by H M Sealey
I stare at him. I know this man. I know the long nose and the strong chin, although there are deep lines marking twenty years of troubles. Even half hiding behind a beard, the face is the same, the eyes are the same.
I think I start to tremble. “D – dad?” I say.
Baraq Saidah gazes into my eyes with two decades of waiting affection and I think my whole world explodes in my ears.
~
Missy
“I don’t think we need these. You’re not going to run anywhere, are you?”
The old man, Zeb’s father, smiled with kind eyes at Missy and had her escort cut through her restraints.
“There we are my dear. Much better. Here.”
He passed her a dress. It wasn’t much of a dress, a second-hand, rather too big floral sack that fell past her knees, but it was better than the far-too-short shirt she had been wearing that exposed most of her thighs. She fastened the narrow belt on her waist and smoothed down the fabric.
“And shoes. You need shoes too.” He placed a pair of neat, flat shoes by her feet and turned his back in a gentlemanly way while she slipped into the dress and shoes and stood, looking like an ordinary human being once again.
“Much better.” The old man said, smiling. He took her arm. “You and I are going on a little trip together, there’s something I want you to see.”
Missy let him lead her up the concrete steps and back into the big, comfortable house. The change of location from the stark bunker to the opulent building above was jarring. For the first time since she learned of Howard’s arrest, Missy was hopeful, she would have more chance of running with only one old man to guard her. She had to escape and find help for Elsie. Elsie simply would not cope with the reality of life as a slave. Missy was fairly certain she wouldn’t either, but Elsie’s presence gave her a new focus which took her mind off her own fears.
The old man unlocked the door. It was dark outside but the fresh air was welcome. They were standing at the top of a small flight of steps with a carved griffin on each side in mottled grey stone, their curved beaks as cruel as Zeb’s smile.
There was a courtyard below and a drive leading towards a set of locked gates. The old man escorted her to the large, black car that sat waiting, its engine already purring.
“Here we are. I do prefer the Border, all things considered. At least there’s no shortage of cars. It’s like living in the stone age in Old Britain.”
“I didn’t think there was any petrol?”
The old man laughed as he climbed into the leather interior behind her and slammed the door.
“There hasn’t been a terrorist attack on an oil refinery for over a decade. Most of them have closed down over there but the Greens did make such an almighty fuss they were never re-opened.”
He clipped his seatbelt into place. “There are three oil refineries in the Border, and the BSI gets plenty of oil imported from the middle east – with no interest I might add. It’s a Shariah thing. Old Britain simply can’t afford to buy very much since it chased out all its remaining high earners and manufactures when that ridiculous so-called progressive party came to power. It’s the only damn country with no functioning airports either.” He chuckled to himself. “Still, they need to keep all their money for the lawsuits against mean words, don’t they? Heaven forbid they should use it to better the quality of life over there.” And the contempt in his voice was clear.
The car rolled away and Missy peered out through the windows. It was dark but the moon was bright and the world beyond twinkled with a thousand tiny lights. Yomi, she always thought, that shadowy realm of the dead ruled by Izanami no Mikoto, shouldn’t look quite so cheerful and welcoming.
“Where are we going?”
“Oh, just somewhere.” He tapped on the front seat of the car. “Next right please driver.”
The car obediently swung right, first having to wait at a series of lights that changed from red to green to let other cars, of which there were quite a few on the road, pass. Had Missy been in less turmoil she might have found it exciting. Dai would have loved seeing so many cars. She let her thoughts alight on her honourable big brother for a moment and she hoped he had the good sense to go back to his safe life.
The old man slid his hand into his jacket pocket and produced a blister pack of tablets.
“Would you like a painkiller?” He offered. “For your neck. I’m sure those things must hurt like the devil himself.”
Missy shook her head. “It’s fine. It’s not so bad now.” And she did not intend to take any sort of drug offered. She had only his word for it that painkillers were all they were.
“Suit yourself. Ah ha, here we are.” The car ground to a halt and the old man slid out of the door and took Missy’s arm again. She intended to run soon, but decided she may as well see whatever this man wanted her to see. Perhaps it would be of some help.
Smoothing back his white hair and straightening his tie, the old man led Missy to the front door of a large town house, three storeys high with a cellar below and metal railings leading up the steps.
He rang the bell and a crackly voice answered through the intercom.
“Who’s there please?”
“Sylvester Jourdete. Just popping in to see Madame Carla.”
The door buzzed and Sylvester pushed it open, leading Missy into a wide, airy hallway built of white marble and plaster, lavishly edged in gold and decorated with murals of men and women dressed in Roman costume. There were several artificial plants in gilt pots draping long fronds like elegant fingers over an impossibly white floor, and a desk with gold trim behind which sat a pretty girl in extremely low-cut suit. The place smelled fresh, of rose-petals and perfume.
A well-preserved woman in late middle age clattered across the floor on six-inch high heals and offered her hand.
“Sylvester. So good to see you. To what do we owe the honour?”
Sylvester took her hand and kissed it. His smile was beatific, his eyes less so.
