‘Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve said all I’m going to on the matter.The answer’s no.’
Helen stared at him, exhaustion battling with her anger, her strength leeching from her and, with it, her resolve.It would be so easy to give up, to throw in the towel, but when had she ever done that?
‘Then you leave me no choice,’ she breathed, steadying herself on the corner of his desk.‘Which is your boss’s office?’
‘I’m sorry?!’
‘I think he might be interested to know that you’ve been having an affair, sharing off-the-record stories and insider gossip with someone outside the department.’
‘For God’s sake, Helen,’ Christopher spluttered, the blood draining from his face.
‘Or maybe I should just contact Alice.’
Stepping forward, Helen picked up his wedding photo, running her eye over it.
‘Tell her who her husbandreallyis.How does that sound?’
Her former lover was staring at her, his shock and anger rising by the second.It was clear he was about to explode, so Helen cut in:
‘Look, I can see you’re cross, but can we skip the misogynistic rant and just cut to the chase?I’m on a schedule here.’
She was glaring at him, daring Christopher to defy her.It was clear he would like nothing more than to rant and rave, but she also knew that he would prefer deception to disgrace.Which is why she wasn’t surprised when he crumpled, huffily collapsing into his chair and starting to type.
‘See, you can be a good boy when you want to be.’
Ignoring her, he worked fast and five minutes later, she had her answer.
‘You’re right,’ he said brusquely.‘The general donations that the centre receives don’t remotely cover its costs.It only stays afloat because of regular payments from a Leyla Rashidi, a British national, born and raised in Southampton.’
Now he had Helen’s interest.Perhaps therewashope after all.
‘Where does she live?’
‘Her registered address is Dearham Farm, which is out near Swanwick.I think it’s some kind of waste disposal facility.’
Helen couldn’t suppress a smile as Christopher scribbled down the details, handing it to her.Finally, she’d found the camp where Viyan and the others were being held.Scanning the address, she walked swiftly to the door.
‘Helen, wait.Before you go …’
Helen paused, turning back to look at her flustered ex-lover.
‘When all this is over, can we talk?I want us to find a way through this …’
‘There is no “us”, Christopher.Turns out there never was.’
And with that, she left, shutting the door firmly behind her.All thoughts of Christoper’s betrayal, of her own suffering, would have to wait.Finally, she had a location.Finally, she knew where she was heading.The only question now was whether she would be too late.
Chapter 87
The end could not be far away now.In truth, Viyan was surprised she wasn’t dead already, such was Leyla’s anger as she tossed her captive into the incinerator.Viyan had expected her tormentor to slam the door shut, stab the controls, then stand back to enjoy her immolation.But nothing had happened, an anomaly that fostered a fragile flame of hope in Viyan’s heart.Was there some kind of problem?A fault with the machine?Or had Helen somehow traced Viyan here?Were the police even now descending on the remote farm, intent on freeingallthe captives?Such a happy outcome seemed far-fetched and sure enough, Viyan soon divined the reason for the delay, Leyla’s harsh voice commanding her fellow workers to gather round.As with poor Selima, Viyan’s death was not going to be a private act of punishment, rather a public act of retribution.
Her fear spiking, Viyan clambered to her feet, stumbling blindly forwards, her outstretched hands eventually finding solid metal.She was surprised to discover how warm the surface was, momentarily alarmed that Leyla had in fact started the machine, but now sense prevailed.The machine was quiet and lifeless, its exterior simply warmed by the spring sunshine.It made the atmosphere cloying and uncomfortable here, the air thin and dusty, prompting Viyan to re-double her efforts, despite thesweat that already crawled down her back and clung to her brow, despite the lightheadedness that seemed to come and go in disorienting waves.If she was to have any chance of escaping this fetid tomb, she had to act now.
Guiding herself by touch, the young mother made her way round the cylinder, until she eventually located the door frame.Pausing, she found the handle, yanking at it with all her might.Predictably it refused to budge, so moving her fingers down the frame, she teased the seal, searching for any small gaps, any signs of weakness, something she might work with.Finding little, she moved up and over the lintel, down the other side, but her meticulous ferreting revealed nothing.She was trapped.
Cursing, Viyan leaned on the warm metal wall, sweaty, uncomfortable and dispirited.The reality was that she’d been trapped ever since she had met Leyla.How she rued ever listening to her enticing promises, her vision of England as a land of hope and opportunity.When Viyan had first encountered Leyla, handing out bottles of water in the refugee camp on the Syrian border, she’d appeared like a guardian angel, dispensing water, food and smiles.The pair had quickly become fast friends, Leyla discreetly slipping Viyan little extras for the children, candy from Europe and sweetmeats from Istanbul.Viyan had come to cherish her presence, putting their family’s survival down to her kindness.So when Leyla suggested a route out of their poverty and degradation, a way to earn good money to send back to her family, Viyan had demanded to know more.She had no reason to smell a rat at that point, why would she?Up until that point, Leyla’s motives had seemed pure and honourable.
It was true that Viyan had not accepted Leyla’s proposition straight away, nervous about abandoning her children to the care of her elderly mother.But the worsening situation in the camp had forced her hand, Leyla insisting that she could be inthe UK and earning good money in less than a fortnight.Viyan was sorely tempted, Leyla convincing her that the operation was both well-established and legitimate, with a committed and spirited welcome party awaiting her on her arrival in England, care of the good-hearted volunteers at the Kurdish Welfare Centre in Southampton.
