by Holly Seddon
‘What are we having for tea?’ Marianne calls over. ‘I’m starving.’
He can’t eat. Can’t think about food. Can barely see straight. He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I’ll see what we’ve got.’
He takes the laptop with him into the kitchen and shuts the door. Rifling in the fridge and cupboards, he pulls out the stuff to make pesto pasta. He sets a pan of water boiling and checks the inbox.
One new message.
He reads it. Then reads it again. Bile rises.
All those young bodies that he comes into contact with. They’re always looking for a way out, a way to pay for themselves, to buy their freedom. To disappear. All they have is their bodies. Often undernourished, always tired, but alive, available.
In the loopholes and gaps, they stumble and fall. Plucked by canny observers, slick operators. Pimped out, carved up and spat out. And now these people, this Hacker Supermarket bunch, they want him to do the same.
It’s not prostitution this time, it’s organ harvesting.
‘Thank you for the offer,’ he writes back as the pasta pot bubbles. ‘But I’m not interested. I’m willing to pay to find more girls, like we did with Ana. But I’m not prepared to do what you ask. I hope you understand.’ It’s only after he clicks send that Greg realises they used his real name. They know who he is.
*
He gives up at two in the morning and gets back up. Marianne is in her customary sprawl, dead to the world as he tiptoes out of their room and into the lounge. He knows, even before he checks the inbox, that there will be a reply. Do people like this take no for an answer? Well, tough, they have to, he has no reason to comply. Even though, no, he stops himself. One woman in exchange for many others’ freedom is still too much. Isn’t it?
One new message.
This is disappointing. We were under the impression that you wanted to help these women. But perhaps we should not have been surprised. Your intentions are far from honourable, aren’t they?
What would your wife, Marianne Heywood, think if we sent her the attached video?
What would your boss, Eloise D’Arby, think? What would the police think?
How do they know who I am?
With shaking hands, he plugs his earphones into the laptop. Checking the earphones are in, he clicks play on the attachment.
It looks similar to the room that Ana was in, another grimy bedroom somewhere. A young girl, younger than Ana, sits on the mattress in underwear. Her wide eyes are glassy, deep shadows underneath as she pouts unconvincingly. She looks exhausted.
Greg doesn’t understand.
A man enters the shot, just as in the other video. Only this time, the face is not obscured. The girl crawls towards him on the bed, moving slowly through either a drugged stupor or grim resignation. The man walks closer, slaps her legs and flips her onto her back. Then he looks at the camera and smiles.
Greg stares, scrubbing at his eyes with his hands, but no, there’s no mistaking it. It’s Greg’s face. It’s Greg violating a young girl right there on the video.
Anyone seeing this would be absolutely convinced. If it wasn’t his own face bearing down on that young girl, if it was someone he knew and trusted, he’d be certain it was them. He can’t stand it anymore and closes the video. Sits for a moment with his eyes closed, mind spinning like he’s just stumbled from a fairground ride.
He wasn’t there, he didn’t do it, he wouldn’t want to, and yet the video has already taken root in his brain, infecting and twisting his own memory. God, these people are slick. And far more dangerous than he realised.
He reads the rest of the message in disbelief.
It will all become clear how you knew where to find Ana, won’t it? After all, you were a frequent visitor to those places. We can easily slip some messages onto your phone. Bookings, if you will, hidden where police can easily find them and you cannot.
Or you could just make it easy on yourself. Do as we ask and save your marriage, your job and your freedom. We know you fancy yourself as a hero, and you will be. You’ll get to rescue plenty more women. And the women and girls you provide will receive more money than they could ever earn on the streets or in videos like this. They’ll be safer too.
Isn’t that what you people want?
Samantha
Tuesday, 18 June 2019
All day in the Reigate store I pace, chew my nails and wait for closing time. I figure I’ll wrap up at 5.30 p.m., which is only half an hour early. If Steve questions it, I’ll blame my headache again.
