by Lee Weeks
‘Why you no grow you hair, ma’am? Colour like gold.’ Tina, the masseuse kneading Becky’s shoulders, spoke.
Two other masseuses came in to get their feet done whilst they were not busy outside. One sat on the end of the row, whilst the other fetched the bowl. They all nodded their agreement with Tina.
Becky had just come from the Internet café. She’d heard from the team back home. More of the victims’ identities were coming to light. Two of them had been traced to this area. It seemed that they had been brought together and shipped over to Hong Kong, then on to the UK.
The evening was only just beginning to get busy. People were still passing by in purposeful mode, off either to eat or drink. They were not chilled enough to think about a foot massage yet. At midnight the spa would be packed. Then the girls would set up camp beds in the sand opposite and give massages to passers-by. For now, the half a dozen girls whose job it was to tout, took it in turns to come and get their nails done, whilst outside the masseuses with the leaflets joked with people passing, made idle conversation with those they knew along the sandy parade. Becky wondered how so many women managed to eke out any kind of living from the spa.
‘I like it better short,’ she said smiling so as not to sound offended.
The girls’ faces showed that the notion of short hair was way beyond their comprehension.
‘Is Puerto Galera your home?’ she asked Rosario, who was quieter than the rest. Becky felt sorry for her having to squat when she was so pregnant. She had begun rolling a smooth pebble along the underside of Becky’s foot. It was an almost pleasant sensation.
‘No, ma’am. Home far away from here.’
‘Did you come here for work?’ Becky knew she was making Rosario slightly uncomfortable by her questions, but she also knew that she would answer—it would be rude not to, and Filipinas were never rude if they could help it.
‘Yes, ma’am. Not in here, work in club first, then here.’
‘Is club work good here? Is this spa work better than the club?’
Rosario looked at the others who were listening to the conversation. There was a silence in the room.
‘Too old now for club. Have to be young girl, you know?’
Becky looked at her. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.
‘When is your baby due?’
‘Two months, ma’am.’
‘Is it your first baby?’
‘No, ma’am. The girl paused as she rubbed Becky’s feet with the hot stone, drawing it between Becky’s toes. She glanced at the masseuses and back at Becky. Have two more children, but…’ Her voice trailed off as the other women stopped their work momentarily and looked at her. Tina resumed massaging Becky’s neck and in a smiling voice that belied the contents of her words she spoke in Tagalog to her companion.
‘Don’t be stupid, Rosario, shut your mouth before it’s too late. They told you not to speak of it.’
Rosario looked up; Becky could see her eyes had filled as she looked fleetingly at Tina and the others, then at Becky. She went back to working on Becky’s feet.
Tina dug her fingers harder into Becky’s shoulders. Becky resisted the temptation to flinch. Rosario gave a massive sigh. It made her bump rise and fall. She stopped her foot-washing and looked up at Becky. Her large brown eyes were wet.
‘My children, ma’am. They…’
Tina interrupted in Tagalog; there was a sharpness in her voice.
‘You were warned; say nothing and they will be returned.’ Becky watched them as they looked from one to the other.
Rosario looked at her workmates. Her eyes were burning with injustice and misery. ‘You must wait,’ said Tina.
‘Wait? How long? It will be too late for waiting soon.’ Rosario’s voice had risen and she glared at Tina and the others. She shook her head and with another sigh came more tears. She sniffed and wiped her nose as she continued rubbing Becky’s feet. ‘They will be dead inside. The way we were. I don’t want it for my children. I did everything to stop it happening to them. My girls are going to be lawyers, not prostitutes!’
