by Holly Seddon
I promise you I was trying to do the right thing. I offered to pay for information about more girls but they didn’t want money. And when I said no to their plan, they threatened me. They threatened us. They even made a fake video, making it look like I’d abused a girl. You know I would never do something like that, don’t you?
Old water bills, old magazines. All on the pile to throw out. Marianne’s job offer letter from years ago, a brochure for their honeymoon hotel, an old photo of her university friends, piled to keep. A clutch of postcards next, which he doesn’t recognise. Probably from her mum.
You do trust me, don’t you? he will ask. I know I should have trusted you. I should have told you what happened but I wanted to fix it. I wanted to keep you out of it. I was scared, Marianne. And now I’m in a hell of a mess.
He flips the first postcard over. The handwriting is messy, he squints to decipher it and still doesn’t understand. Then the next. And the next. There’s not much on them, just checking in. Thanking Marianne. A kiss after the name. Some of them seem like replies. Why is her ex-pupil sending her little postcards and why has she kept them amongst other keepsakes?
*
The flat is spotless when Marianne gets home and she rushes to hug him but he can barely look at her.
‘The flat looks beautiful, what’s this in aid of?’
‘Nothing.’ He shakes her away.
The idea of telling her everything, of trusting her and believing they can overcome anything, that idea has gone cold. Instead, Greg deals the postcards on the table like a poker hand while she watches, fidgeting.
‘Why is he sending you postcards?’
‘He’s just glad that I helped him,’ she says, but her skin flushes pink. ‘And I think he’s finding the transition a bit hard.’
‘Do any of your other pupils send you postcards from university?’
‘Not postcards, no, but cards sometimes. I showed you that letter from Afua who got into Manchester; she was—’
‘It’s not the same.’
She opens her mouth to protest but closes it again.
‘Have you been sending postcards back?’ he asks, bracing for the reply. She pauses, her cheeks flushing, but shakes her head.
‘I’ve never mistrusted you, Marianne,’ he says, his voice breaking. More than ever they need trust, but how can he risk telling her the truth? How can he trust her and ask her to trust him? Everything is fucked right down the middle.
‘You have no reason to mistrust me,’ she protests, her eyes growing wet as she holds his gaze, unblinking. No yelling, no anger at him for reading them. Instead, she reaches for him but he pulls away and goes into the kitchen.
They eat in silence. As he clears away, she flips open her marking and avoids his eye. He does not try to meet her gaze. The images of ‘himself’ in that video play frantically in his mind, so vivid he imagines that his wife would see them if she were to look at him.
How could he expect her to believe him over her own eyes? If she were to be shown that video, she would be bags packed and out the door in seconds. These postcards, over the line as they may be, are nothing in comparison.
If he were to show her the emails, show her what he’s mixed up in … it would make everything worse. After all, the emails never admit to the video being fake.
He’s trapped.
*
Friday, 21 June 2019
‘Eighteen of them were in the brothel fire.’
‘Eighteen?’
Eloise nods and Greg puts his head in his hands. There’s just always more people out there, at risk, in danger.
‘Anyone we know among them?’
‘We don’t know yet.’
The room they’re in was painted by volunteers three years ago and the sunshine yellow is chipped. The sofa has holes picked in it by urgent, worried fingers. All around, posters cheerfully remind anyone here that they have rights, that there are safe places. He makes a fist under the table, feels his nailbeds straining, the ragged edges cutting into his skin.
Another poster highlights the numbers. He stares at them, thinking how pointless all of this is. Just window dressing. Anyone sitting in the room knows the reality. Thirteen thousand estimated to be here through trafficking? Whatever the precise figure is, they can strike eighteen off it.
What would those eighteen women, or Ana or Marija or any of the thirteen thousand, say to the proposal? What about the girl in the video, the girl ‘he’ was supposed to have violated? Would they actually welcome the lump sum being offered, regardless of what they’d be giving up in exchange for it? Would they willingly step up so he could get the locations of more people?
‘Greg?’
‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘Hun,’ Eloise says, softly, ‘I know. I do. I feel it too, so deeply I could scream. But we have to do things right. We have to.’
‘I know.’
‘So none of this secret stuff, OK? We do things by the book. We have to.’
‘I know.’
‘Promise?’ He nods his head and looks away. He already knows what he’s going to do. There’s no way out for him, but at least he might save some more women along the way.
Samantha
Monday, 1 July 2019
I tried to protest. To appeal to some anonymous bully’s human nature. But the more I protested, the tighter their chain twisted around my neck. They had an answer for everything, all in the form of questions. All building the picture of me, swinging on their hook.
Did you use Steven Redfern’s card to secure a locker full of stolen goods?
Did you drive his car to those superstores?
Do you even have a legal driving licence?
Did you disguise yourself for the CCTV?
Does Joseph know the truth about his mother?
I’m on my second assignment now.
*
This time, there is no locker. No mad race against the clock. Instead, I received a photograph of a thirty-something woman called Rosie Parsons. I was given her address and basic background information. I was to watch her three days in a row from morning to evening and write down her movements.
