigate her unfamiliar device.Viyan knew her mother’s number off by heart and was desperate to FaceTime her, desperate to find out if her children were alive and well.This was pain of a different kind, worse even than the broken bones and heavy bruising she’d sustained, her uncertainty, her frustration, but above all, herhopecausing her real anguish.
As she dialled, Helen offered up a silent prayer that all would be well, fearing how Viyan would react if the worst had come to pass.Helen suddenly realized how invested she was in the happiness of Viyan and her family, how she wanted more than anything for them to be reunited again.For their story to have a happy ending.
The phone continued to moan in her hands, desperately seeking a connection.Then suddenly it went quiet, as if the call had been cut off, before unexpectedly bursting into life, the suspicious face of an aged woman filling the screen.
‘Mama?’Viyan gasped, holding her hand to her mouth in shock, as tears filled her eyes.‘Mama?’
Viyan could barely speak and now Helen saw the elderly woman react, her expression transforming from concern to shock and then to tearful elation.
‘Viyan,’ she moaned, lifting her eyes to the heavens in thanks.‘Viyan, Viyan …’
Helen watched on transfixed, as mother and daughter stared at each other, overcome by emotion, their relief, their love plain to see.Conversation was stuttering and largely impenetrable to Helen as she spoke no Turkish and both women seemed to be finding it hard to make themselves understood, thanks to the bad connection and flowing tears.And yet, even though the words made little sense to Helen, she could read these women, watching on in delight as Viyan insisted that she was alive, she was safe, she was still in the UK.Her aged mother, who was not in great shape herself, was clearly horrified by the bruising on her daughter’s face, gesturing with agitation towards the screen, but Viyan waved her concern away, smiling and laughing even, to Helen’s enormous relief.
Now some more familiar words cut through.Salman, Defne, Aasmah, Viyan appealing for news about her children.Once more, Helen held her breath, but moments later she heard cries of delight, as Viyan’s mother urged her grandchildren to join her.Once more, Viyan fell silent, her hand clasped to her mouth, as the three children jostled to appear on screen.
‘Defne, Aasmah, Salman …’
The words tumbled from her mouth, Viyan’s cheeks now stained with tears.She had clearly dreamed of this moment, had perhaps thought it would never happen, yet here she was, staring at her beautiful children.Defne was tall and dark, like her mother, wearing a pretty yellow polo shirt, whilst Aasmah was shorter, more diffident, but with a winning smile.And then there was Salman, just a baby when Viyan had left her homeland, but now a confident toddler, sporting a well-worn Nike t-shirt emblazoned with Kylian Mbappés face, something he seemed inordinately proud of.
Viyan threw words at them, terms of endearment, affection, of happiness and relief, before the well ran dry, the overjoyed mother turning to Helen, speechless, tearful but totally content.It was a sight to melt any heart and Helen beamed back at her, her own eyes brimming with tears.For a moment, the two women stared at each other, sharing their relief, this unexpected triumph, then once more the onslaught began, the emotional children peppering their mother with questions, chief amongst them, Helen presumed, when she might be coming home.
At this point, Helen withdrew, keen to give Viyan and her family the privacy they needed.Tiptoeing out onto the landing, she nevertheless paused in the doorway to look back, drinking in the scene one last time.Viyan was oblivious to her presence, utterly absorbed in an impassioned conversation with her children.Her features had come alive, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks full of colour, staring longingly at her offspring.It was an image of total devotion and unquestioning love.It was a sight which moved Helen deeply, but also troubled her.If she hadherbaby, would she too feel such overwhelming love, such joy?If so, the thought of willingly sacrificing such an opportunity seemed utterly crazy.Who wouldn’t want that?Who wouldn’t want something that lifts your heart and defines your mission beyond question every single day?Helen didn’t feel ready for it, had no clue what to do, but surely it couldn’t be beyond her?
