Abducted

by Tikiri

  I began by knocking on every door. My feet were sore and my back hurt but I walked into every shop, even those with neon lights in the shape of naked women. I had only one question to ask anyone who answered the door: “Did you see a redheaded girl come here today?”

  Most just shrugged or shook their heads and looked away before I could say anything more. One man kicked the door shut and another swore and told me to get out. One man said, “Sorry, luv, but I’d love to invite you inside ’ere wi’ me.” I quickly stepped away.

  In half an hour, I’d knocked on every door in the square, and all of them had opened except for one, even after I’d pummeled on it. I leaned against the crumbling brick wall of the clock tower to gather my thoughts, keeping one keen eye on the square. Katy has to be here, somewhere. Though the last person I could trust was the truck driver, something in my bones told me I was close to her.

  My head was spinning from exhaustion and hunger, and I no longer cared about border guards or police. If they came to take me, I’d have gone willingly. Part of me felt guilty for not having tried harder to convince them about Katy’s disappearance. Maybe, if I’d explained everything clearly and calmly, they’d have understood. Instead, I ran out like a criminal. But I am a criminal. Stealing money, even from crooks, is still a crime, isn’t it?

  Nearby, someone coughed. I turned around. A man in a grubby coat lay in the gutter, passed out, clenching a bottle wrapped in a filthy brown bag. Flies swarmed around his coat and a foul stench rose from him. He coughed again.

  Something buzzed over my head, and I looked up. One by one, the cast-iron light posts along the square were flickering on. Blobs of yellow light appeared from the windows of the homes and shops. I watched as the evening scene unfolded around me, wondering, worrying, still uncertain of what to do next. The place was deserted now. It was getting cool and the sky was getting ready for the night.

  What do I do now?

  A cool breeze rustled my hair. I shivered. I hadn’t slept or eaten much in the last twenty-four hours. I was beginning to feel weak, too weary to think. I slipped to the ground and leaned against my bag, hugging myself to stay warm.

  Is this all Dick’s doing? How did he know we’re in London? Or was it Jose? He’s the big shot with cars, cash and connections. Maybe his reach is bigger than we thought. But why did they take only Katy? She’s the sweetest person in the world, the one who gave Jose everything he asked for. She had her moments and she knew how to fight back, but I was the rebel. I was sure Dick and Jose would never come after us here, but what I hadn’t bargained for was them having connections here.

  It was getting dark now and almost impossible to see. I hugged myself tighter.

  I thought I knew what it meant to feel adrift, but it was different this time. This time, I didn’t know if Katy was safe or hurt. I didn’t know if I’d finally end up in jail. I didn’t know if I’d ever get back to Goa and see Preeti again. I felt more lost and alone than I’d ever been in my life.

  I’d come thousands of miles across the Atlantic with only one idea in mind: to get on that flight to India. But now, I’d gone and lost my best friend in a foreign country to horrors I didn’t even want to even think about. What surprised me most was why Katy hadn’t struggled. She wouldn’t have stayed quiet if someone had tried to pull her away like that. She had a fire in her belly as red as her hair, and I’d seen what happened when someone crossed her.

  A loud cough from the drunk man in the gutter woke me from my worries. My bum felt numb from sitting on the cold, hard pavement and my limbs had gone to sleep.

  Maybe it’s time to call the police. As far as I knew, there were no charges to dial 911, at least in Toronto. I wondered if it would be the same in London. Does 911 work here too?

  With shaking hands, I felt for my phone and pulled it out of my bag. I turned the on-and-off switch three times, and punched on all the numbers, but nothing. Not even a flicker of life. I held it high and shook it in the air to catch a magic-battery-charging wave or something, but the screen remained silent and as black as the night around me.

  Chapter Eight

  Bang!

  I jumped.

