by Holly Watt
‘Speak,’ Shamshun snapped, Layla translating impassively. ‘Tell them about my daughter.’
Wiping her nose, staring at the floor, Jamalida started to speak.
‘They were so friendly, at first. They brought us food, sweets even.’
The refugees got a fixed amount every month of lentils, rice and cooking oil. Enough not to starve, in theory, although many of the children across the camp had the skinny limbs and the hollowed eyes of the perpetually malnourished.
‘We eat the same thing, every single day,’ a woman had told Casey, on her last visit to the camps. ‘I dream of the food we used to eat back in Rakhine. The spices. Fruit. The vegetables. Fish. Meat, even, can you believe it? I dream of that food. It drives you mad, after a while.’
‘We talked to them often, these men.’ Layla translated Jamalida’s words. ‘They came every day. They were our friends.’
‘How many times …’ Shamshun’s eyes filled with tears. ‘How many times have I told you girls . . .’
The words trailed away. Too late, too late, too late.
‘And one day, they said, “Do you want to come for a drive? It will be such fun.” ’
‘Did they say,’ Hessa asked urgently, ‘where they might go?’
Jamalida shook her head.
‘But then I was late on the day of the trip. I had to get water for my mother, from the big pump. The well had run dry, the one near our tent. So I ran when I was finished. I ran all the way down the paths, as fast as I could. I was shouting for them to wait. But they had gone . . . I must have just missed them.’
Casey imagined the men waiting for a few minutes. Romida beside them, excited, skipping from foot to foot. A shrug, impatient. Well, one’s better than nothing. Dangerous to hang around too long anyway.
And the little girl climbing into the car, grinning as the car accelerated.
Romida, thrilled, for a few minutes.
And then the slow-growing worry. The car, moving too fast. Bumping along the road, hooting other cars out of the way. The hesitation, not wanting to be rude: not to these kind friends. Then the fear, prickling down her neck. Please stop, I should be going home by now. Nothing. And then the sudden rush of real terror. Where am I? Who are they, these men? And what have I done, going like this? The car stopping, at the edge of the jungle, somewhere far from the busy main road. Where am I? I don’t recognise anything. A punch, maybe. That was when she knew it was over, really over. A blindfold, maybe, and into the van like a sack. Please. Please. Please.
And a little girl, lost, for ever.
‘When Romida called me from wherever she is, she told me to move tents,’ said Shamshun. ‘She said that I was in danger.’ Shamshun made a flicking gesture with her hand. ‘But what more can they do to me? I don’t care any more. And besides, if I moved, Romida might not be able to find me again. The camps are so chaotic. And she might . . . She might.’
‘Did they say where they were from?’ Hessa could just about make herself understood, speaking to Jamalida.
‘No, I don’t know,’ the girl answered. ‘They talked about Dhaka. Chittagong, too.’
‘Did you know their names?’
‘Jeetu, he was the friendly one. Jeetu.’
Jamalida was crying again. Hessa was adapting to the Rohingya dialect now, understanding more of the words, the cadences. Romida was my friend. We did everything together. We wanted to be tailors, together, when we were grown up. In a shop. A proper shop. She was my friend. And now I will never see her again.
‘Have you seen them in the camps again?’ asked Savannah. ‘Either of these men?’
‘No,’ Layla translated for Jamalida. ‘If I see them, I will tell the mahji. And he will have them killed.’
The blunt hatred filled the tent.
Casey saw Shamshun staring at Jamalida. You survived. You survived, by a twist of nothing, and it is my daughter who is lost for ever.
Shamshun clenched her fists. She rocked to and fro, mouth tight, and then all at once the words poured out of her, Layla racing to keep up.
‘I was glad when my house burned,’ said Shamshun, and it was as if she were speaking to herself. ‘Back in our old village, I heard them come. The army, in the middle of the morning. I was out in a field, a few hundred yards away from the houses. I could hear the screams. They were setting fire to the houses, one by one. And I knew Romida was in our house, all alone. So I ran. You never know how you can run, until you run for your daughter. I got to our house, and the soldiers were there. Crowding around, a dozen of them. And Romida, there in the middle of them all. But she was struggling, screaming, begging. She fought, my daughter. She fought so hard. But I could see their hands on her. Their hands and their eyes. They do it to ruin the women. They do it to break us.’