Rosario bowed her head again and a large sob heaved itself from her exhausted body. Her baby kicked inside. Becky saw Rosario’s belly grow tight and move and a tiny heel protruded as the baby listened to its mother’s sobbing. Becky looked at it in wonder. Rosario instinctively shifted on the stool to allow the baby to turn. Her voice rose. ‘I cannot bear it. I don’t want to give birth to this baby to see it taken from me the way they were.’ She looked defiantly around the room. Becky watched the other girls in the shop look anxiously at one another, worried as Rosario cried openly. ‘I cannot bear it.’ Rosario repeated. ‘They will be sick and scared and they will never be the same if we don’t get them back soon…’ Rosario held her hand against her heart. ‘Inside they will be dead…’
‘Don’t endanger all our children for the sake of yours. They will kill us.’ Tina looked around anxiously. She was nervous of onlookers from outside. ‘Keep working …’ she ordered the women in the salon. A false busyness started up.
The woman who was having her feet pumiced by her workmate spoke up.
‘But how do we know that our children won’t be next?’ she asked in a hushed voice. ‘We cannot trust them. We need to tell someone else. She looks like she has a good job, plenty of money, maybe she could help.’
Becky saw all eyes turn on her. She didn’t know what they were saying but she knew they were weighing up whether to tell her something, something difficult—this might be her chance.
‘Please listen.’ She looked around at them all, then her eyes settled last on Rosario. ‘I am a policewoman. I have come here because a child has been stolen in London. I am here to try to find that child. Maybe I can help you find yours too.’
Everyone turned to look at Tina, who was their spokeswoman. Tina always made the decisions.
Tina shook her head. She stared out of the window, her thoughts captured by the horror of losing her own children.
‘I have to, Tina,’ Rosario pleaded. ‘I cannot bear it.’
Tina ceased her neck massage. Her voice softened.
‘All right, all right, say it.’
‘I will make sure none of the others come in,’ said another girl as she signalled to her workmates outside that they were to keep out.
Becky waited, aware that something was about to happen.
‘My children are gone, ma’am.’ Rosario’s dark eyes blurred with tears and she spoke to Becky in English. ‘They were taken from me—two girls, thirteen and fifteen—good girls, pretty girls.’ At that statement her workmates muttered their agreement and shook their heads sadly. ‘I do not know where they are. Bad men have taken them.’
The women glanced nervously outside to the rest of the team who were staring in, perplexed at the serious nature of the talk inside the shop, but playing their part in pretending that nothing unusual was happening. Tina reassured them with an all-purpose smile. All the girls were jittery. All of them felt the pain and terror that Rosario was being forced to endure, and all of them knew that it could easily be their children next. None of them wanted it to happen to them, but they were powerless.
‘Here in Puerto Galera, many girls go missing now. Not come back.’
‘How long have they been gone?’
‘My girls gone three months now.’
‘Twelve girls gone, not come back,’ added Tina. ‘From here and from town nearby.’
‘Who has taken them? Do you know? Tell me about the girls, maybe I can help,’ said Becky.
The women looked nervously at one another. Tina looked at Rosario and nodded permission for Rosario to speak.
‘Kanos. Bad white men.’ Rosario kept her eyes down, wiped away her tears and continued massaging Becky’s feet. ‘These Kanos know who took them. It is their friends.’
‘Do the Kanos live here in Puerto Galera?’
‘Yes. Very big men here. Very important.’
‘What are their n
ames?’
A man had come to talk to the women outside. It had made them jittery. They turned one by one to discreetly attract their workmates’ attention to the fact. Becky looked at him. He was in his late fifties, with receding white-blonde hair caught in a ponytail that was streaked with grey. He had the deportment of a man unused to exercise and had a cigarette in one hand. The other was thrust deep into the pocket of his shorts. He was a man who had shrivelled inside his clothes. They looked out of place on his frame. He would have suited the dirty old biker look, thought Becky. ‘One name Fat Harry, and the other that man…’ Tina’s head gave a small incline towards the window, where the man with the ponytail had moved on to talk to a man selling pearls opposite the massage parlour. ‘That man—his name English Bob.’
57
‘Just cool it, bro.’
‘I told you to get packing, Reese. We’re leaving.’
‘There’s no point, bro. We may as well sit it out, relax, no one’s lifting off tonight. There are no planes taking off till tomorrow. It’s a mañana moment, bro. It happened here—it’s not civilisation as we know it.’