He deserves more than this. He asks for very little and gives so much. I think he hoped that what started as a lie might grow into something real, but we have been in this holding pattern for years. I love and care for him deeply. We are each other’s rescuers and my affection for him is real. As is the protectiveness I feel for his tender heart. But that’s not the same as the way he loves me. So he deserves far more than a headache excuse, but I can barely think of anything except the deadline ticking and what will happen if I miss it.
If I can get at least eight of the items from the different Electronics Superstores before they close at 9 p.m., I can get the rest tomorrow and still make the 6 p.m. deadline. Just as I’m about to close, a woman comes up to the counter with a list in her hand. My shoulders fall and I feel sweat pooling between my breasts and in the groove of my lower back, but I plaster on a smile and manage to get her everything she wants.
Last night, before the melatonin dragged me to sleep, I rejigged my itinerary so I would start near this branch of Steve’s store and then coil around the nearest stores leading back to my house.
The first stop is in Redhill, just a few miles away, and I’m in such a hurry when I arrive at Electronics Superstore that I don’t have time to consider what I’m doing. In and out within ten minutes, a brand new iPhone in my bag. It’s only when I sit down in my car – a Volvo bought by Steve and chosen for safety, not speed – that it hits me. If those gift cards are stolen – which surely they are or why get me to use them? – I’ve just committed a crime. A serious crime. Way worse than driving without updating my old, foreign licence.
And it was so very easy. Like a warm knife through butter.
*
The next five follow the same pattern. I park near the entrance, stroll in and head to the phones and tablets section. I pick up a couple of different models, all of which are connected to a secure base by a thick coiled cord, then I’ll catch the eye of an employee and beckon them over.
‘I’d like to get a tablet,’ I say. Adding that my daughter/niece/step-son told me which one to get. ‘Sorry, let me get my notes, I wrote it down.’ They smile, rub their hands together and then ring up the sale. I hand over the gift card, smiling adoringly as I tell them it’s a gift from said daughter/niece/step-son … they don’t care. They hand over the bagged gadget and the receipt, which I tear to pieces once I’m outside.
Of course, it was all going too well. I was feeling something close to confidence. But now the penultimate store doesn’t have the tablet I ask for. I scan my list for another tablet to buy but when I ask for it, the eager sales assistant tells me that it’s very different to the one I first asked for. ‘The storage is about a third, barely enough to download the basics. You really should look at the Samsung—’
I shake my head. ‘No Samsungs,’ I say. There are none on my list and I’m running out of time.
‘Not a fan?’ he asks, bemused.
‘I don’t like the Japanese,’ I say. It’s the first thing I can think of and I recoil when I see his expression understandably change. He barely says another word as he sells me what I asked for, his mouth twisted as if tasting something sour.
Outside, I exhale fully. At least he only thinks I’m a xenophobe and not a criminal. But a sick feeling continues to swell. Steve will be home in an hour and I still have one more store to visit if I’m to stay on track. I drive just slightly over the speed limit. My riskiest yet – the Electronics
Superstore nearest my house. As I leave the store with my booty, giddy with relief, Steve rings. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready,’ he says. ‘Did you lock up properly?’
‘I did and I’m nearly home,’ I say as I shut the last gadget in the boot. ‘Traffic is murder.’
*
Wednesday, 19 June 2019
At 5 a.m. I wake up with a brain wave: I could check stock at individual stores on the website and plan the rest of the purchases accordingly. By 4.30 p.m., after a day of strategic shopping, I have all twenty items.
A tiny bead of pride wells somewhere in my chest as I pull into the carpark of an East London E-Z Luggage & Lockers an hour ahead of schedule.
I told Alice, truthfully, that Steve needed me in one of his shops yesterday, so I couldn’t come in to the charity and I’d see her next week instead. I told Steve that Alice asked if I could make it up the next day. He shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t want them to take advantage of your situation,’ he said, his eyes searching mine. ‘They’re so lucky to have you,’ he adds.