Shamshun stared across the tent, eyes blank, plaiting her fingers together until they twisted. ‘My house caught fire. The soldiers in the street had fired a rocket to make it burn. The soldiers turned and ran, and they were laughing as they ran. Laughing. And only because my house was on fire, I could grab Romida. And we ran the other way, away from the soldiers, through the smoke and the flames. Because I would rather burn than . . .’
Shamshun was running her thumbnail back and forth over her wrist, hurting herself deliberately. ‘We ran through the flames, Romida and I, and we ran and we ran . . . It took days to get here. I thought we would die. We had no food. All I had, I gave to Romida. But then we were here, in this camp, in our little tent. It was just me and Romida. And I thought we were safe, here, at last. Maybe. And we were happy here, for a while. My daughter . . .’
A child was screaming in a tent, just a few feet away. The noise of the camp was endless, relentless, unbearable. There was the sound of a slap, followed by tears.
‘My husband died, years ago. At least he never saw this.’ Shamshun’s voice was an angry whisper. ‘He could never bear any of this. I was glad when my house burned, because it saved Romida, and she was all that mattered. And I am glad that my husband is dead, because at least he can never see this.’
Shamshun sat up straight, wiped away the tears.
‘She’s gone, isn’t she? I’ve lost her. I’ve lost her for ever.’
Shamshun stared out into the chaos of the camp.
‘I wish I had died,’ she whispered.
38
There was a long silence, and Hessa was the one to break it.
‘Jamalida?’
Jamalida tore her eyes from the floor.
‘Did you see the car? Before the men took Romida away.’
A slow nod.
‘Do you remember what colour it was?’
Another nod. ‘Black.’
‘And do you know what kind of car it was?’
Jamalida shook her head.
‘There’s seventy per cent illiteracy in these camps,’ Savannah interjected. ‘She won’t know car brands. It’s impossible.’
The car was big, Jamalida gestured, her eyes sharp. She was sketching a shape with her hands.
‘Could you look at photographs of the cars,’ Hessa went on patiently, ‘and tell me which one it was most like?’
She had searched for three photographs on her phone. A Hilux. A Ford Ranger. A Land Cruiser.
Jamalida considered the photographs for a long time, one by one. And then very carefully, she pointed: the Land Cruiser.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Hessa.
A firm nod.
‘Thank you, Jamalida.’ Casey kept her voice steady. ‘That is most helpful.’
‘And anything else?’ Hessa asked. ‘Jamalida, do you remember anything else at all?’
Jamalida crushed her head into her hands, thinking, the bright smile a memory. Then she looked up, spoke rapidly.
‘They said Teffy was coming,’ Layla translated. ‘One time, they said Teffy was coming soon.’
‘Teffy?’ Hessa stared from Jamalida to Layla. ‘What does that mean?’
Layla shrugged. ‘I have never heard
this word.’
‘What did they mean, Teffy?’ Hessa tried again. ‘Is it a person?’
‘I don’t know what it means. Jeetu just said it once. He was talking on the phone one time, and after he hung up, he said it.’
They all stared at her. Thrown by the attention, Jamalida blushed.
‘Teffy?’ Casey repeated. ‘Are you sure?’
Layla was staring at a poster above her head, a sad-looking child, with a warning about malnutrition.
‘I have never heard of this name,’ the translator said flatly. ‘It is not a Bengali name.’
Hessa and Casey watched Shamshun and Jamalida leave, Jamalida with her arm around the older woman, a comfort that was almost a curse. Shamshun was crying.
You never know how you can run, until you run for your daughter.
‘Teffy.’ Casey and Hessa were back in the Cox’s Bazar hotel room with Ed. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
They had run variants of the word through every search engine, every database they could think of. Nothing showed up.
‘We’re running out of time,’ Casey said despairingly.