“I’m just here on business.”
“Business. Do you have some new girls for me?” She ran her eyes over Missy. “Is this one? She’s very pretty. You’ve always had a good eye.”
Sylvester patted Missy’s arm. “She might be. I just wanted to show her your establishment.”
The woman, Madame Carla, waved a thin arm decorated in several gold bracelets. “Go right ahead. Just call if you need anything. Most of my girls are at work at the moment.”
“Business is good?”
“Business is excellent. I can barely keep up with the demand.”
Missy let her eyes follow the staircase up towards the next floor, the murals changed somewhat here, now the men and women were no longer wearing Roman costume, now they were wearing nothing at all and their erotic couplings advertised precisely what sort of establishment this was and what might be expected of any new girls.
Sylvester pulled Missy to the right, to a door with a code lock. He punched in a number and drew her into a the room beyond.
This room was not so attractive, it was dim and functional. There were at least a dozen large screens set up on a desk and on the far wall. There were two chairs, and no windows, just a laptop.
“In case you haven’t gathered, this is one of the better brothels in town. Some of the girls here survive for ten years or more. Madame Carla is very professional.”
Missy didn’t respond. Her eyes were drawn to the activities displayed on the screens.
“You – you watch them?”
“Madame Carla likes to keep an eye on her girls. To make sure they’re not too badly damaged. And, of course, men say things to the girls they might not say anywhere else. The Border is free, but there is a great deal of competition between those in charge.”
Missy continued to stare at the screens. She was familiar with pornography, everyone was, but that was staged, lit and performed.
“These girls, are they all…..slaves?” Please let him say no. Please let him say this was
their chosen life.
“Indeed. Oh don’t worry, Madame Carla looks after them all.”
“But this is wrong. Can’t you see that?”
“It’s supplying a need. Pure capitalism.”
“But it’s immoral.”
Sylvester draw out a thin, silver box and helped himself to a cigarette. He placed it between his lips and took a long breath.
“My wife doesn’t let me smoke in the house.” He said with an apologetic smile. “And you know there’s no such thing as moral and immoral any more. People get quite insulted should you call their chosen lifestyle immoral. And when people get upset in Old Britain, you can just smell a lawsuit on the way.” He settled himself in one of the chairs and leaned back. “Not that people ever get upset by true injustice of course.” He nodded to one of the screens. “The girls here are bought and paid for legally.”
“But they don’t choose to come here.”
“They’re well fed, medical needs taken care of. They have a warm bed at night. They have to give something back for that. The NuTru lot over the border try to give it all away for free and then they get stuck. If you feed and clothe more people for free than those who work, eventually the money runs out. Over here business is simple. Nobody gets anything for nothing.”
“But the girls could go back over the border.”
He gave her an odd look. “Do you know how many slaves there are in the border?”
“No.”
“He laughed. “Too many. We could re-populate the whole country only there isn’t the money to pay for them. If we let them all go back to Old Britain the country’d be bankrupt in a week. Not that it isn’t halfway there already. Their philosophy over there doesn’t work. The government has all the power just like it wanted. It tells people how to think and how to speak. But without manufacturers, businessmen, entrepreneurs, they have no money, and without industry, they have no way to earn it. Now they have a whole lot of useless people whose only focus is on some rubbish about how multi-gendered people should have rights, nobody makes anything, nobody earns. The world is utterly topsy turvy.” He nodded to the screen once again. “That girl is earning her keep. She might not like it, but it’s a product someone will pay for.”
“This is horrible.” Missy whispered.
“I agree. The world’s horrible.”
“If you want her to earn her keep, give her a proper job. Educate her, give her skills she can use.”
“And who pays for that education? For the food she eats while she learns? Where is this proper job?”
Missy tore her eyes from the screen. The woman on the bed was younger than she was and she was clearly in pain.
“I think you’re as evil as any man could be. I think your callousness towards human life is evil. There were times I hated the government in Old Britain but at least they do care about people having equality and justice.”
Sylvester gave an incredulous snort but didn’t respond, instead he looked to the screen that Missy was clearly trying to ignore.
“Yes,” he murmured. “There are a lot of fetishes catered for. The men pay more of course, if what they do might cause marks or damage.”
“It’s abuse.” Missy hissed through her teeth. Sylvester was old, and there was only one of him. “It’s the strong preying on the weak.”
Sylvester nodded. “It is indeed. Natural selection and all that.” He finished his cigarette and drove the butt into the ashtray on the desk. He pointed to another of the screens. “Some of these girls service twenty men a day. Tiring work. How do you fancy it?”
Missy met his eyes. “I’d kill myself first. Or whatever man tried to take me.”
“Well, plenty would enjoy having you in restraints so you couldn’t do either.” His eyes narrowed a little. “What about fifty men a day? Do you think you could cope?” He paused. “What about your friend Elsie? Could she cope do you think? Lovely young thing Elsie, so fresh-faced. Almost a schoolgirl herself really.”
