Intimate Strangers

by Susan Lewis

Laurie shook her head. ‘No. Did you, when you lost your parents?’

  Sherry nodded. ‘I was almost forced into it. Thank God. I’m not sure I’d be sitting here, otherwise.’

  ‘What happened to them, exactly? If you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘They were killed in an air crash. It was my father’s plane … They were on their way back from San Francisco. I was driving out to the airfield to meet them …’ She paused for a moment. ‘We were very close. I was an only child, and it was so sudden. I just couldn’t come to terms with it. One day they were there, the next they were gone, and there was just no way of ever getting them back. It must have been the same for you, with Lysette. Probably worse, with you being twins, and because of the way you lost her.’

  Laurie nodded and looked down at her hands. ‘It’s not a competition though, is it?’ she said softly. ‘However it happens, it’s devastating, and it never really seems to go away.’ After a moment she blew out some air, and attempted a smile. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to load all that on you.’

  ‘Please don’t apologize. I’m glad you felt able to. You should probably try to discuss it with Elliot though, if you can.’

  A glimmer of irony broke through in Laurie’s eyes. ‘Dear Molly,’ she teased. ‘But I’ll bear it in mind. For now, though, I think we should decide what we’re going to eat, don’t you?’ She looked down as her mobile started to vibrate across the table. ‘Rachel,’ she announced, reading the number on the display. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Sherry answered, waving her on.

  Taking the phone out onto the balcony, where it was easier to hear, Laurie clicked on the line. ‘Hi. How are you?’ she said, feeling suddenly annoyed with herself for just abandoning Sherry, when this probably could have waited.

  ‘Great,’ Rachel answered. ‘Up to my eyes with the exhibition. The invitations should go out by the end of the week, I hope you’re coming.’

  ‘You can count on it.’

  ‘Good. Andraya, she’s the artist in case you’d forgotten, arrived yesterday, so we thought we’d have drinks for her on Friday. Just a few close friends and some very rich people. Nothing formal. Can you make it?’

  ‘I’ll check with Elliot, but I don’t think it’ll be a problem.’

  ‘OK. Everything all right with you two now?’

  ‘I think so. Listen, I’d better go. I’m in the Grapes and we’re not supposed to use mobiles.’

  ‘How is she?’ Sherry asked, as Laurie came back.

  ‘Enjoying getting involved in Chris’s world, by the sound of it. They’re having drinks on Friday for the Brazilian artist Chris is promoting, and wanted to know if Elliot and I could make it. So, have you chosen?’

  Sherry passed her back the menu. ‘Bangers and mash for me,’ she said.

  As Laurie went to the bar to order, Sherry gazed absently towards the window. The top of a mast was just visible as a yacht glided down the river. It was a part of being single, she knew that, not being invited to those intimate little gatherings, but that didn’t make it any the less hurtful.

  ‘OK,’ she said briskly, as Laurie returned to the table. ‘Time to get down to business.’

  ‘Absolutely. Where do you want to start?’

  ‘How about the missing girl? What was her name again?’

  ‘Daya. No more news, so we still don’t know if she really is missing, or if it was something Barry was told to make us back off. I called this Mrs Ghosh, at the garment factory, yesterday – the garment factory that Barry discovered employs no female workers, remember? What a nasty piece of work she sounds. Obviously she couldn’t deny she knew Daya, after she’d taken her to the doctor, so she spun some story about the girl doing some casual work from home when it was needed.’

  ‘Did you get an address?’

  ‘Yes. It’s near Brick Lane. Barry’s checking it out, but don’t hold your breath. It’s almost bound to be number six, Blind Alley.’

  ‘What about the girl’s injuries? Did you ask how she’d come by them?’

  ‘Yes, and wait for this, she said Daya was carrying a sewing machine down the front steps of her house, slipped and fell onto the machine. That, according to Mrs Ghosh, was how she came to be so ripped apart inside. Can you believe it? “We do our best for these girls,”’ Laurie said, mimicking Karima Ghosh’s Indian accent, ‘“but they are very clumsy. I take her to doctor, and now we have to buy new machine. We won’t be employing her again.”’ Laurie shook her head in disgust, and her spirits seemed suddenly to sink as she looked down at her drink. ‘She’s dead,’ she said, bleakly. ‘I just know it.’