Where she went, at what time, where she ate lunch and so on. If she met anyone, I was to take a discreet photograph. I could even choose the days that I ‘worked’ and opted for Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, using my charity work as cover.
On Monday, I told Alice I wasn’t available for the rest of the week, not bothering to elaborate. If years of unpaid work wasn’t enough to buy some time off then Steve was right, they were treating me unfairly. As it turned out, Alice was very kind about it and said I deserved a break.
So for the last three days I have driven to London and parked in a different spot each time, within watching distance of the woman’s flat.
I’ve been there to see her leave at 8.23 a.m., 8.22 a.m. and 8.19 a.m. respectively. Each day she shuffles from the communal door wearing a hoodie and jeans and walks ten minutes until she reaches the grounds of a sprawling hospital.
The first day, I assumed she was visiting someone, but when I followed her through reception, into a lift and then onto a ward, she swiped a card and entered an area restricted to staff. I sat on the chairs outside as if waiting for an appointment and ten minutes later caught sight of her through the porthole of a door, wearing a uniform and striding busily towards a group of beds.
For lunch she normally has a sandwich and can of Diet Coke in the canteen, taking less than fifteen minutes each day. By the time she sits down it’s halfway through the afternoon and I’m starving as I trail a few places behind her in the line and pay with cash.
Today, though, she leaves her ward early and walks in a different direction and outside into the grounds. She lights a rolled-up cigarette and slips between two buildings. She looks around furtively and I continue past without breaking my pace.
I look back. There is something skittish about her, almost childlike. She reminds me of Cristina.
&nbs
p; Cristina and I were roommates, not far from where Rosie Parsons lives now. Rosie has her own studio flat but Cristina and I slept top and tail, the whole house carved up into anchovy tins for tens of other people.
Of course, that was nearly twenty years ago. We didn’t choose each other; it was dumb luck that I’d be shoved into that room with her after I first unfurled myself from the agonising trip in the back of a van.
It was yet more luck that Cristina, this tiny girl eyeing me from under her hair, also spoke English. We were from different countries originally, she from Romania, and it was our lingua franca. She talked like a veteran, an old hand who could no longer be shocked or delighted.
She was younger than Joe is now.
I do a loop of the smaller building and when I come back to the alley from the other angle, I notice a man is in there with Rosie Parsons. He sits on the lid of a huge bin, knees tucked up under his chin and elbows at an angle. He looks like a spider carcass, motionless as he blows smoke. She paces, he laughs and when she eventually stops and stands still in front of him, he says, ‘Here y’are then.’
I take a photo as he hands her a paper bag. The kind you might get in a pharmacy, bunched at the top by his long fingers. She snatches it, opening it fast and looking inside. I take one more photo over my shoulder as I walk away but she’s not looking anyway, her eyes fixed with relief on whatever is in the bag. When I check the photos later, I’m struck that my first thought isn’t ‘she looks so small and desperate’. No, my first thought is ‘this is great evidence, I’ve done a good job’. I am steeped in shame as I upload my notes and photographs.
As instructed, I stay in the area and wait for a response. It’s a beautiful July day, even London smells green and perfumed. I sit in a park near the hospital, rolling up my jeans and tanning my calves in the sun like everybody else. It’s past lunchtime and I’m empty and shaky but too riddled with adrenaline and self-disgust to eat.
I sip from my water bottle, draining the last drop, and then check my messages.
One new message.
Your report confirmed what we already knew. Rosie Parsons is addicted to pharmaceutical drugs. If her employers were to find out, she would lose her job and risk arrest. You need to explain this to her, show her the photographs you took and tell her that she’s to report for training at a place and time of our choosing. We will notify her in due course. And Samantha, make it clear this is non-negotiable
*
I wait in the canteen, unable to eat the sandwich I bought. Rosie arrives at around three and when I ask for a word, she comes with me to the corner without a fuss. She’s wary but compliant, almost as if she was expecting something like this.
She visibly shudders when I show her the photographs but doesn’t defend herself, just listens with grim acceptance settling on her face.
‘Training for what?’ she asks, when I reach that part of the spiel. But I don’t know.
‘Who sent you?’ Rosie suddenly thinks to ask.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ I say. ‘And if you tell anyone, your employers will be sent these photographs and you know as well as I do that you’d fail a drug test.’
I walk out before my legs give way from under me.
I send a debrief on the way home and am rewarded with uncharacteristic praise.
This is very good work.
‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘Now surely I have done enough for you?’
I do not receive another message for hours. I switch between SIMs every half an hour, until finally giving up and taking a scalding bath. When I get out, my legs are puce from the heat. My whole body throbs like a bruise.
I wrap myself in the dressing gown that Joe bought me last Christmas and switch the SIM cards again. I can do this in my sleep now. Maybe I do, my dreams a continuation of the constant alertness I’ve had to cultivate. Sometimes waiting weeks for an order but ready to go nonetheless.
There is a message.
E-Z Luggage & Lockers – London Waterloo
Locker number 63
Key code to open locker: 160399
Further instructions will follow.
