‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just, I was trying to work out what had gone on. Why you’d been running?’ Seeing the girl looking so distressed now, Saskia wished she’d kept her mouth shut. It was clear just by the way that Lena looked at her child that she loved her. They were so similar too; the same skin tone, same features, but still something didn’t feel right. ‘Why were you running then? Are you in some kind of trouble?’
Lena didn’t answer. She kept her eyes down, focused on the floor.
‘I heard Vincent asking you questions about a boat?’ Saskia said now, trying to make her tone seem light, but secretly she was worried for Lena. Vincent had been acting erratically, as if he was on edge about something. The girl’s presence had riled him. She wanted to get to the bottom of it all before he turned up this morning. She wanted to hear it from Lena.
‘I just thought that maybe you might want to talk to us, you know, before he comes back—’
‘What does he want with me?’ Lena asked nervously.
‘I’m not sure. I was hoping you could tell us.’
Lena shrugged. Shaking her head again. She had no idea.
‘He was asking about someone called Conrad – or Korab?’ Saskia said truthfully as she watched the girl closely. ‘He was asking where to find him. He said that he would come back here today and you can take him to him.’
Lena was up out of her seat then; pushing the chair back behind her with such force that it tipped up, banging loudly against the tiled floor.
‘Korab. I can’t go back there. Please don’t make me. Please. I need to go… ’ Clutching Roza tightly to her, Lena was visibly shaking.
‘Whoa, it’s okay.’ Getting out of her chair, Misty tried to comfort Lena; reaching out, stepping closer, but it was to no avail. She was only scaring the girl more.
Picking up the chair from where it had landed on the floor, Misty stepped back, reassuring the girl that she wasn’t a threat.
‘Please, don’t make me go back there.’
Pushing herself up against the wall Lena had her guard well and truly up now as she stared at each of the girls, warily. Unsure of their intentions.
‘We’re not going to make you go anywhere,’ Saskia said softly. ‘We just want to help, Lena. You and little Roza. Talk to us, please? Maybe we can help you?’
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
Lena looked at the two girls then. Scanning their concerned faces, she felt uncertain, unsure.
‘Well, we haven’t called Vincent yet, have we? Doesn’t that show you that we’re on your side?’ Saskia spoke again. ‘We just want to help you, Lena. Please, tell us what you are running from.’
Seeing the genuine concern on their faces Lena wanted so badly to believe them, to trust them.
‘Talk to us, Lena. Let us help you. Sit down, have some more tea, and let’s just talk, yeah? Please, what have you got to lose?’
Lena nodded then. Saskia was right. She had nothing left to lose. What if these girls really meant it; what if they would really help her? She had to try. Slowly, she sat back down.
‘I don’t want you to think bad of me. Thinking that I stole a child. I’m a good person. I love my baby… ’ Lena began.
She told them. Everything. Her whole story, from beginning to end.
How she was taken, kidnapped. How Ramiz had kept her prisoner, forced her to marry him, to bear his child. About the Bodis, and how they had run. About the Jungle and Korab and about what he had done to her.
Then she told them how Ramiz had secretly drugged Roza. How he’d sedated her without Lena knowing. That Roza had been sick; she’d nearly died.
A whole year worth of anguish and grief came flooding out. The tears came too, spilling over with every word she spoke.
Misty and Saskia remained silent throughout. Shocked with what they were hearing. They wanted Lena to tell her story, to get it all out. Even when some bits were too hard to imagine; the bits that made them feel sick to their stomachs at what the young girl had been forced to endure.
Lena was just a young girl, still a child, yet already she’d been through a lifetime of woes. No wonder she was scared. No wonder she was frightened.
‘And what about Vincent? Where does he fit in, in all of this?’ Saskia asked when Lena had finally finished.
Lena shrugged.
‘He is the man from the boat. In France. The one in charge.’
‘In charge of what?’
‘Getting us all to England.’
‘How many of you were on the boat, Lena?’ Saskia threw a bewildered look in Misty’s direction. If what Lena was telling them was true, Vincent Harper was a very dangerous man.
‘A hundred or so. Mainly men, but there were some women and children on board too.’ Lena was crying now. ‘They said that they would get us into England so that we could start a new life here.’
Lena had wondered at first how much these girls knew, but she could tell by the look on Saskia’s face that she genuinely hadn’t known about Vincent’s business dealings. About the boat. The trafficking.
‘There was a fire on board. I thought that help would come, that the people would be saved… but last night Vincent told me that it had sunk. That everyone on board drowned… ’ Lena struggled to get her words out now. A lump forming in the back of her throat; her voice heavy with emotion. Just knowing that all those people were dead now made her feel physically sick to her stomach.
‘There was a woman on board. She begged me to help her. To take her child. He was only a little boy, but we couldn’t. Ramiz wouldn’t let us. He said that if we helped, they would ambush us; he said that we would all die. So we left them.’
Lena was staring now, as if in a trance as she remembered the sight of the woman dangling her child over, screaming for help.
It was a vision that would haunt her for the rest of her life.
‘Oh my God.’ Saskia looked at Misty now. Both girls exchanging a look of realisation. ‘You’re talking about the boat down in Weymouth?’