‘No shit, Sherlock! If I want your input I’ll ask for it…now get the fuck up and start packing.’
Reese lay back on the bed and rolled another joint. He watched Sophia play with Princess Pony. Terry was packing his things into a bag. Secretly, Terry agreed with Reese, there was no point in moving now—where were they going to go? They would have to sit in the airport for the night. But he wasn’t going to say anything, not for a minute. Reese was doing his usual trick of not fully understanding when someone was at breaking point. He just never knew when to shut up. The Teacher looked like he was scared—Terry hadn’t seen him like that before. Mr Cool, Calm and Collected was properly shitting himself about something.
Reese lit the joint and drew heavily on it, keeping the smoke in his lungs as long as he could before exhaling. He offered it to Terry, who shook his head and continued packing. There was a stark light in the room. The Teacher had insisted that they close the doors. The room was gaining heat—it didn’t bother the locals but the Teacher was sweating. His forehead had become speckled in glistening beads. His shirt was showing signs of wetness where it stuck to him.
‘Put the fucking air-con on—who the fuck switched it off?’
Reese shrugged and kept rolling. ‘It happens here, bro, it ain’t a conspiracy.’ But secretly it made Reese smile. He was going to roll himself a stash of joints. He thought he would need them tonight. He was damned if he’d do without everything—no sex, even his flirtation with the English blonde had been cut short—no fucking way was the Teacher going to spoil his entire night. If nothing else, he would get stoned.
Sophia stopped trotting Princess Pony over the furniture and stared at the Teacher, who had sweat dripping from the end of his nose. Her eyebrows knitted together. Then she started to giggle. Terry stopped his packing, looked at her and smiled, amused. Reese lay back on the bed and started laughing hard. His body was shaking with it. The hand holding the joint was banging on the bed and the ash was flying over the cover. Terry started laughing. Sophia continued her manic giggling. The angrier the Teacher looked, the more they laughed.
The Teacher went for Reese but he hadn’t bargained on him being so quick on his feet. Reese was nimble whilst the teacher was bulky. Reese could outrun him anytime. As the teacher went for him, Reese was out of the door. He ran the first stretch, till he was clear of the hotel and the lane and on the far end of the beach, then he dodged between the boats. The stars were out; the sky was frosted with them. He crouched and listened as he peeped over the top of the barcas. He never thought to look behind him. Noiselessly through the sand a man walked in the darkness. He came within three feet of Reese’s back before he lifted his dagger by the hilt and brought it down into Reese’s neck. It went right through, and came out of his Adam’s apple.
58
Becky left the foot spa and walked down the beach. It was as dark as midnight and the stars were out. She checked her phone—still no text from Mann. She stopped at the first bar she came to where she liked the music—‘Hotel California’ by the Eagles. The Flamingo beach bar was open on all sides. It had a few life-size plastic flamingos peeping out of plant pots at its corners and what looked like leftover Christmas lights across its palm-thatch roof. It was the local drinking hole for all those from the PADI diving school. On the beach end of the bar there were stacks of diving equipment and rinsed, dripping-wet wetsuits draped over a rail pushed into the sand. The men and women sat in their board shorts and swimwear, recounting the day’s thrills. Their sunny faces were alive and tanned but their lean and muscled bodies were white from lack of sun.
Becky sat at a stool at the bar. The news about Rosario’s daughters and the added information from Shrimp had made her adrenalin start racing. She knew now that Fat Harry and English Bob weren’t just hangers-on, or cashers-in, they were an integral part of the new trafficking ring.
She checked her phone. She had a voicemail message. She dialled and listened. A group of leering Brits began edging towards her but she stopped them with a look. A lonely, liver-lipped old American tried to tell her his life story but soon retreated back into the shadows. She pressed the phone to her ear and listened to the un familiar voice.
‘My name is Suzanne. I want you to know that I have been having an affair with your husband Lenny for a year.’
Becky ordered a margarita and drank the first one fast. She ordered another and drank it faster. She stared at her phone. What was that about? Suzanne? She had no idea who this Suzanne and Lenny were.
