by Holly Seddon
His hands swing at his side, forming fists as he walks towards me. I’m rooted to the spot, staring at Joe, begging silently for him to understand, for him to forgive me. Steve is nearly on me and reaches for my wet hair, pulling my head down so my neck clicks and twists. ‘I should never have taken you in,’ he says, marching me towards the door.
I cry out, and Joe rushes to his father, pushing him off me. Paula stares between us and the photographs, her cries now dulled to rolling tears.
‘Thank you,’ I say to Joe.
‘You should go,’ he says. I nod, reach to hug him, to comfort him. He pushes me away, his face a mask of revulsion. ‘And don’t come back.’
Greg
Thursday, 27 August 2020
‘Greg, we’ve started.’
Eloise has already disappeared back into the meeting room when he looks up from his desk, begrudgingly. He clicks away from his search, closes the document he’s been adding to and switches off the computer monitor for good measure.
After the meeting, where he’d managed to stay quiet and jot down a few notes without giving away his impatience, he opens it all back up.
He’d found Andrew’s details easily enough. Turns out Rosie was right about the man’s past, and the thought of his hands anywhere near the vulnerable young women Greg has been taking to the Bluebell makes him sick.
And Rosie is Rosie Parsons, paediatric nurse. Acerbic, brittle, damaged Rosie. In need of nursing herself, really, but he has enough people to worry about already.
David Ross had already given Greg his full name. He’s the manager of the Bluebell, as Greg already knew, although he remembers David saying something about a new owner.
Pavel is a ghost, a mystery. Greg couldn’t even place the accent – Eastern European maybe but with other flavours. Pavel told him his surname was something like Boulean or Bourean, it lodged in Greg’s memory because it sounded so like the gravy – Bouillon – but he’d also said something about not using real names.
This is the best I can do.
*
Wednesday, 2 September 2020
The office printer takes an age to spit out the warm forms he’s filled in online. Now he just needs to sign and post them.
Just in case.
Should the worst happen to him after he shuts this thing down, at least she’ll be taken care of. He feels detached by the concept. His life reduced to a simple number, a pay-out. It’s the only cross in the ‘pro’ column on the ledger of his recent behaviour.
*
Monday, 7 September 2020
The flat is chilled, the temperature dropping now the sad summer is out of the way. He pulls on the nearby hoodie; Marianne often borrows it and the cuffs smell distantly of the perfume she sometimes wears, the one he bought her for Christmas in lieu of better ideas.
It was cold yesterday too, but neither of them had thought to put the heating on. Some kind of brinkmanship maybe – he was too distracted to notice. He’d cooked a roast dinner, a ridiculous meal just for two, and they’d eaten in near silence.
She’s not due back for an hour or so and the light falls away as he taps on the keyboard and makes his way to the dark web.
There is an email, of course there is. Asking about supplies. It’s oddly casual, considering what happened last time. Not to mention Greg’s lack of communication and the long gap between operations.
‘The supply has been cut off,’ Greg writes, deleting the ‘sorry’ he added out of habit. ‘After what happened to Lina, I’m not providing any more girls and this whole operation needs to stop.’ Send.
Nothing happens. The flat grows colder and darker and no reply comes.
Nearly an hour passes. Marianne is due home any second. He refreshes.
That’s not your decision to make.
He hears the street door open and slam shut, caught on the wind or the tail end of his wife’s bad day, he can’t tell. He doesn’t reply. Instead he closes down the computer, turns on some lights, takes the hoodie off and tries to look casual as she walks in.
‘All right?’ she says and goes into the bedroom to change without waiting for an answer.
*
Tuesday, 8 September 2020
A follow-up message has been waiting since last night, but he could only look at it once Marianne has left for work. He stands up to read it, his legs shaking as he takes in the words.
Come to the Bluebell tomorrow at 10 a.m. Don’t think about standing us up or we’ll come for your wife.
Samantha
Thursday, 27 August 2020
I try to call Joe as soon as I wake up, as I always do. He never answers. I pull myself from the bed, another gritty night spent running through my mistakes.
I make coffee in the small kitchen and look out over the yard. A bumble bee bumps lazily into the window, tumbling back and then trying again. I don’t know what he wants, there’s nothing sweet in here.
I’ve been hiding in this small flat in an uninspiring backwater for weeks. I took the first place I could find that didn’t ask for ID.
I paid for a year’s rent upfront in cash, before Steve wised up and had the spare bank card he’d given me blocked. I don’t deserve his money but I couldn’t see another way. So now I have a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room. There is a front and back entrance, and no nearby neighbours overlooking. There is a small fireplace in the living room, some mismatched furniture that I suspect has been left by previous tenants rather than proactively procured, and I’ve scratched up some bedding and clothes from charity shops on the crumbling high street.
I should phone up about the jobs I’ve circled in the free advertiser, the ones I hope will pay cash without questions. And I should go to the supermarket and buy some milk. Some food. Instead I sip black coffee and watch the little furry body smash itself again and again against the glass.
I have almost nothing from my old life. A small box of mismatched glasses and mugs that I grabbed from the garage, some clothes I shoved in a bag. The car belongs to Steve.