My heart drops. They’re sending me right back to the beginning.
*
Inside the locker is a bag containing car plates for a registration number I’ve never seen before. I close the locker again and approach the help desk, an idea forming. The man working in this branch looks slightly more switched on than most and he’s watching me intently. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, trying to sound as respectable as possible. ‘Did you happen to see who left these items in my locker?’
He frowns. His thick dark hair shifts with his scalp as his brow furrows. He’s probably only twenty-five but he looks done in. ‘Wasn’t it you?’ he says. I see him fumbling for something behind the counter. Fuck, is it some kind of panic button?
‘No, yes, I mean that …’ I just want to stop him pressing whatever he’s pressing. But before I can carry on, he pulls out a packet of tobacco and starts to roll a cigarette.
‘If this isn’t your locker,’ he says, pausing to lick the paper, his tongue darting out like a lizard, ‘then you shouldn’t be opening it.’
I laugh in what I hope is a casual fashion and smile. ‘No, it’s my locker but I wasn’t sure if my husband or son had filled it.’ I lean on the counter conspiratorially while the man taps his rolled cigarette on the top. ‘I asked my son to do it but I think he might have fobbed it off on his dad.’
‘I didn’t notice, sorry.’ The worker shrugs. He just wants me to hurry up so he can go and smoke. I grab the contents and leave, whispering a silent apology to Joe for dragging his name through the mud.
I confirm that I’ve collected the goods and then I’m given an address and a list of items, many of which mean nothing to me. Most worrisome, I’m to collect them from an actual person rather than a locker.
*
Michael Sutherland lives in Tunbridge Wells in a small terraced house in Axminster Road. I park a few doors up, squeezing my car into a space barely big enough to open the boot. My new registration plates are safely in position.
When he opens the door, I say I am here to collect the items. He holds my gaze for a moment, then looks down and gestures for me to follow him through the hall into a kitchen diner, and then out into a small neat garden. Baby toys dot the lawn and a cat tumbles lazily around in a pool of sunlight.
Michael opens his shed. He’s not said a word to me yet.
The shed is stuffed with boxes.
‘I have a list,’ I say eventually. ‘I need to check it.’
‘There’s no time, my wife is due back any minute.’
‘I have to,’ I say.
‘Please. I’m hardly going to double-cross you, am I? With what you’re holding over me.’
I want to say that I’m not holding anything over him, that I’m the one dangling from a hook, but it won’t do any good. Michael needs to hand this over, I need to take it. We’re swinging from the same hook.
‘If there’s anything missing …’ I say.
‘There isn’t. Just please, hurry up.’
It takes several trips to the car, and soon my boot and back seat are filled. I realise as I start the engine that I don’t know where to take it all. I sure as hell can’t turn up at home with it. What would I tell Steve?
I drive off, Michael watching nervously from the window, but pull in a few roads away to check my phone. I’m about to message and ask what’s next when I see I have already received instructions.
‘Take the supplies to the Bluebell Hotel near Godstone. Drive into the carpark and then ask at the reception for the manager, David Ross. He knows what to do.’
*
It takes a long time to find this place, hidden down winding roads that seem better designed to keep people out than invite them in. My car is battered by brambles as I pass a sign for the Bluebell. I hope there’s no damage, I’ll have a tough time explaining it to Steve.
Creeping along in second gea
r, I finally see the building emerge over the brow of a hill.
It has that rustic look that costs a bomb. Dressed down with faux informality, offering a make-believe rural life secreted away from normal people. The Hunter boots of hotels.
It’s the kind of place Paula loves. She’s been trying to get the brothers to agree to a spa trip one weekend soon. Jonathan seems relatively willing but the idea horrifies Steve. ‘I don’t want to be cooked like a langoustine,’ was his first reaction. We’d all laughed.
‘There’s more to it than a steam room,’ Paula had assured him, but he was hurt at being a figure of fun and doubled down, refusing to consider it.
Now I’m glad nothing has been arranged. The more concrete plans I have, the more I risk letting people down as I’m called away for no good reason.
I swing into the carpark carefully. There are a few cars here already: an Audi, a BMW and an old Ford. I can guess which one belongs to a staff member.
I lock the car and check myself in the reflection of the window. I look presentable enough but out of place. A lone woman arriving at a romantic hotel. I reapply my lipstick and stand tall, pulling my hair out of its ponytail and swishing it over my shoulders.
There are no other guests around outside and when I push open the heavy door, I’m greeted by an empty reception. Behind the desk, through a slightly open office door, I hear raised voices and shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. I don’t have time for this, but to interrupt seems rude. Besides, I don’t know anything about this David Ross. Maybe he’s volatile.
‘I can’t keep doing this, David,’ a woman’s voice is saying.
‘You’ll get it at the end of the week, I promise.’
‘We’ve all got bills,’ she says, exasperated. Through the crack in the door I can see a sliver of a computer, some kind of card game on the screen. Shadows flicker as whoever is in there moves around, pacing and pleading.
