by H M Sealey
“I….I don’t know.” I attempt to backtrack. “I mean, I’m not sure….”
Kit’s already scrolling through his phone, his eyes bright with interest. “Ah, here we are. Baraq Saidah. Given up to the authorities by a Kessler fifteen years ago for trying to contact his step children.” He glances at me. “That would be you, wouldn’t it Elsie? Now that doesn’t make sense, why would she give up one of her own people? Lets see, he was extradited back to the BSI three years later. Apparently they objected to our treatment of criminals.” He laughs out loud at that. “Our treatment of criminals? That’s rich.” He snaps his phone shut. “Still, we had no idea he was connected to Family Matters.” He looks at Asim. “Who else is part of the network?”
Asim shrugs. “I…..I don’t know anything else.”
“I’m quite sure you do. I had no idea that there could be any cooperation between Old Britain and the BSI in matters like this. That’s exceedingly good to know, it would certainly explain where some of these families disappear to though heaven only knows why they’d prefer the BSI to Old Britain.”
Because the BSI keeps families together.” Asim says strongly. “Most of the time. The BSI understands the role of the mother and the father. The BSI hasn’t redefined the word family until it’s meaningless! Uncle Baraq told me how cruel you are to families.”
“Cruel? Boy, you’re the ones cutting hands off and hanging people if they leave Islam.”
“But at least Christians can live in peace in the BSI.”
“Oh yes, providing they pay huge taxes and accept the status of second class citizens. Very compassionate.”
“It’s better than breaking up the family.” I say suddenly. “It’s better than tearing four year old children from their mothers’ arms because you don’t like what they believe. And as for taxes? Old Britain has a tax of eighty percent for high earners! I was paying sixty-five percent as a teacher. So everyone pays high taxes back home!”
There are tears flooding my eyes and I stand up. “I was four years old! All we wanted to do was leave and we couldn’t! I haven’t seen my brother for twenty years. What Old Britain does to people is evil only you do it in the name of kindness. You told me over and over that you were helping me and all I wanted was my mum! I didn’t care what she believed. She never hurt anybody.”
Kit doesn’t look impressed. He closes the knife and tosses it onto the coffee-table. “Christians hurt homosexuals, paedophiles, same-sibling relationships. They hurt everyone they don’t agree with.”
“They don’t hurt them.”
“They don’t celebrate them. That’s silent disrespect and it’s a crime.”
Suddenly I’m furious with this man, I throw myself at him, beating my fists against his chest.
“You destroyed my life! You took away everything I loved! My own grandmother had to turn my stepfather into the authorities in order to convince them she believed the right things! And Baraq let her! That’s how much he loved me. Because families have love! Old Britain doesn’t have love at all, it just has anger and intolerance and hatred and all your stupid policies do nothing but stamp out genuine love!”
Kit hits me so hard I fall heavily against the wall, dazed. I vaguely see him reach down to haul me to my feet when he stops with an odd, ugly gurgle.
I blink and rub my face in time to see Kit Summerday slump to his hands and knees, the knife protruding from the top of his leg.
Behind him Asim, his hand still covered in Kit’s blood where he pushed the knife into his flesh, stands trembling as uncontrollably as I am.
~
Alaia
“Wait, Alaia!” Alaia half ran up the stairs, through the big hallway and didn’t stop until she was on the gravel drive outside. There was a tree, a yew with roots so deep in the ground it didn’t require rain. It had been here long before the drought, it would be here afterwards too. If there was an afterwards.
“I can’t do this.” Alaia rested against the tree. “I’m sorry. All those girls. I just can’t watch. I can’t pretend I want to buy them. This is evil Dai. True evil. All the time growing up I only thought about me. Me escaping, me getting an education, me being allowed to walk outside unaccompanied. I thought I was a prisoner, but these girls are more prisoner than I ever was!”
Dai and Missy drew level with her. Dai reached out and stroked her arm. “I know. I feel sick too.” He glanced over his shoulder. “But Zeb’ll wonder what on earth we’re playing at, running out like that.”
“Zeb needs putting up against a wall and shooting.” Missy hissed.
“I agree. Don’t look now, he’s coming this way.”