I have no ID, no bank account. I’ve never paid tax, never drawn benefit. I don’t exist. I still have my phone at least. The contract is attached to Steve’s account and I hope that in the aftermath he is too consumed with hatred for me and Jonathan to spend time picking over his bank statements and cancelling phones. I have sent apology messages to Steve but they go unread. Joe reads but doesn’t reply to any of my messages.
I haven’t heard from Jonathan since that day and I don’t want to. I only hope Paula has thrown him out but she’s not answering my messages so I don’t know. I’ve thought of driving over there, pleading for her forgiveness, but why would she give it? I can hardly tell her the wider context and even if I could, it doesn’t take her pain away. And she’s already suffered so much. Losing her child and then being so savagely betrayed by her ‘second chance’.
All those women in Jonathan’s photos … How many of us had he seduced? How many of us had he taken photos of while we slept? Was it just sport to him? I remember Paula’s fears that he was cheating, but still I never imagined this scale. I thought only of myself and my mistakes.
I don’t know how long I’ll get away with using this phone before Steve wises up and cuts it off, so I really should make those calls. I flip open the paper and trace the first advert with my finger. A part-time job in a newsagent. I hope and pray they might pay cash-in-hand. And that Karen from the Leatherhead branch might give me a reference. I’m sure Steve hasn’t told any of his staff that he was cuckolded. Or the truth. The worst truth, that he was never married in the first place. That his ‘wife’ was here illegally, that she would be arrested if she was ever sent ‘home’.
My fingers hover over the numbers but instead, slowly and firmly, I prise off the back of the case, slide open the SIM tray and push my other SIM inside. With everything else gone, this feels like a homecoming of sorts. The last time I was good at something besides being a mother.
I imagine myself in a newsagent,
ringing up magazines and chocolate bars at the till for a pittance, coming back to this dingy flat and going to sleep only to get up and do it all again the next day. I think of my dad, the years spent preparing me for anything life would fire in my direction. I think of my mum, her hope that I would get away, that I would live a bigger life than hers. The promises I made to her. I think of Cristina. All the others carving out a life in the cracks where other people didn’t want to look. I want more. I want to settle scores. I want to make decisions. I want challenges that make me feel alive. And I want money.
I open the Whispa app. I don’t bother to read the messages. Any threats or tasks they might contain have long expired. They have nothing over me now. Any crimes they might try to shop me for would expose a paper trail that could lead to others, could trip them up. Are they so certain they’ve left no traces? The worst has happened to me, I’ve lost my son. Everything else is noise.
I’m trapped only by my longing for Joe, but in all other ways I’m free. And I’m damned if I’m going to let anyone box me or any other vulnerable woman in again.
I breathe deeply, my lungs feeling full for the first time since I left my house. I stand up straight, take a final gulp of coffee and I tap out my message.
*
The reply comes as I’m sitting in an anonymous leather salon chair. The floor is covered in my own hair and a teenage girl is brushing it into a pile. It looks animal.
In the mirror, my strong jaw juts back at me. My grey temples are undisguised at this short length. I look like my father, a face I haven’t seen in so long it’s like staring at a ghost. My eyes, wrinkled with everything they’ve seen, almost disappear without make-up. My forehead bears the genuine grooves of worry, without the magic wand of Botox. No, it’s not like seeing a ghost. It’s like seeing myself for the first time.
‘What do you think, Samantha? Is this what you wanted?’ The hairdresser looks concerned.
‘It’s perfect,’ I tell her. ‘And call me Sam.’
I take a deep breath before I read the message. Then I breathe out.
We accept your proposal. You will be paid on an assignment-by-assignment basis for the next twelve months, starting from the next assignment. It is important to note that we owe you nothing, and will not be available to assist in any way if you become subject to a police enquiry. You are responsible for yourself alone, and will be paid only on completion of each task.
Welcome to the team.
Greg
Wednesday, 9 September 2020
If he slept at all, it passed in a blink. His eyes are gritty, his chest full of phlegm and fear. Conversation had been stilted last night. He could barely catch what Marianne was saying, dread about today crowding out everything else. She’d asked if he was OK, he’d said he was tired, worried about work, the usual. She didn’t believe him but gave up.
All he could do was stare at her and imagine someone slicing into her abdomen, wrapping and dumping her. His slippery, bloody slope leading these shadowy bastards to the person he loves the most.
What have I done?
Marianne makes him a tea and puts it on the bedside table before she leaves for work.
‘Thanks, hen. You’re brilliant, you know.’ She looks at him quizzically, bemused more than moved.
‘I love you,’ he adds.
‘Always,’ she says, rushing out to get to school.
Before he takes a sip, he calls Eloise, his voice husky from a night of gasping for air. She doesn’t doubt his illness story one bit, he sounds at death’s door. He shivers at the expression.
*
The rough seat rubs at his skin and the sunshine seems to attack his eyes rather than warm him, refracted and wrecked by the toughened glass windows of the train. There is that ever-present train smell: sweat, recycled air and bad coffee. The smell of a headache. God, he needs to sleep.
‘Tickets, please!’