They don’t know my situation, I wanted to say. But I just kissed him on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said. ‘I can look after myself.’ I saw the flex of his throat and the small gap open between his lips as he tried to tell me that he wanted to look after me, tried to say something that would open things up between us, get us back to the early days. But he said nothing so I left.
Right now, no one knows where I am. Even my handlers, whoever they are, those damn puppet masters won’t know where I am until I message them. Until I tell them I’ve done what they ask, and to please, please leave me alone.
This branch of E-Z Luggage & Lockers is cleaner than the last, busier too. Overhead, planes hit the sky in rapid succession from City Airport. Like shelled peas. One, two, three, bam, bam, bam.
These little jets keep taking off like it’s no big deal, as if humans were born to fly. But I watch them roaring up into the clouds and marvel that it’s even possible. I wonder what it’s like to be inside one of those planes, being spirited away and feeling the ground fall away under my feet.
When Joe was little, he used to ask why our holidays were never abroad like his friends’ or his uncle and aunt’s. ‘I’m scared of flying,’ I’d say. ‘And isn’t Cornwall a lovely place to visit anyway?’
He’d think about it, his little forehead creasing into a line. ‘Yes,’ he’d say eventually, ‘I like Cornwall.’
Only once did he ask why we don’t just go by ferry, like when his friend Adam went to France. ‘I get seasick,’ I’d managed to splutter, the blood draining from my face at the memory of my one-way channel trip. He didn’t ask again.
I have never had a passport. Not a British one – of course – nor one from my birth country. To apply for one now, from back home, would be to make myself known to the authorities back there. That alone could spell the end of my life here. And how could I ever trust someone in uniform to understand?
I would need to give my real name, my birth name. And that name is not clean. It sits on files now decades old but serious enough to be dusted off. Serious enough to drag me back. And how would I then get permission to stay here, all these years too late?
My only hope is to finish this task, get these people off my back and get back into hiding.
*
Inside the storage place, a young couple are stuffing shopping bags into a large locker, bickering over the job. Behind the counter, a young woman in a bright yellow headscarf watches them with amusement and then smiles over at me. I smile back but she’s already looking back at the couple as they struggle with their toppling bags.
I have the boxed products stuffed in a large sports bag that I haven’t used in years. I thought this might be less conspicuous than some shiny Electronics Superstore bags. I needn’t have worried, no one is remotely interested in me. I look at the counter girl, but she is still stifling her laughter at the scrapping couple. I follow the faded instructions on the inside of the door.
Credit card swipe. I cringe, using Steve’s second card as I always have.
PIN.
Key code.
Repeat key code.
Press the padlock icon.
I leave as the couple slam their door shut and bicker over which of their maxed-out cards to use.
Back in the car, the planes still pitching relentlessly into the sky over me, I switch SIMs and carefully compose a message.
E-Z Luggage & Lockers - City Airport
Locker 62
Key code: 999999
I send it and two ticks pop up immediately, which, I think, means it’s been read. No reply comes.
‘Please don’t contact me again,’ I write. ‘I’ve completed the task like you asked.’
Moments later a message arrives.
You will receive your next assignment soon. And don’t even think about telling anyone, or your little crime spree will become public.
Greg
Thursday, 20 June 2019
He hasn’t slept. Marianne had tried to initiate sex last night, a lazy stroke of his back as he lay in bed trying and failing to wash the images from that video away. When he’d not responded to her touch, she’d started to kiss his arm and tug at his T-shirt. He’d frozen until she stopped. Unable to articulate why the thought horrified him.
All day he thinks of it. Ana’s name is still written up on a board, still popping up on emails. Every time he sees it, he flinches. Imagines Eloise seeing the video. Straight-as-a-die Eloise, who will always follow the rules to the letter. She would notify the police. And it would hurt her. Her trust in him would be shattered. She would go home to her wife and cry, he knows, and be permanently changed. The charity would suffer. And then Marianne. He can’t even allow himself to picture her seeing it.