  Since Sherry had no idea whether or not that was true, she merely said, ‘What about the factory owner? Eddie Cribbs? What have you managed to find out about him?’

  Laurie’s tone took on an ironic lilt as she said, ‘He’s your regular twenty-first-century gangster, by all accounts. Which means all the old clichés, nightclubs, betting shops, car lots, etc, but apparently we can add to that the wonderfully useful euphemisms of import/export, Internet trading, stocks-on-line, an executive travel club, and several different varieties of adult entertainment. There’s a lot more, Barry said, but he’s still working on it. The man’s definitely into prostitution, through his strip clubs and probably through the Net too. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be much he isn’t into.’

  ‘Have you tried talking to him?’

  ‘Not yet. At this stage Barry’s advising strongly against it. Even calling Karima Ghosh could have put those women in serious jeopardy, he says, as if they aren’t already.’

  Sherry lifted her drink, and took a few moments to mull over what she’d learned so far. There was no doubt the thrill of the chase was starting to build, but she was determined to remain rooted in the seriousness of it, rather than get carried away by the excitement. ‘Did you tell this Mrs Ghosh who you were?’ she asked.

  Laurie nodded. ‘I’m not sure whether I should have, but if she found my card on Daya, which she could have, she must have been expecting the call. It would account for how prepared her story was.’

  ‘Has Barry given you any kind of profile on the factory?’

  ‘Half a dozen workers, all men, all legally here. Everyone’s paid above minimum wage, though only just, no real health and safety issues. Bit of a model workshop, actually, by East End rag-trade standards.’

  ‘What about the customers? Do we know who they are?’

  ‘Some of the smaller high street chains. Sunday markets, independent clothing stores, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Then it could be an idea for someone to pay Mrs Ghosh a visit, posing as a buyer. If nothing else, we could get a look at the woman, and a feel for who she is and what the workshop’s about.’

  Laurie nodded. ‘It’s probably the only way, because neither of us is going to pass as an immigrant, so we can’t join the workforce, and no-one there is very likely to talk to the press, it would be more than their job’s worth, if not their life, so we can’t go that route either …’

  ‘And since they know Barry and you’re too easily recognizable, I guess that leaves me.’

  Laurie cast her a look.

  Sherry laughed. ‘You’ve been leading me up to this,’ she accused.

  ‘Guilty. You know I’d do it myself though, if I could.’

  ‘Of course, but you can’t, so that’s settled. Presumably Barry can connect me with someone who has a market stall, or small dress shop, who can show me the ropes.’

  ‘I’m sure he can. But we also need to find out how these women are being smuggled into the country. Our best source for that is obviously the women themselves, which brings us right back to how the heck we’re going to find them.’

  Sherry looked round as their order was shouted from the bar. ‘We will,’ she said confidently as she rose to her feet.

  When she came back again Laurie said, ‘I just hope I’m not dragging you into something we’re both going to end up regretting, because we’re heading f
or some pretty rough terrain, that’s for sure.’

  Sherry’s voice was loaded with irony as she said, ‘Well, at least it’s taking your mind off everything else.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Laurie groaned, her shoulders sinking as her appetite fled.

  Sherry chuckled. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have reminded you. But come on. You’ll get through this. All of it. The story, the wedding, the doubts, the fears … You can deal with it, and I’m here to make sure you do.’

  Chapter Four

  NEELA KUMBHAR LAY very quietly under her blanket. The thin mattress beneath her was pushed up against the wall, where clumps of paper hung down, and big swathes of damp made shapes like the clouds. Next to her Bhanu Ganesh lay snoring. Neela knew she had to be careful of this woman. She told things to Mota Ben – the boss lady – that got the rest of them into trouble.