They’d both seen a news report on the TV two days ago about a boat carrying illegal migrants. They’d heard about a little boy washed up on the beach. Everyone had. It must have been that boat that Lena was talking about. What the fuck was Vincent doing involved with it all?
‘We were so busy saving ourselves we just left them all to die.’ Lena looked down at the floor, filled with shame.
‘You couldn’t have done anything, Lena,’ Saskia said now, her voice quiet, soothing. ‘Like you said, your husband Ramiz made you leave them. You weren’t in control. It’s not your fault.’
Lena shook her head, unconvinced. Saskia was just being kind, but she knew the truth. She should have spoken up. Made Ramiz listen.
‘Last night, Vincent kept asking me who else survived. Who I’d left the boat with. About the broker from the camp, Korab.’ Lena’s voice trailed off then as she remembered the irritation in Vincent’s voice. ‘Korab and Vincent work together. What if this is all a trick and Vincent is just planning on forcing me back to Korab and Ramiz? If I go back to Ramiz now, he’ll never let me go. It will be worse than ever. He’ll take Roza from me. I know he will.’
Lena knew that Ramiz would for ever punish her for trying to escape. Her life would be worse than she could ever imagine. Worse than she’d ever endured before. She couldn’t go back to him, not now she’d finally managed to escape.
‘We’ll tell Vincent about Ramiz, what he did to you, to Roza.’ Saskia sounded hopeful now, but looking to Misty she noticed her friend didn’t look so convinced. ‘We’ll make him understand, won’t we, Misty?’
Misty didn’t answer, instead changing the subject.
‘Look, why don’t I run you a nice shower, babe. Let’s concentrate on getting you and Roza sorted yeah? We can deal with everything else later when Vincent gets here.’
Nodding gratefully, Lena stood up and followed Misty back through to the bedroom.
‘You’re going to be o
kay, Lena, I promise you,’ Saskia spoke now, wishing that there was something she could do, anything that would help. ‘We’re going to help you. Ramiz can’t hurt you anymore.’
Smiling gratefully as she clutched Roza tightly to her Lena wished more than anything in the world that Saskia’s words could somehow be true, but she knew the truth.
Ramiz had told her from day one that the only thing that would free her from him was death. That there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
Lena knew that Ramiz would find a way to get to her.
One way or another.
29
Standing underneath the hot flow of cascading water Lena closed her eyes, relishing the warmth that trickled down over her naked body. She’d scrubbed her skin raw, lathering the sponge with soap, intent on washing every part of the last few days clean away from her.
Ramiz, Korab, the Jungle, the boat. All of it, swept away down the plughole along with the rest of the dirt and grime.
Looking out through the open en-suite door she could see Roza’s tiny body in the middle of the double bed; her tiny legs kicking out excitedly as she cooed and gurgled to herself. Lena smiled, despite herself.
Oh to be so carefree. So unaware of all the violence, the harsh reality of their world.
Turning the water off, Lena stepped out onto the shower-mat, her body shivering as the cold air hit her, and she quickly dried herself with a towel before pulling on the oversized jumper that Misty had left for her, hugging it tightly around her body. It swamped her tiny figure, but at least it was clean and warm. Anything was better than the rags she’d been wearing earlier. She’d been mortified when Misty had gathered up her clothes from where Lena had discarded them on the floor, noticing that Misty had desperately tried to hold her breath while she spoke so that she didn’t have to inhale the overpowering stench of them. Lena had cringed when Misty had politely offered to wash them for her. They both knew that the heavily soiled clothes were beyond redemption.
Throwing Lena’s clothes into a black sack she’d insisted that Lena scour her wardrobe and pick out whatever she wanted. Lena had never seen so many clothes.
Such an array of bright and beautiful material. Shiny, sequins, leathers. Lena wasn’t used to the cut of most of the outfits – the low necklines and tiny skirts – so she’d selected a pair of plain black leggings and an oversized navy jumper.
Standing in front of the sink now, she ran her fingers through her dripping wet hair, inhaling the delicious fruity scent of the shampoo as she scrutinised her reflection.
A ghost stared back at her.
She’d lost weight. Her skin was sallow, her face gaunt. The bruise around her eye from where Ramiz had hit her before they had left Albania had almost gone now. Faded into nothing, as if it was never there.
The woman staring back at Lena in the mirror wasn’t a woman she recognised.
She didn’t feel like herself anymore.
She’d spent the past year just surviving, trying to get through each day.
How had it come to this?
Ramiz had taken everything from her. He’d tried his best to destroy her, snatching her away from her old life, her family, from Albania. He’d forced her to leave behind everything she’d ever known and loved.
Almost daily, subjecting her to his incessant beatings, the rapes; it was no wonder that she’d lost sight of herself.
He would break her eventually; Lena knew that without a doubt. By using the only thing she had left. Roza.
Picking up the pointy nail scissors that she’d found in the drawer, Lena took a deep breath. Hesitating, just for a second, before weaving the sharp blade through her thick, dark hair.