Raz had called, voice unctuous. ‘Miss Emily, not long to wait now. Are you enjoying beautiful Cox’s Bazar?’
‘It’s delightful,’ Casey lied. ‘The beach is beautiful.’
And there was a despairing message from Emily herself. ‘Is there any news, Casey? Anything at all? I don’t think I can bear it, Casey. Please.’
Casey deleted Emily’s message and turned back to her laptop. Teffy. Teffy.
Hessa glanced up at her, eyes worried. ‘What if we can’t work it out?’
39
As the day sprawled towards night, Hessa and Casey went for a short walk out along the beach, enjoying the breeze off the sea. One of the hotels, even seedier than the rest, had a neon pink sign hanging over the door. Men slipped in and out of the door.
The town’s brothel, Casey thought. There was always one, at least, in most cities in this country. Bangladesh was unusual, among Muslim countries, in permitting prostitution.
‘I remember’ – Hessa waved at the pink neon – ‘my cousin telling me about Daulatdia, when I was about eleven.’
Children giggling in a corner. Have you heard? Have you heard? Showing off, in a whisper. And then the round eyes. And the shock. No. No. No.
‘Daulatdia?’
‘It’s a vast place, Daulatdia,’ Hessa went on, a sudden anger in her eyes. ‘Just to the west of Dhaka. They think almost two thousand women work there. It’s basically its own town, with shops and streets and everything. Children are born in Daulatdia, with no idea who . . . And then they grow up there, and they spend the whole of their lives there. And, one fine day, those little girls, they go into the business too.’
‘Grim,’ said Casey.
The Bay of Bengal looked blue in the distance, but lapped brown against the sand. The neon was glowing brighter as the evening closed in.
‘I read up about Daulatdia properly a few years ago,’ Hessa went on. ‘When I first started working at the Post. The average age of a girl arriving in Daulatdia is fourteen. Some of them are only ten years old when they start working.’
Casey sat down, kicked her heels into the sand.
‘It’s hideous, everywhere.’
‘The gangs grab girls from wherever they can’ – Hessa squatted down next to Casey – ‘and sell them into bonded labour for, what, two hundred and fifty dollars? Chukri, it’s called. I read somewhere that the Daulatdia girls are forced to take Oradexon. That’s a steroid normally used to fatten up cows for market, for God’s sake. The girls in Daulatdia are forced to take it so they look right for the men. Plump and healthy. Three thousand men visit that place, every single day.’
‘And the younger the girl,’ said Casey, ‘the more the men will pay.’
‘Of course,’ said Hessa. ‘And, of course, that’s where the Rohingya girls ended up, too. Where the Jamuna river meets the holy, dirty mother Padma. It’s so convenient for the customers, that location. There’s the boat terminal, and the train station. And the roads, for the truckers. It’s so advantageous,’ she pronounced the word deliberately, ‘that port position.’
‘Hessa . . .’
‘The pimps were waiting on the beaches.’ Hessa was speaking faster, the words sharp in the dusk. ‘As the refugee boats arrived from Myanmar, the men were waiting for the orphaned girls.’
Hessa jumped to her feet, took a few steps down the beach. The fishermen, home for the day, were fixing their nets, and calling to each other.
‘Why are they so different, Greystone’s girls?’ Hessa turned to Casey. ‘Why are you so determined to help them especially? What’s different about them?’
Casey gazed at the setting sun.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, a lie.
‘What about the girls of Daulatdia?’ Hessa’s voice rose. ‘What about the thousands of women forced into prostitution all over this bloody country? Why don’t we care about them?’
Casey’s hands were digging into the sand. ‘I know, Hessa.’
‘There are lots of girls’ – Hessa eyes were on the horizon – ‘who might even prefer the Greystone life. A medicinal rape,’ she spat the words out, ‘rather than a thousand different men, night after night, for ever. A neat little human incubator, kept comfortable for a few months.’
Casey scrambled to her feet.
‘What do you want me to say, Hessa? You know why we are chasing Greystone. And you know why we are trying to find Romida, wherever the hell she might be.’