The same inspector looks at him for a long time as he hands over his ticket. ‘On your own today?’ she asks and he nods, his anxious smile twists into a grimace. What does she think he’s been doing on these trips out to the country? Who has she told about him? A boss? A helpline? Maybe just her husband, debriefing over a cuppa after another long shift. ‘That creepy guy was on the 9.12 again …’
Eventually she – Joanne by her name tag – gives his ticket back, but casts an extra glance over her shoulder as she sways on down the aisle.
David is not waiting at the station; instead there is a black Range Rover, its engine panting and bonnet shaking, like a giant puma. The man behind the wheel beckons him over. Greg looks around at the empty platform, at the battered old shelter and the houses in the distance. Could he, should he, run?
The man inches his car closer. Is he a hired goon from the same bunch who beat up David Ross? Or is he one of the organ grinders? A wave of weariness nearly buckles his legs. He’s not running anywhere today. Greg opens the door and climbs up to the warm leather seat.
The man drives more slowly than David, carefully inching along the lane to avoid scratching the paintwork. It seems as if this route is less familiar to him.
‘Who are you?’ Greg says eventually, as they take another hairpin bend in first gear. The man looks at him but says nothing. He’s tall, much taller and broader than Greg, and heavily built. He looks less thuggish than the others, though, and smells expensive.
He parks in the middle of the carpark. In the far corner sits a glossy BMW. David Ross’s Audi is near to the back entrance, a scattering of old leaves on its roof and bonnet as if it’s been here a while. Maybe he’s living here now. Greg’s searches on the work computer had suggested David lived in Reigate, which is quite nearby. The woman tagged in old photos with him on Facebook, Amanda Ross, is now listed as single, though. Maybe the eye injury was the final straw. Or maybe the gambling debts. Or maybe the everything.
Greg thinks of his own marriage. They both used to say that their marriage was the thing of which they were most proud. That everything else be damned, they could weather anything. Could they really survive this?
We’ll come for your wife.
But who is we?
Greg looks up at his square-jawed companion as they cross the gravel carpark, dotted with weeds forcing their way up. The man walks with the confidence of someone in charge. Are you part of ‘we’? Or is ‘we’ waiting inside? Does ‘we’ own the BMW or …
‘Is there a client here today?’
The man nods and walks towards the main entrance. Greg scrambles to catch up.
Inside, the hotel is colder than usual, a layer of dust coating every surface. ‘David needs to clean up,’ the man says, more to himself than Greg. Then he bounds up the stairs. They pass the usual operation room; its door is open and Rosie, Pavel and Andrew sit waiting on the beds in their scrubs. They look surprised to see Greg and fall silent.
‘Why are they here?’ Greg asks, as the man continues down the corridor. ‘I’ve not brought anyone with me.’
‘I can see that,’ the man replies, opening up one of the bedrooms Greg hasn’t seen before. Inside, two girls sit nervously on the bed. He knows only one of them and she turns away from him as he looks questioningly at her. Her name is Alba and she was operated on in July. She huddles closer to her friend but holds her own side as if still in pain.
For a moment, no one says anything. Greg breaks the stand-off. ‘I don’t understand.’
The man opens the bedside-table drawer and pulls out two sealed envelopes. He gives one to the girl Greg doesn’t know.
‘And your finder’s fee,’ he says as he hands Alba’s over. She continues to avoid Greg’s gaze but her cheeks flush.
‘It’s just good business to cut out the middleman,’ he says to Greg, as they go back out into the hall and the man locks the bedroom door with the girls inside. ‘And we don’t have the hassle of hacking into that trafficking tip line either,’ he mutters as he starts to walk down the corridor.
‘What do you mean?�
� Greg asks.
The man stops then and looks Greg in the eye for the first time, reading his face like a line of code. He seems bemused with what he sees. Almost sympathetic.
‘Did you really think someone from our organisation was taking the time to track down women for you?’
Greg doesn’t reply. Tries to make sense of what he’s being told. ‘But—’ he starts.
‘Jesus Christ, you really are naive.’
‘But I … they promised. I called them in and—’
‘Someone had already called them in, that’s where we got them from after the first few times. Do you really not get it? Why do all the work when someone’s done it for you? First rule of business.’
So every time he tipped off the helpline about exploited women, he was just doubling up information they already had? ‘You’re fucking kidding,’ Greg says. His voice a strangled whisper.
‘Look,’ the man says, unlocking Greg’s usual waiting room. ‘If it helped you feel better, what’s the harm?’
‘What about Ana? How did you …’
‘Who?’
Greg’s stomach lurches as the man leads him inside and locks the door behind them with the heavy-set key. Any feelings of propriety that Greg had formed over this space have evaporated. Greg is very much in this man’s domain, and at his mercy. On the bed, Greg can see photographs and sheets of paper.
‘What is …’ Greg moves closer. His nausea threatens to overspill.
‘Look for yourself.’
Marianne smiles back from every photograph he touches. Photos from Italy last month, from their wedding day years ago. Photographs from the school website and blog. Photos that exist only on his laptop – at least he thought so.
‘What does your wife know about our work here?’ the man asks, his voice calm but insistent.