  I looked up to see a wooden door swing on its hinges. Boisterous male laughter erupted through the open doorway, the noise spilling onto the quiet street. A man in a pair of dirty yellow pants and a construction hat stood at the top of the steps and lit a cigarette. He stepped down to the pavement and flicked the match in my direction. I flinched as the burning stick fell two inches from my feet. I didn’t think he even noticed me.

  I rubbed my eyes. Where am I? Up above me was a pale blue sky speckled with tufts of clouds. A light breeze was blowing and the air was cool.

  My head felt swollen and heavy, like it was filled with water. My face was rubbery, and my legs felt stiffer than wood. I was sitting cross-legged on the corner of a cobblestone street, in an unkempt square lined with run-down buildings. A clock tower pealed its bell above me, making me jump again. I counted seven chimes.

  Someone coughed. It took a minute to clear the haze in my brain. I was still in South Hill Square. I’d fallen asleep on the pavement next to the drunk, homeless man. He was still there, smellier than before, snoring into his grimy jacket.

  I looked up at the door that had just banged open. There were no neon signs of nude girls here. The sign was so inconspicuous I had squint to find it. Above the handle, written in small letters, were the words “Night Day Café.” After staring at it for a minute, I decided to get up. I stretched my legs painfully and stood, my bones cracking like they were a hundred years old. I dusted my skirt, picked up my bag, and heaved it back on my shoulders.

  After making my way up the steps one by one, I peeked through the door. It was hard to see. I inched the door open and a haze of smoke welcomed me. Inside, a TV screen was tuned to a football match. A dozen men sat in front of it drinking coffee, all eyes glued to the game. In one corner, an old man lay on a rug with cushions, smoking a hookah pipe. A series of pictures with curly Arabic lettering on a green background hung on the wall. Except for the TV set, I felt like I’d walked into a scene from the One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.

  I stood at the doorway trying to figure out what to do. The smell of coffee and food made my stomach rumble. I hadn’t eaten for days now.

  “Oui?”

  I looked up to see a tall, thin waiter with short, curly black hair and a sliver of a mustache, wearing a long apron. His face clearly said he disapproved of this apparition in front of him.

  “Good morning,” I said and cleared my throat.

  He drew back slightly and looked me over. “Americaine?” I could see I’d risen a bit in his eyes.

  “Canadian,” I said. I’d spent my formative years in international schools in Africa, where people came from all over the world, then went to a public school in India for three years, so my accent didn’t truly belong anywhere. But having spent the past three years at a Canadian high school meant I’d added a distinct North American drawl to the mix.

  The man merely shrugged. “How might I help?” he asked.

  “I’d like to use a phone, please.”

  “Use of phone is only for customers,” he said in a tart voice, his mouth curling in disapproval again.

  “Okay, then I-er-I’d like a coffee and a bun, please.”

  With a slight turn of his head, he indicated a table at the back of the shop, next to a sign that said “Toilets.” There was already a dirty cup on it. Next to this table sat four Middle Eastern looking men deep in discussion. I looked back at the waiter but he’d disappeared silently, just as he’d appeared.

  I walked over to the table he’d indicated, pushed the dirty cup away, and sat down. I pulled out my phone, put it in front of me, and stared at it, willing it to come to life, thinking I’d do anything to hear Katy’s voice again. From where I sat, I could see part of the square outside. Is she out there somewhere? Does she know I’m looking for her? Is she okay?

 
A bony hand slid an espresso and a brioche on my table.

  “Two quid.”

  The waiter stood beside my table, but pointedly looked in the direction of the TV. I fished out two one-pound coins from my purse, thankful I’d exchanged my dollars at the airport to buy lunch. I looked at them wistfully before handing them over. After paying for both Katy’s and my air tickets, my purse was empty. These were my last coins.

  “Excuse me.” I looked up at the waiter. “I’m looking for someone. Can you help me?”

  He gave me a look which could have been a sneer or a leer, or something in between. He grabbed the money and took off without a word, leaving me staring at his back as he vanished through the kitchen door.

  The men at the next table seemed more interested.

