Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  She creased her eyes, her journalistic instincts and interest piqued. “Why don’t you think we’ll go to war again?”

  “A plethora of reasons. There’s social media now. Back in the early 2000s the public could be swayed because the government had influence—not total—but influence over television, radio and tabloid papers. They don’t have influence over social media, that’s why they can’t convince the electorate the same—there’s always a counter-meme to their narrative floating around. Plus, all the young lads who are full of testosterone looking for camaraderie and adventure aren’t joining the military when there are no wars on, or if they are you might get prosecuted years later. They are in MMA clubs and that. It’s not the 70s where you had to join the services to see a bit of the world. You could train a shaved monkey to book an Easy Jet now.”

  Ciara smiled in spite of herself. She didn’t want to try and counter him just yet. She’d leave that until another time.

  “What is the other reason?”

  “It’s not like the old days when a King conquered a new land, and the land would be pillaged, or a monopoly of trade established ala the East India Company. Now you’ll be hit by sanctions, and the British people won’t respect a Prime Minister who’s seen as blindly following a US President. How people feel about Blair now compared to when he was first elected is night and day because of that Iraq debacle.”

  “I’ll come back to you on this. I feel we should save our mental energy for the task at hand.”

  He nodded his agreement. “I would like our cover to be one of being business associates. That way I can have you with me in potentially dangerous situations.”

  “Like Whitney had Kevin Costner?”

  “I was thinking more of Batman and Robin.”

  “Batman and Catwoman maybe. I already have that outfit at home,” she said—calm down.

  “You seem to have the jaw for it,” he said with an expressionless face.

  “Quite the charmer Mr Reed,” she replied.

  “Not at all. Note to self: refrain from playful teasing.”

  She opened her mouth to defend her defensiveness but closed it again—how is he doing this? Get a handle on him.

  “What are we doing in Amsterdam?”

  “The bloke who supplies me in Amsterdam is a Raymond Van Der Saar. His laboratories produce Ecstasy tablets with very high MDMA content. He’s a very personable gentleman.”

  “What’s the purpose of meeting him?”

  “Negotiations. I’ll tell him that I’ve found him a reliable distributor and I’ll haggle the mark up for transportation.”

  “Aren’t you concerned that they’ll eventually decide to cut you out?”

  “No. Either Tris Dixon is still a sports agent still dabbling in just drugs for the thrill, in which case I’ll step out—”

  “He won’t be arrested?” she interrupted.

  “Depends on what the boss wants.”

  “Why wouldn’t he want him arrested, or stopped another way?”

  “Because there will always be a drugs trade—has been since time immemorial—maybe that’s an exaggeration, but you get the point. With Van Der Saar, he’ll stop supplying anyone who cuts his drugs with other agents. If Tris Dixon understands this, and I think he will, then that’s fewer people who could die from amphetamine or… paramethoxymethamphetamine.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “It took a few attempts.”

  She smiled. “Just so I am clear. Our boss allows drugs into the country—in fact, he introduces people who can make that happen, on the proviso that the drugs do not get cut?”

  “Right,” said Connor, sipping his water. “Tracking a whale is less hassle than a multitude of small fish. Unless you have a better idea?”

  She detected a hint of irritation in his voice.

  “I didn’t say I disagreed did I? I was just making sure.”

  His face softened at her assertiveness, and she continued, “Wait, you said ‘if’ he was a sports agent still dabbling in just drugs. What else might he be?”

  “If he’s involved in what I think he may be, then I’ll have to find Van Der Saar a different distributor.”

  She nodded her understanding.

  “So—to clarify our cover—are we partners in crime solely.”

  She was pleased to see him appear taken back.

  “Can always say ‘it’s complicated’. That’s a viable label in this Facebook era isn’t it?”

  “Why would it be complicated?”

  He seemed uncomfortable for a moment, and she liked it.

  “Because we work together.”

  “So?”

  “Well it didn’t turn out well for Bonnie and Clyde did it?”

  “Yeah well, they were ‘baddies’ as you say,” flashing him an unashamed smile.

  15

  Emma Kellet stood back with her palms at shoulder level facing her—the precautionary ‘raised idle hand position’. She was in theatre assisting the surgeon in his performing of a nephrectomy, on a patient who only appeared today.

  In her role as a surgical technologist, she was to anticipate his next move in order to assist him or pass an instrument.

  The two other women in addition to herself—the nurse and the anaesthesiologist—had an easy but professional rapport with one another and the surgeon, as the three had been a team for a while. Emma had only come on board less than three weeks ago.

  The money she had been offered dwarfed her NHS salary, and she had jumped at the chance. She had kept quiet and absorbed everything she could to learn.

  Something had been bothering her—well, more than one thing. At first, it had been the surgeon Michael Taylor’s manner towards her. It was nothing too overt but he made her uncomfortable; a hand left on a little too long, his gaze a bit too appraising. His smile of unnaturally white veneers and the tint of orange in his tan added to the creepiness.