‘Because Romida is interesting,’ Hessa said carefully. ‘Because she’s got a strange little connection to Britain. A connection that our readers can understand, all the way back in London. That makes her interesting to us. The little girl, born in a town-sized brothel, we know all about her already. That little girl, trafficked out of the camps and forced to start fucking men when she’s just ten years old, we’ve all known about her, all the way through. She’s a bit dull, that little girl in Daulatdia. She’s an old story.’
‘When I was doing my research,’ Casey said, ‘before this trip, I was reading an article about a surrogate who presented for a routine examination over in Delhi. She was eight months pregnant. As she was waiting for the doctor, she collapsed. They delivered her child by C-section, on the spot, cutting the foetus out of her just like that. And they rushed the baby to the best hospital they could find, money no object. That meant the baby survived. That precious little baby lived. The mother wasn’t even taken to hospital. And who has the right to do that to another person? Who gets to make that choice?’
‘That choice is made every day in Daulatdia.’
‘Fine, Hessa.’ Casey spun towards her. ‘You know exactly why we are interested in the Greystone girls. Because our readers are interested in Greystone, and Harley Street, and well-groomed wives in Hampstead. Because our readers know someone who knows someone who might have visited Greystone. And they don’t give a shit about the girls in Daulatdia.’
There was a long silence, two women staring out to sea.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Hessa quietly. ‘Greystone is a story.’
Hessa turned, walking back up the beach, trudging past the hawkers.
And Casey sat, for a long time, folded up on the sand.
When Casey looked up, one of the huge supertankers was tracking across the horizon. She knew she should get back to the safety of the hotel, but she watched the ship just the same. It must be heading south, from Chittagong’s huge port. Tonnes of cheap Bangladeshi goods, off to Indonesia or Malaysia or Australia. As the night closed in, Casey watched the ship lumber along, its lights flashing. Red and green, port and starboard, ponderous as a funeral. There was another ship, not far behind, and another, and another, and another. Hypnotic, a chain of lights where the sea met the sky.
She heard a movement behind her, and Ed sat down beside her on the sand.
‘I thought you might be out here. Eve
rything OK?’
‘Not really.’
For a few minutes, they watched the ships together in silence. Little glimmers on the horizon, vast engines dragging the world along.
‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’ Casey said. ‘Almost every element of international trade depends on those huge ships, and we barely ever even see them.’
‘Always just over the horizon.’
‘Yes,’ said Casey. ‘I suppose it is telling, that one of the biggest industries in the world exists invisibly.’
She thought about the vast ships, riding the tides, into every corner of the world.
Ed laughed. ‘Cynic.’
‘They say there are two paradoxes in blackmail,’ said Casey, almost to herself. ‘Revealing a secret is legal, and asking for money – or whatever else – is legal. But when you do both simultaneously, it becomes a crime. And the other paradox is that if the blackmailer initiates the sequence, it is illegal. But if the blackmailee asks for secrecy in return for money – it is the chief executive who groped the secretary who makes the offer – then it is legal. Odd aren’t they, the economics of secrecy?’
‘Two rights make a wrong,’ said Ed. ‘Two wrongs make a right.’
‘I suppose so. Yes.
I’ve upset Hessa.’
‘I thought so.’
They watched two ships track across the horizon. One heading north, the other heading south, red and green lights flashing.
‘I suppose,’ Ed said, as the lights crossed over, ‘those ships are the reason we first met.’
The memory stabbed at Casey. That night, all those years ago, out on the wilds of the Indian Ocean. Sitting on a pile of ropes on the deck of the Apollo, idly watching the captured Somali pirates.
‘I have no idea how they get on board those huge supertankers,’ Ed had said then. ‘The risks they take to survive. Those big ships go like the clappers through the risky areas now, and the wake they generate is crazy. How do you get close enough in a tiny little boat?’
‘Wilful determination?’ Casey wondered aloud.
‘Supertankers are designed not to have access points below a certain height,’ said Ed. ‘The pirates are looking up at, say, ten storeys of steel. But they zoom along in those tiny boats and just go for it.’