Missy didn’t move. She didn’t answer either. Sylvester’s smile became wider. “What do you think, shall we give you a trial run this evening? See how you go?” He stepped forward, seeming suddenly larger and less refined.
“Or, of course, you could save yourself. And your friend.”
Missy blinking into those cold, blue eyes. “What?”
The girl on the screen was bleeding now, but that seemed to excite her partner more. Sylvester whistled and shook his head. “Oh, naughty. Madame Carla will give him the bill for more linen and the doctor’s expenses.”
“The girl’s injured. Don’t you care?”
“Occupational hazard. In the old days men were far more likely to die while at work. I don’t think it hurts to give the feminists a little more equality in that area, do you?”
“You’re a monster.”
“And you’re considering making an attempt to escape. Don’t. You won’t get far I promise. But I’m serious Misaki Hisakawa. You can save yourself, and Elsie.”
Elsie swallowed. “How?”
The old man leaned forwards in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers interlaced beneath his chin; he never once took his eyes from her. “You can tell me about Family Matters.”
Missy frowned. “What?”
“Now don’t pretend you’ve never heard of it. I happen to know better.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sylvester sighed, reached into his jacket, and drew out a small, tatty bible. He placed it down on the table.
“Do you recognise this?”
“Should I?”
“I assume it’s yours. Or your parents’.”
“My parents practised Shinto. Why would any of us have a bible?”
Sylvester moved quite suddenly, for an old man he was fast. He crossed the room in two steps, seized a handful of Missy’s hair at the back of her neck where the pain from the brand made her whole head tender, and forced her down onto her knees.
“I don’t want to hear your lies, though I expect you’re very good at telling them. Elsie found the bible in her house, but it isn’t hers. It wasn’t her grandmother’s either, I thought it might have been at first, but Bibi wasn’t stupid enough to keep an unregistered bible in the house. She had too much to lose.”
Missy pushed against his grip, but he only strengthened it.
“You’re hurting me!”
“This is nothing to what’s going to happen to you when you service your first client. There’s a dungeon in the cellars, nobody hears the screams down there. This is your bible. Admit it!”
“Why on earth do you think it’s mine!”
“Because this particular edition was bound and printed in Tokyo! It’s a hundred years old, produced for English learners living in Japan. Who else would have one? I admit you had me fooled, and I’ve been watching Bibi Kessler for years. I never thought about watching the friends of her granddaughter. That was clever. You had the perfect excuse to go to the house every day.”
Tears sprang up in Missy’s eyes, the pain was intense. “I – I don’t know anything.”
“Then we’ll ask Elsie shall we? She’ll admit to anything after a few days here. I can have her brought here tonight. Is that what you want?” He shook her. “Tell me.”
“All right!” Missy’s mouth answered for her and it spat the words through her tears. “Yes, all right, I’m part of Family Matters! I’ve been part of it since I was twelve! Elsie knows absolutely nothing. She’s completely innocent!”
And Sylvester Jourdete released her, causing the girl to fall onto her face, sobbing more bitterly at this defeat than any other.
~
~ Fifteen ~
Asim
They didn’t go straight to the Qism alShurtah, instead the truck rattled on to the next town where it stopped outside a block of flats to allow the Mutaween to jump from the truck, leaving Asim curled up uncomfortably in the back, and the big man, whose name was Mahmud El Fadil, in the dri
ver’s seat, scrolling through his phone.
“Make a thorough search.” Mahmud commanded. “If our tip-off’s right, there’s a girls’ school operating out of one of the flats.”
The men nodded and disappeared, guns slung on shoulders, feet padding up the staircase. Asim wondered if there really was a school here and whether anyone would be arrested.
Mahmud turned so his arm was leaning on the back of the seat and he glanced at Asim.
“Hungry?”
Asim shook his head.
Mahmud leaned forwards and took a paper bag from the footwell. He threw it into the back beside Asim. “Jam khati. They’re fresh. My favourites.”
Asim turned his head and stared at the pale, buttery biscuits.
“Thanks.” He said. Mahmud nodded.
“Don’t look so scared. We’re not ogres you know. We have a job to do and we do it. Cheer up, I’ve never known a court come down too hard on a kid of your age.”
Asim took a khati from the bag.
“They really your books we found?”
Asim nodded. “Yes.”
“Even the romance ones?”
Asim nodded again. “I – I like reading about love.” He hoped his words sounded genuine enough. Mahmud laughed.
“Love? Well, you might get lucky I suppose. I don’t know much about love.”
“I love my family.” Asim said, swallowing the sugary mouthful. Mahmud was right, they were very good Khati.
Mahmud’s face softened a little, he was not as old as Asim had first assumed, and he looked quite different when his heavy eyebrows were low over his dark eyes. “That’s good. It’s good to have people to love. Inshallah I might have that again.”
Asim shifted in the back of the truck and came forwards. “Are – are you okay?”
Mahmud gave a sigh. “I lost…..someone. In the war. We all did.”
“I’m sorry. Allah yusallmak!”
Mahmud’s big, severe face broke into a sad smile. He rubbed his beard with a calloused hand.