  However, that was not the barb in the back of her mind. It was that in the three weeks she had worked here, this was the third organ removal she had helped perform. That was strange in of itself but not impossible. The thing that was most perturbing was that she hadn’t seen any of the patients around the hospital previously. She began to think of the possibilities—what if they were—

  “Emily!” shouted Taylor, breaking through her thoughts, “I have asked you twice now for the Laparoscope. Fucking wake up.”

  She snapped alert and handed him the small telescope-like instrument. Her face burned with embarrassment—fucking arsehole.

  Connor was back in the apartment reading a book when his phone sounded. He answered the unknown number. “Hello.”

  “Now then lad, how are tha?”

  Connor smiled at his uncle’s strong Yorkshire voice.

  “Yeah, I am alright. How is everyone?”

  “That’s not what I have been hearing.”

  “Oh yeah, what have you heard then?”

  “I’ve been hearing you’ve been upsetting some of our Asian cousins down there.”

  Connor and his Uncle Derek had previously had this type of conversation. Derek Ryder had taken over as head of the Ryder family in the wake of Connor’s father’s passing. His uncle asserted that because Connor was a member of the family, any trouble he got himself into in his criminal endeavours, also had the potential to blow back on them all.

  “Who told you this?”

  “When do you think I would tell you something like that?”

  “Fair enough. I don’t see how it’s got anything to do with you. I don’t advertise who my father was to anyone. I operate well outside of Leeds, and my surname is Reed.”

  “Don’t be naïve lad, the right people will know who you are.”

  “Look Uncle Derek. I love you, but this isn’t any of your business.”

  “It’ll become my business if you got kidnapped.”

  “I am not worried about becoming a hostage—I reckon I could do it with my hands tied behind my back.”

/>   Derek laughed like a drain. Connor did love his uncle, but the issue of his continuing criminal activities away from the family caused tension between them. He guessed his uncle saw it as a slap in the face that Connor refused to come into the fold.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing lad,” said his uncle, “anyway, when you coming to see us?”

  “Not for a few weeks.”

  “OK, how’s Rayella?”

  Connor appreciated his uncle’s remembrance of her name. The sister of his deceased best friend. He also felt a pang of guilt—he hadn’t called her for at least a couple of weeks. She was nearing thirteen now and only eighteen months removed from a trauma which would have affected any girl, let alone an eleven-year-old.

  “She’s fine, as far as I am aware.”

  “I’d make sure if I was you lad.”

  “Why? What have you heard?”

  “Just give her a call eh. I’ve got to go now. Take care.”

  The call ended. After a few moments, Connor dialled Rayella’s number.

  “Hi Ann, it’s Connor. Apologies for not keeping in touch. How are you?” he said into his phone. He was sat on his bed in the apartment.

  “Oh Connor, am glad you called. Rayella was sent home from school the other day. Fighting.”

  He didn’t like the sad exasperation in her voice. She was the mother of his childhood friend Liam Scott. He and Liam had been inseparable since meeting at the local boxing gym at the age of twelve. They eventually ended up in 45 Commando, a Royal Marine unit based in Scotland. Liam had died while on tour in Afghanistan. Since then, or maybe even before then, Connor had seen the Scotts as his own quasi-family. His ‘sister’ Rayella had been through some trauma in addition to her brother’s death, which would have affected anyone. When he thought of the paedophile politician who had abused her, he wished he could set him on fire again.

  “Go on,” said Connor.

  “Well, she and this boy had words. I don’t know what exactly was said but they started fighting—”

  “Wait, she didn’t attack him? They both voluntarily fought?”

  “Yeah, that’s what the school said. He’s in the year above too.”

  “Eh? What you worried for then? Why she even been sent home?”

  Ann Scott sighed. “Because after they split them up…wait…they had to drag her off him, Rayella wrenched her’sen free and broke this young boy’s nose with a headbutt.”

  Connor stifled a laugh but couldn’t stop grinning.

  Then he realised the potential consequences of what she had done.

  “What’s happening about it?”

  “Well the lads’ parents are threatening all sorts. Saying that if the school doesn’t handle it, then they’ll go to the papers and that. She worked so hard to get into that school, and after all she’s been through, now this. She must be at the end of her tether.”

  Connor could hear Ann getting upset—typical, always thinking of others, she must be at the end of her tether too.

  “Take it you have to go into the school to sort it?” he asked.

  “Yeah. They haven’t said when. I haven’t spoken to Rayella about it in case she flies off the handle.”

  “I’ll speak to her Ann. Is she there?”

  “Yes. RAYELLA, CONNOR IS ON THE PHONE!”

  He heard steps down the stairs and a terse exchange ending with Rayella telling her mum she was taking the call in her room.

  “Hello?”

  “You better be nice to your mum Rayella. No one will ever love you like that woman loves you.”

  “I know,” she replied, sounding sheepish.

  “What happened?”

  “This lad. Saying things and that.”

  “What things? Stop being coy and tell me exactly what happened.”

  “That I was a slag. What am I even doing at this school? Then he said I had a yeast infection. So I put on his accent and said, ‘my name is Ross, I like to help the children in Africa by organising sponsored runs around my mother’. Everyone fell about laughing cos she’s lardy and he got angry an’ pushed me. So I hit him a few times.”