  “American?” one of them leaned forward and asked.

  “Yes.” It was getting easier to lie.

  “What you doing here?” another asked.

  “I’m looking for a friend.”

  “Me too,” one of the men said, and this time there was no doubt it was a leer.

  I ignored him. “My friend came to this square in a black taxi yesterday.”

  They stared at me, blankly.

  “She’s tall, about five foot seven, in a red skirt. She was with a man in a black suit. Did you see someone like that?”

  Silence. When I’d first sat down, the men had stopped their drinking and had surveyed me from head to toe. Now, one by one, they turned their eyes back to their coffee cups.

  “Did any of you see anything?” I said louder and slower, thinking they hadn’t heard me over the TV or I’d spoken too fast.

  “We not see anything,” one of them said, not looking up.

  “Yeah, we see nothing every time,” said another man with a smirk to his table mates. The others chuckled.

  “No black girls here.”

  “She’s not black,” I said, sitting up. “She’s a redhead, Irish Canadian.”

  “Check the bedrooms then.”

  That hit me like a punch to my stomach.

  “White girls go to the bedroom,” another man said. “Dark girls go to kitchen.” Someone guffawed. Another slapped him on his back.

  With a scowl, I scraped my chair back and got up. It was time to find the waiter and ask to use the phone now that I’d paid for my coffee. Just as I picked up my bag, something howled. A deafening scream filled the room. I fell back on my chair, my heart pumping wildly.

  What was that?

  Chapter Nine

  The men in the café were craning their necks to look outside.

  It took me two seconds to realize the sound I’d heard was a siren, a police siren, coming from the square.

  I got up and walked toward the main door. Three police vans had screeched to a halt in the square, their sirens still blaring. Half a dozen officers with batons in hands spilled out of the vehicles. They lined up in front of a house directly across from the coffee shop, then at the sound of an ear-piercing whistle, they charged inside, crashing down the door, hollering, “Police!”

  The café had fallen silent. The waiter was standing by his cash register, scowling. Someone had switched off the television. All eyes were on the scene unfolding outside.

  The house under siege was one I’d walked into last night, the one with the sign that said “Live Nude Girls,” where the sleazy man had invited me in. Right now, a scuffle was breaking out in front of it.

  Police were yelling. People were shouting. A group of men bolted out and scuttled all over the square like crabs at a beach. One tried to put on his shirt as he ran out, and another stopped to put on a shoe and was promptly apprehended. I watched, my heart beating crazily, with an uneasy feeling this had something to do with Katy’s disappearance.

  Out came a burly officer pushing a well-dressed man in front of him. It was a man in a black suit with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. I did a double take and my mouth went dry. Feeling like I was moving through molasses, I stepped out of the café and onto the steps. The man in the suit was pushing and pulling like a steer at a rodeo, trying to break the officer’s grip. He thrashed around until a second officer ran up to help the first. Between the two, they pinned him against the van and put him in handcuffs.

  Is this the man who took Katy? I took an unsteady step down. Is it him? That was when I noticed his gray hair and the stubble on his face. This man was older, paunchier and shorter than the man I’d seen at the airport. He could have shaved overnight, but he couldn’t have gone gray and got shorter overnight. No, it wasn’t him, but the resemblance was eerie.

  A thought struck me. I hadn’t seen the man who took Katy that clearly. He’d looked taller, but it had all been a blur. I stood on the steps of the café, unsure if I was making a mistake, unsure how to approach the police even if I knew he was the right man. Before I could do anything, the officers shoved him in the back of the vehicle, already crammed to the hilt with the other men, and slammed the doors shut. Within seconds, the van tore out of the square, tires screeching on the pavement. I looked after it in dismay.

  A cry made me spin the other way. A stream of girls were now pouring out of the shop. I watched as they shuffled out, heads hung low, trying to hide their faces, faces so pale they looked like they hadn’t seen sunlight in a long time. None of them were handcuffed, but all looked shell-shocked. Most were teens, others much younger.