  All the women were careful of Bhanu, they had learned to be during the terrible journey here. Bhanu had hated Daya, Neela’s sister, right from the start, because Daya was beautiful, and Bhanu was disfigured by the jellan – the burning jealousy inside her. Now Bhanu hated Shaila, Daya’s daughter. She hated Neela too.

  Neela wanted to cry, but she had learned not to. During the journey, on the boats, and then in the lorries, she had been beaten for crying, and for being hungry, and for needing to urinate. Handfuls of her hair had been torn out when she’d let her bowels go. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. But she wasn’t the only one. Others had done it too, until finally they had lain there, limp, exhausted, squashed into boxes, and suffocating in the stench of their own bodily waste.

  The smell here was like that, but not so bad. They had big white urns to pee in and a chain to pull that washed it away. At home they had squatted over a hole in the ground. At least then they knew where it went. Here she was afraid it might come back in their food, or out of the pipes with the water.

  England was a bad place. A very bad place. Their uncle, Achal Kumbhar, had told them it was good, but he was a cruel man who had beaten them all the time, and he had always lied. Their father, his brother, was dead, so was their mother, and when Daya’s husband had died too, the care of them all had fallen to Achal. He was a poor man. How could he be expected to feed so many? They would all starve. Women were a curse. As a widow Daya would not be allowed to remarry, so she could not be given to another man, and no-one would ever want Neela because of the hideous mark on her face.

  When the men had come to take them they had only wanted Daya and Shaila. They didn’t want Neela. At sixteen she might be young and ripe, but the purple scar over the side of her face and down her neck made her ugly. Ugly ones were no good to them, they’d said. Uncle had told them that if they didn’t take Neela they couldn’t take Daya and Shaila either. They could have Neela for free, but she had to go too. In the end the men had given her uncle many taka, then they had taken them away. In England they would have food to eat, Uncle had told them, and they would be rich, because in England everyone was.

  Now Neela worked the sewing machines to repay the taka Uncle had been paid. Daya had been made to repay another way.

  Little Shaila moved in her sleep, turning her skinny body into Neela’s. Neela held her close. Since Daya had gone Neela’s young heart had been overflowing with fear. Daya had taken care of her and Shaila, because Daya was strong. Now it was Neela’s turn to be strong. The other women said Daya was never coming back, but Neela told them it wasn’t true, because she didn’t want Shaila to think that. In her heart, though, she knew it was true, because Daya had spoken to someone outside. They had been warned not to do that. Daya hadn’t wanted to, but the Englishwoman who’d been waiting with the doctor had said she wanted to help.

  In her dreams Neela imagined the Englishwoman coming to save them, but it was only a dream. They were never going to leave here now, there was nothing they could do to break free. The doors were locked, the windows were blacked. The only time anyone left their eyes were made blind, so they couldn’t tell where they were, except at the top of a staircase, in a big room where rats poked about in the gloom.

  Holding her niece’s little body close she began murmuring a prayer to Ambamata. She kept her voice low so that Bhanu would not hear. She didn’t want Bhanu to beat the child, nor her either. It was Bhanu who had told Mota Ben that Daya had spoken to someone outside. She’d seen Daya showing Neela the card the Englishwoman had given her. Bhanu had snatched it away and handed it over to Mota Ben.

  Lorries thundered past. A cat screamed like a child in pain. Across the room someone was quietly sobbing. Despair hung in the air like cobwebs. After a while the big steel door was unlocked and Charu, one of the girls, returned to her bed. Shaila woke up and turned her big brown eyes to Neela. In the moonlight she was so beautiful it caused a pain in Neela’s heart, for Neela had learned that, here, it was not good to be beautiful. Somehow she had to get Shaila away.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Ekta Mittal had said, when she’d told the older woman that they must try to escape. ‘If the English find us they will put us in prison.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Don’t you understand? You’re no-one now,’ Ekta had told her bitterly. ‘You don’t exist any more. None of us do.’

  Neela felt as though she existed, but she wished she didn’t.

  Laurie was standing in the doorway of Elliot’s study watching him as he worked on the computer. Bags of groceries were lying on the floor behind her. She’d hoped he would help her carry them through to the kitchen, but apart from a quick hello when she’d come in, he hadn’t looked up.