  Connor had stifled another laugh when she recounted her retort. He also knew she was telling the truth,—too specific to be a lie.

  “Come on, that’s not the end of the story.”

  “OK…I headbutted him after the teachers broke us up.”

  “For fuc—goodness sake Rayella, you’d already embarrassed him by winning. Why did you stick the head on him?”

  “Because, I don’t know—it was just his face you know, I wanted to hurt him.”

  Connor didn’t respond for a moment. He knew exactly how she had felt. He also knew that if Rayella got into the habit of displacing her anger, then it could have dire consequences.

  “Yeah but don’t you see, you might have hurt yourself more. If you get thrown out of school you…,” he stopped—he didn’t even believe his own words. “You know what. I am proud of you. What were your friends saying?”

  “Are you? Well, I got taken away to the headmaster’s office. They were calling me Harley Quinn and that.”

  “Try and get a grip of your temper Rayella. That lad will have already been humiliated enough by being beaten by a girl a year younger, even if you do look like a bit of a man.”

  “Maybe you will too one day.”

  Connor just laughed, then said, “I’ll talk to your Mam, whichever way it goes. If they keep you then great. If not, then don’t worry about it—if they expel a girl for scrapping with a boy in the year above after he started it, then it’s not the sort of school you need to be in anyway. I am going to tell your mum to get you into some sort of martial art too. A proper one like Thai boxing or Judo.”

  “Why? Won’t that make me more, you know, a good fighter?”

  “Yes, but it’ll get you an outlet for your rage…your energy I mean. You’ll make some pals, like proper friends—people with a bit about them. Anyway, I’ll tell your mum all this. And Rayella, you’re going, end of story.”

  “Fine. Can you hit people in Judo?”

  “No. It’s throws, arm locks and chokes. Thai boxing you hit people. Knees, elbows, kicks and punches.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Can I do both?”

  “Steady on Rayella.”

  “So you’re not mad at me?”

  “No. Life is about making mistakes. And death is about wishing you made more.”

  16

  Ciara sat across from a middle-aged man, who wore a cream shirt and had a personable face. His dark hair crept down to his collar, and black hair matted his forearms.

  David Wright was the CEO of Inspire Dramatic Arts. His company helped to highlight the plight of modern slavery across the world.

  Ciara was interviewing him for the dual purpose of obtaining intelligence and for an article for the newspaper. She dressed conservatively in a dark charcoal pencil skirt and matching jacket.

  “Thank you for seeing me Mr Wright,” Ciara began.

  “No, thank you,” he replied. “Call me David.”

  “OK, David, the purpose of the article is essentially to keep this issue in the public eye, as well as highlighting any truths and dispelling any myths.”

  “Sounds almost too good to be true,” said Wright with a smile.

  Ciara paused for a moment. “I take it you’ve had a less than great experience with the media.”

  “I wouldn’t say bad—any publicity is good publicity as the saying goes. Just a little bit too sensationalistic and inaccurate. That said, some things change too rapidly for even us to keep up with.”

  “How so? Let’s start with the sensationalism.”

  “Well, the media like to highlight the Vietnamese gangs that lock people in their cannabis making farm to become a ‘gardener’—that or a nail bar. Or they’ll highlight Eastern European sex workers naturally. And I agree, you do have to have the spotlight on them. But other instances get nary a look in.”

&nb
sp; “Such as?”

  “Such as carwashes run by British nationals who exploit their workers with low wages, squalid living conditions and terribly long hours. People might say that no one forces them to work there, but without a Visa where else are they going to go?”

  Ciara said, “I understand that your concern is the slavery of others. I have been speaking with several sources, and one thing that’s caught my eye—or ear—is the practice of people being trafficked for their organs.”

  Wright sighed. “Yes, it’s an effort to remain positive in the knowledge that humans are capable of doing such things to one another.”

  “I was wondering if you have come across any particular patterns with regards to methods of transport and their routes in?”

  “Well,” said Wright considering her for a moment, “the impoverished from developing nations will be lured by the promise—sometimes adhered to and sometimes not—of ‘transportation’ shall we say, into a wealthier nation such as ours. Now, normally they came from Asia or Eastern Europe. Just recently, in the last year or so, there’s been reports of Moroccan crime gangs out of the Netherlands who are getting in on the act. There was also a Romanian girl who used to come here, who said she had been forced to give blood in a hospital over here, although I dismissed that one.”

  Ciara thought for a second—The Netherlands? Did Connor know more than he was letting on?

  “Why did you dismiss it?”

  “Well, one of her claims was that the police themselves kidnapped her. I had to explain to her that the Police over here don’t do that bless her.”

  Ciara felt her heart beat rise. “Do you have any contact details for her?”

  Wright shook his head. “I am afraid I don’t. She went missing not long after that. Was doing really well too, then wooft, left me a letter saying she was going back to Romania. Strange really. You learn fast that you can’t save them all, or even most. You just do what you can do. Each act of kindness has to be a step towards a less evil place, surely.”