She began cutting – watching with fascination as big chunks of her hair fell to the floor all around her. She chopped until there was nothing left, just a short cropped creation. Almost boyish. The floor was covered in hair. Scooping it up in handfuls she threw it all into the bin. She’d thought that cutting off all her hair would make her feel sad, but it hadn’t.
She felt just the opposite. She felt almost human again. Lighter, empowered.
For the first time in a long time Lena was starting to feel like she was back in control again. Of her own mind, her body, her child. She had a real chance now of finally being free from Ramiz.
A chance of making sure that Ramiz could never find her again.
If he did, he’d be intent on making it a living hell. Even more unbearable than before – but Lena had no intention of letting that happen.
30
Mary Jeffries was awake.
The first thing that hit her was the rancid, overpowering stench of the drains. Gagging, she sat bolt upright in her armchair, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. She wondered how long she’d been here? All night? Her head felt fuzzy, her thoughts too cloudy to allow her to remember. She felt as if she’d been in some kind of a trance, a time warp.
Disorientated, she rubbed her pounding head as she tried to recollect the previous evening’s events. It couldn’t be that hard to recall what she’d been doing, she thought; she did the same bloody thing every night that she had for the past God knows how many years.
She must have been doing her usual evening ritual of watching her soaps, wedged in her armchair, drinking herself into a stupor.
It was slowly coming back to her. Colin had been there. Skulking about in the background as always. She remembered that she’d been angry with him, but then that was hardly a revelation. Colin had handed her a drink. Standing over her with that irritating, gormless look on his face.
That was her last memory. She couldn’t remember anything else after that.
Pressing the remote control the TV guide showed that the time was now nine thirty in the morning. How could that be?
If that was right, then she’d been out cold for over twelve hours?
Impossible. She hadn’t slept a full night for years: a decade, at least. She knew damn well that she could drink herself into oblivion on a daily basis – as she often did – and the booze would be no match for her insomnia. Even if she managed to pass out she’d normally wake after a couple of hours. Something wasn’t right.
She was ill. She knew it. It had been happening so often to her lately.
Passing out, losing her memory, giant chunks of time missing from her mind.
She was old. Ill. Dying. She didn’t need a doctor to tell her. She knew. It was the only explanation; the only thing that made sense. One day soon she would close her eyes and that would be it. She wouldn’t be waking up. Despite her lifestyle, Mary was scared senseless at the thought of death. Staring down at her wrinkly skin on the back of her hands she winced, as if she was seeing them for the very first time. The skin was loose, slackened, so pale that it looked almost transparent. The only colour came from the clusters of brown age-spots and the blue veins that bulged prominently. She had got old and she wasn’t quite sure when it had happened.
Feeling the usual familiar flutter of anxiety grip her inside she got to her feet.
Fuck this bullshit. She needed a drink.
Walking slowly, she made her way out to the kitchen. Her feet felt like she was bouncing, like she was outside of her body. Floating.
Reaching the worktop she picked up the vodka bottle. Examining it, she tilted it left and right, as if the liquid that sloshed about inside was nothing more than an optical illusion. The bottle was still half-full. She grinned; half-full, that was the optimist in her. Half-empty was for pessimists, isn’t that what they said?
She wanted to laugh then, at all those fancy psychiatrists she’d seen over the years, all the shit they spouted. What the fuck did they know? She was the most pessimistic person she knew. Yet stick half a bottle of vodka in her hand, in any alcoholic’s hand, and of course they would look on the bright side.
Perplexed, she realised she was losing her focus again, forgetting what she had come here for. She did that a lot lately, lost her train of thought. Her mind going off on a tangent.
She felt like she was slowly going mad.
Staring at the bottle, something didn’t sit quite right with her. Why hadn’t she finished it? That was odd in itself. She would never have slept until it was all gone. She drank until there was no more. That’s what she had always done. The half that she’d consumed wouldn’t have been enough to knock her out – she’d built up a tolerance over the years.
Tablets? As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she knew. Insomnia, depression, anxiety, arthritis. You name it, according to the doctors, she had it. She never bothered taking the stuff; what was the point? She was sixty-five years old for Christ’s sake, riddled with all sorts. Her liver was probably going to pack up any day now; shoving tablets down her throat wasn’t going to suddenly save her. No, sod that. Self-medication was the only thing that made her feel better – the type that came in the form of a bottle of booze.
Pulling open the kitchen drawer, she frowned. It was empty. Completely bare.
She didn’t understand. They had all been there. Packets, pots, bottles. Maybe she’d moved them, tucked them away somewhere.
She started looking frantically about the kitchen then, opening cupboards, lifting saucepans. She even looked behind the ornaments and picture frames that cluttered the windowsill, ignoring the thick film of dust she disturbed as she moved things about.
They were gone. Everything was starting to make sense to her now; the reality of the situation hitting her like a bolt of lightning.
Colin.
It had to be.
All this time she convinced herself that she was ill, dying. All the constant nausea, the blackouts – the blocks of time that were missing from her mind that she couldn’t account for.
She’d thought she was sick. Really sick. Dying. Drowning herself in alcohol to rid herself of the anxiety that had all but consumed her, and all this time her bastard son had been lacing her drink with cocktails of medication. Purposely drugging her.
The Taken Page 20