After Marianne left for work this morning, with only a sombre goodbye, he logged back on. Took a huge lungful of air and pretended to feel confidence while replying that the video is a provable fake, that he’d done nothing wrong.
He finally reads the reply when he gets home, barely able to remember his day, his journey home. It’s a miracle he wasn’t knocked off his bike.
Cut the bullshit, you don’t want to test us. If we release this video you’ll be fired from work and your wife would never believe you. Especially when she finds the stash of images you keep on your computer. We found them in My Documents > Photos > Greg’s goodies.
How could they have … he’s created no such folder but … he clicks through his computer.
No, no, no, no.
He did not put this folder here, these are not his images. Hideous, violent images, women hurt and bleeding. Young women like Ana, raging bruises and bony bodies. He didn’t download them but they’re here nonetheless. Oozing their poison.
He deletes the folder, empties his trash and flips back to the messages.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Greg writes back. ‘How did you put those there? And how do you know who I am?’
Marianne is due back soon. How would they send her the video? Could he get to her phone before she sees it? Her email? Would she believe him, if he told her what happened? She’s never shown any jealousy, even when he mentions Jenna. Even when an over-attached client turned up on their doorstep, working out his address from his clumsy mention of the café downstairs. That story would be seen in a new light.
She’d always trusted him, always supported him too. When he took a pay cut to move from the animal charity to his current job, she never questioned it.
He could show her the emails, he realises. That would prove he was telling the truth. As the reply comes, he decides he will tell his wife everything tonight.
We will be back in touch when everything is in place. Start testing for suitable candidates now. And remember, you’ll be ‘rescuing’ far more women this way.
No, I won’t, he thinks. But he doesn’t reply. Instead, he starts to clear up. A fresh start. He’ll tidy, clean, make a nice supper and then tell her everything, stop th
is before it snowballs even more. He’ll sit Marianne down in their clean flat and he’ll start at the beginning. They’ll decide what to do together. A team.
I was trying to do the right thing, he’ll say. And I cut some corners.
He picks up some newspaper supplements, tucks pens in an old pen pot and pulls the overstuffed black sack from the kitchen bin. It’s been a while since either of them tidied, but he’s in the flat more and he generates more mess so he should make more of an effort. Yes, this is a good plan.
I know you’re going to be angry when I tell you that I went on the dark web, he’ll say. But please just let me explain. It’s not just for bad things, it’s for whistle-blowers and activists. It’s a safe place if you know how to use it. Well, I thought it was.
He neatens his notepads and drifts into the bedroom to pick up their clothes from the floor, tangled like lovers. He pulls off the duvet cover, unpeels the pillow cases and yanks at the sheet, dumping it all in the washing basket. He should put on a wash too.
One of my teenage clients died, he’ll tell her. A girl who had escaped so much already but got chewed up anyway. But her sister was still out there. And I needed to find her, to tell her about her sister and to protect her. So I used a service on the dark web and I tracked her down. We got her out of a really bad situation.
When the fresh linen is on the bed, he thinks just briefly of the mattress in the video. Thinks of how Ana smelt when he found her. Ammonia, the smell of panic and pain. Hacker Supermarket were able to find her, when no one else could.
But the people that helped me find her didn’t want to help in that way again. They wanted me to help them instead. And they wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Back in the living room, he tucks some of his older paperwork in the overloaded cupboards under the bookshelves. But the more he shoves in, the more sheaves of paper come sliding back out. He needs to sort this out too. He starts by piling up old Tesco Clubcard vouchers, long redundant. They’re hardly flush now but once upon a time they lived on those at month’s end. Value sausages in Value white bread, slathered in Value brown sauce. Sometimes he’d mix his sauce with vinegar, the way the chippy back home did. Marianne would wrinkle her nose. ‘You can take the boy out of Scotland,’ he’d say and it always got a smile.