  It wasn’t anger she was feeling, or unease, but more a mix of the two, as she tried to pinpoint when she’d first sensed this distance creeping between them. In truth, she couldn’t even be sure it was real, though it certainly felt that way now. A sudden fear of losing him engulfed her, yet she didn’t really think it would happen. They belonged together, and not even this irrational anxiety could make her stop believing that. It was just that lately he seemed to be closing her out in a way he never had before.

  ‘You’re planning to publish it on the Web, aren’t you?’ she suddenly stated.

  He looked up in surprise. ‘I didn’t realize you were still there,’ he said.

  She wanted to ask if he’d prefer her not to be, but she was determined not to row. ‘Aren’t you?’ she pressed.

  ‘The Phraxos story?’

  ‘You know that’s what I’m talking about.’

  Turning back to the computer, he saved what he’d been doing, then got up from his chair. ‘I imagine that needs taking to the kitchen,’ he said, indicating the shopping.

  She glanced round at it, then back to him. ‘You realize it’ll still get you into trouble,’ she said. ‘They’ll know where it came from, who was behind it …’

  As he looked down into her worried face he seemed slightly puzzled. Then his expression softened as he appeared to take on board how difficult she was finding this. ‘I’m not publishing it on the Web,’ he told her gently. ‘Nor am I planning to do anything else with it. OK, I won’t deny that I want to, but I know what would happen if I did, so does Max, which is why we’re letting it go.’

  He started to smile as her eyes bored into his, as though seeking more reassurance.

  ‘You just have to accept that it isn’t easy,’ he said, pulling her into his arms. ‘I still get mad as hell about it, and I hate the way I allowed myself to be bought off. But I know very well that making any of it public could have even worse consequences than we want to imagine, so please stop worrying. All I was doing then, when you came in, was roughing out a first chapter for my memoirs.’

  At last the irony in his voice seemed to soothe her tension, while the feel of his embrace began restoring a sense of their connection. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ she sighed. ‘I seem to be having such a hard time trusting anything lately. I’m so edgy. So … full of doubt. Not about us, but about … well, everything else, it would see
m.’

  ‘And I haven’t helped.’

  She tilted her face up to his. ‘You do still want to get married, don’t you?’ she said.

  He smiled and touched his mouth to hers. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t,’ he said.

  ‘But I asked you,’ she reminded him.

  ‘So you did. But as I recall, I already had the ring. Now, I know we probably don’t have time for this,’ he continued, starting to unbutton her blouse, ‘but I’m sure Chris and Rachel won’t mind if we’re a little late.’

  A couple of hours later, still flushed from the pleasure of their lovemaking, and feeling much more relaxed than she had in weeks, Laurie pressed a path through the guests in Rachel’s Hampstead sitting room to where Rachel was chatting with a prominent politician. Clearly she was exploiting the wealthy and influential connections she’d made through her marriage to Tim Hendon, and why not? It was what this gathering was all about, introducing the artist to her potential clientele – and there were more than a few in the Cabinet, and the House, who probably felt they owed Tim Hendon’s widow a favour or two.

  Seeing Laurie heading her way, Rachel politely excused herself, and drew Laurie into a warm embrace. ‘You look wonderful,’ she told her. ‘Positively glowing.’

  Laurie’s eyes were mischievous. ‘I’ll leave you to guess why,’ she responded. ‘But I mustn’t hog you. I just wanted to say hi. It’s an impressive gathering.’

  ‘Andraya Sorrantos’s paintings have impressive price tags,’ Rachel informed her. ‘They command a small fortune in Brazil and Germany, though Chris isn’t sure he’ll be able to match up when she’s not actually known here. We’ll have to see. He’s already talking to someone in New York about showing her there, regardless of how well it goes here.’

  ‘So where is she?’ Laurie said, sipping her champagne and looking around.

  Rachel slanted her a glance. ‘Still upstairs,’ she answered. ‘It had the audacity to rain on her as she was coming from the car to the front door, so she needs to repair the damage.’