Maybe it was the emotion of the morning, maybe it was fatigue, but for the first time in her adult life, Helen found herself wondering if perhaps shewasready to be a mother.
Chapter 79
Ernesto Garanita lay on the metal trolley, the sheet pulled up to his chin.It was less than twenty-four hours since he’d passed away, so a modicum of colour remained in his puffy cheek, which flanked his pride and joy, the luxuriant moustache that he’d sported since before Emilia was born.He still looked like her father, some vestige of life clinging to his rigid features, and yet there was a serenity in his expression which his eldest child had never seen before.
Emilia stared down at the corpse, trying to make sense of her emotions.She had come alone, uncertain how to break the news to her siblings, but now regretted her decision.She felt overwhelmed with regret, with sadness, but also anger and bitterness too.What was she supposed to say to this man, who had brought her into this world, raised her to be strong, defiant and rebellious, only then to torment, exploit and abandon her?How was she supposed to deal with his sudden death?How was she supposed tofeel?
She now became aware of a presence behind her, the mortuary attendant hovering.Gathering herself, she turned to him, addressing him briskly:
‘Did he suffer?’
‘He died of natural causes, if that’s what you’re asking,’ themortician responded kindly.‘And no, he wouldn’t have felt any pain.He passed quietly whilst taking a nap, which is probably the best any of us can hope for.’
This was designed to comfort her.And in some ways it did.Despite the rage she’d often felt towards this man, she hadn’t wanted him to suffer and was glad that his end had been peaceful.And yet the thought of him dying alone, in the isolation cell that he’d been moved to for his own protection, cut her to the quick.Was he scared at the end?Did he cry out?She would never know and it was pointless to conjecture, but Emilia sensed it would haunt her thoughts for a good while.After all, which of us wants to die alone?
Thanking the mortuary assistant, Emilia turned back to her father, tentatively laying a hand on his chest.This was it, this was her moment, her chance to say goodbye.Soon her siblings would be summoned, then the whole circus of a traditional Catholic burial would crank into action.This was probably the last time she would be alone with him, father and daughter, sharing a private moment.Gazing at him once more, she felt her heart swell with warring emotions, the desire to lambast, the desire to forgive, the need to continue their battle, the need to call a final truce.Whispering her last goodbye, Emilia padded away from her father, torn, uncomfortable but resolved.She had much to do now, taking care of his affairs and her siblings’ grief, whilst also dealing with the man who had tried to destroy her all those years ago.Those tasks must take priority now – she would have plenty of time to navigate her conflicted feelings in the weeks ahead.Even so, as Emilia left the viewing area, walking quietly down the corridor, a part of her felt she already knew where the road would take her, how she would make her peace with her difficult inheritance.The man she’d once adored, then loathed, was gone, his life, and her feelings towards him, now a simplequestion of arithmetic, an equation that must include all the good and the bad.There was no easy answer, no clean solution, Emilia feeling more keenly today than ever that love and hate were after all just opposite sides of the same coin.
Chapter 80
Charlie stared at Helen in disbelief.Things were moving at lightning speed this morning and she was struggling to keep up.
‘You’re sure she was brought to this country by a Dutch trafficker?’
‘Yes,’ Helen insisted, impatiently.‘She got to know this guy pretty well on their journey to the UK.He’s about six foot one, dark curly hair, muscular build, early forties.She even knows what kind of cigars he smokes – Royal Dutch in case you’re interested …’
Charlie was swimming in the detail, Helen’s urgency prompting her to offer up all her information in one seemingly never-ending stream.Gathering herself, she flipped open her file, pulling out a copy of the grainy CCTV still.
‘Could this be him?’Charlie asked eagerly, showing it to her former colleague.
‘Possibly,’ Helen said cautiously, studying the image.‘She says hedefinitelyhas tattoos on his right arm, one for a football team of some kind, the other with a woman’s name on it, Suzanne, I think she said.’
Charlie felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, that familiar prickle of excitement which always accompanies a major breakthrough.