‘Mrs Black? May I join you?’ A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She was about to bite his head off when she saw who it was. ‘Can I call you Emma?’ The man with the ponytail appeared beside her. ‘Sorry, I missed you and your husband at the hotel. I’m the owner. My name is Bob English.’ His voice was raspy from years as a heavy smoker. His accent still had a hint of northern to it, but it was a clash of styles and adopted accents. He smiled at Becky.
‘Of course.’ Becky nodded and smiled sweetly. ‘Please sit. Nice to meet you. You have a great hotel.’
She shook his hand, repressing the urge to wipe hers afterwards. He had smoker’s fingers and a deeply lined face from the sun. Inside his open shirt his white chest hair looked albino against his tanned chest. His body appeared almost emaciated. He ordered a scotch and soda and another margarita for Becky.
‘How do you like it here? Is the hotel matching up to your expectations? If there is anything you need…’
Becky held up both hands and rolled her eyes skyward.
‘The place couldn’t be more perfect, thank you. It’s such a welcoming place. It’s amazingly friendly here.’
‘They are a happy nation, aren’t they?’ English Bob grinned. He obviously didn’t trust dentists; he had terrible teeth, uneven, broken and yellowed like a horse’s. Becky looked long and hard at English Bob—she felt a huge shiver of repulsion. He was as hideous inside as he was out.
A group of giggling teenage girls passed by along the beach. He took his time studying them. He watched them leisurely, lingeringly, like a lover would.
‘That’s what I love about them.’ He snapped back to her and picked up his drink. ‘No matter what happens to them in life, they are always such happy, positive people—foolishly optimistic in a way.’ He picked up his scotch and licked his lips as if it burned. She looked at him curiously. ‘Oh yes, they allow themselves to be taken advantage of. They practically rely on it. A very naive nation, loving, trusting. Even the bar girls—sorry—the guest relation officers…’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘These girls really believe that someone loves them, even if it’s just for a night. They dream of a foolish western guy falling in love and marrying them. It’s not a business to them.’ He laughed, loud and cynical. ‘It’s not a business to them like it is to the girls in Hong Kong or in Thailand—here it’s a vocation. Ha ha…’
&nb
sp; Becky smiled politely and waited for him to stop laughing at his own joke. ‘They must be easy to take advantage of,’ she said, signalling to the barman that she would like another margarita.
‘They are a very physical people.’ English Bob steadied his gaze and locked her eyes to his. ‘You can’t apply the same rules as we do back home. You wouldn’t dream of having sex with a thirteen-year-old back home—here, it’s different.’
‘Really? You think they develop differently?’
‘Yes, that’s it. They are much more…sexualised.’
‘Is that due to the sex tourism?’
‘Oh no. It has been like that for ever. Most of it starts in their own home. People feel sorry for the bar girls. Let me tell you—it’s far preferable to cutting cane.’
‘Of course—now I get it!’ she said, trying to hide the sarcasm from her voice. She wondered whether he could be any more loathsome.
‘Yes! I used to feel sorry for them myself. But then I married one of them. Now I have half a dozen of the little smilers running around. So I’m never sure who took advantage of who.’
‘How lovely—a family man!’
‘Wouldn’t swap it for anything. It’s a great life, I’m sure. What about yourself? You been married long?’
‘We are on our honeymoon. So far, so good.’
‘Ha…’ He made ready to go. ‘The honeymoon period…Make the most of it, and when you discover he’s been cheating, come and see me. I have a very sympathetic side.’ He grinned at Becky. His eyes went liquid, his lips went wet. ‘And let me know if you need another foot massage. I’ll do it myself, happily.’ He backed away grinning, then his lecherous eyes turned hard and he glared at her. ‘And if you need to ask any more questions about local matters, things that only concern the people who live here, you come and see me. You can ask me as many questions as you want. You have to watch who you talk to round here…’ He stood up. ‘…loose tongues and all that.’ And, with that, English Bob disappeared up the lane.