  With my heart in my mouth, I scrutinized each and every one of them. Is Katy here? One of the girls, a skinny blonde, wearing only her panties, was clearly in distress. She sobbed loudly as she walked out. Watching her almost broke my heart. I looked on with a lump in my throat as an officer threw a blanket over her shoulders and helped her into the van.

  “That’s the lot,” one of the officers yelled. “We’re done.”

  Wait. Where’s Katy?

  I was just about to dash toward the van, when from across the square I saw something I recognized.

  In those two seconds while I was gaping, the police got into their vans, shut the doors, and took off, lights blazing and sirens blaring. I stared at the disappearing vans, unable to move. With everyone gone, the square had fallen silent, a deathly silence like everyone had frozen in place.

  A burst of harsh laughter broke the spell. I swiveled around to see the men inside chuckle among themselves. Some picked up the hookah pipes they’d mislaid during the excitement, others signaled the waiter for more coffee, and another grabbed the remote to turn the soccer game on again.

  I turned around and looked back at the square. There. She was still there. Walking away from me. I jumped down the steps and ran.

  “Katy!” I yelled.

  Chapter Ten

  “Katy!”

  She didn’t look back, but it had to be her. A redhead in a short skirt, walking toward the other end of the square. I was so busy looking at her, I barely noticed the ghostly figure next to her.

  I ran across the cobblestones, waving frantically.

  “Katy!”

  I was getting closer now. It looked like either Katy had grown a tad taller or her skirt had shrunk.

  “Hey! It’s me!” I yelled and almost tripped over a cobblestone, but I kept running.

  Why isn’t she turning around? I caught up to her just as she came to the steps of a ramshackle house in the far corner of the square. It was the one place that hadn’t opened its doors, even when I banged on it. I grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her around.

  “Katy!”

  My mouth dried up. This is not Katy. This was a girl with a mane of red hair and freckles on her nose just like my friend, but also nothing like my friend. She was taller and her face was packed with more makeup and knock-’em-dead red lipstick than Katy would wear in a lifetime. She had on a bright red leather miniskirt, a short leather jacket, and the highest stilettos I’d ever seen, higher than any of Katy’s. This girl looked taut and cold, and her face said back off.

  I let go. How could I have made such a big mistake? Katy
doesn’t even wear leather skirts. I felt sick.

  “What do you want?” the redhead said, her green eyes boring into mine. I drew back in surprise. Her accent sounded Russian or East European of sorts. Her voice was a raspy drawl like she’d been up all night drinking. Despite the heavy makeup, she looked washed out, like the old buildings around us.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I thought you were my friend.”

  She gave me a sullen smile.

  “From far away, you look just like her,” I mumbled, feeling lame. “I didn’t realize….”

  “She not here.”

  I looked around, startled. That’s when I noticed the figure next to her. I peered at the short, shrouded shape. I’d seen some women dress like this back in India. They wore their midnight black body veils, hidden to the rest of the world from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes. A tiny slit in her facial covering gave an impression of her eyes, but other than that, I could see nothing. Not her mouth, not her face, not her arms or even her feet.

  “S-sorry?” I said.

  “Your friend not here.” One side of the robe shifted. It could have been the lift of an arm or a flick of a wrist, I couldn’t say. Two fiery black eyes glared through the slit. “No one here for you.” It was a strange guttural voice, a strong accent I couldn’t place.

  “Oh?” I said. “How do you know?”

  “Go away.” She sounded angry now. “I said go!”

  “But, but—” I stammered, trying to find my words, “How do you know my friend’s not here? Have you seen her?”

  The woman glared, but said nothing.

  “Zero’s always trying to find redheads,” the redhead said, popping a wad of bubble gum. “There is a huge demand, especially from the Arabs. But it’s just me here. I’d know if there were others because—”

  “I said she not here. You go now,” the robed woman interrupted. “I say go!” The robe jerked my way. I took a step back.