Zeb, accompanied by two men, both dressed in army gear, crunched over the gravel.
Alaia turned her head aside so she didn’t have to see him. Everything inside her felt twisted up, as if she was absorbing the sin just by being here. For a moment she longed for the security of her own home and her parents.
“Am I to take it you’ve changed your minds about purchasing any merchandise?” Zeb asked.
“They’re not merchandise, they’re people.” Alaia said without turning to look at him. “How can you treat them like that?”
Zeb looked almost hurt. “I treat them very well indeed. I know traders who are far less pleasant. I don’t like selling girls with whip marks all over them.”
“Just brands.”
“The brand helps keep check of who we have. It’s hardly particularly painful, and it’s quicker than a tattoo.” He nodded at Missy, still veiled in her borrowed niqab. “It’s not that bad, is it?”
Missy didn’t answer, she didn’t like the way his eyes bored directly into hers.
“I know who you are under there.” Zeb said. “I’m not a fool. I’ve met enough Muslim men with their wives. Their wives never, ever look directly at me. And certainly not with any hatred. You keep looking at me as if you want to slit my throat.” Then he grinned. “And your eyes are very distinctive. I don’t get many orientals. You can’t hide those slitty eyes.”
Dai shifted until he was standing between Missy and Zeb.
“Am I right?” Zeb continued in a very conversational way, although Dai and Alaia became sharply aware that the men at his side were both armed. He shifted his attention to Dai. “Only you were already identified as Daichi Hisakawa. I see you managed not to get arrested. Still, you might as well tell me why you’re here.”
He nodded to one of the men who stepped forward towards Missy. Missy jumped backwards, the stupid abaya was long and impeded movement.
“There are three of you.” Zeb pointed out. “And two of you are women.” He nodded at Alaia. “Or whatever non-binary name you want to be known as. It’s all the same to me. I’ll sell slaves to anyone, I don’t discriminate.”
“I think we should go.” Dai said, already realising that the big, mechanical gates that had swung open so easily when he announced that he was interested in purchasing slaves from Zeb, would be unlikely to permit him to leave. The railings were high.
“No.” Zeb said. “I think you should all stay.” He moved forwards suddenly, grabbed Missy’s niqab, and wrenched it away from her face. “That’s better. I do prefer to see a pretty face.” He looked at all three visitors. “So, shall we stop the game and you can tell me why you’re here – not that I’m not grateful that you returned my runaway slave.”
“She’s not your slave.”
“I have the papers that says she is. I can enforce that quite easily, I can’t see how you can stop me.”
One of the men tapped his gun. “If I have any of you shot, nobody will investigate. You’re on my property Mr. Hisakawa.” His turned his icy eyes onto Missy. “So, tell me why you’re here.”
Missy, now feeling bolder, pushed a hand through her hair that was sticking to her scalp with sweat. It was good to breathe again. “I’m looking for Sylvester Jourdete.” She said. Zeb frowned.
“That’s my father. Why’d you want to see him?”
“I nee
d to talk to him. Then we’ll go, I promise.”
Zeb chuckled at that. “I don’t think you quite get this. You’re still my legal property. Any of the border police will agree with me. You’re not going anywhere.” He looked at Alaia. “And you’re a pretty little thing, even with your hair cropped like that. Are you from the BSI?”
Alaia nodded.
“Muslim?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t know why you find the idea of slavery so abhorrent then, your people have always done it. Still, I don’t have any legal claim over you and I have an agreement with the BSI not to sell Muslim girls. They have a thing about that.”
“Can I please see your father!” Missy asked, desperate. “You have no idea how important it might be!”
“Slaves don’t get to make demands.” He nodded to one of the men beside him. “Take her back downstairs will you.”
“No!”
Missy, unable to bear returning to those underground rooms, began to run, but her abaya made her movements slow and clumsy.
“Jesus Christ!” Zeb cursed. “Get after her!”
One of the men, as long and lean as Dai, gave chase on wiry legs and caught her before she had run fifty yards. He dragged her back towards Zeb.
“I’ve never known someone give me this much trouble.”
Gripping the hair at the back of her head where her brand was still tender, the man brought her to Zeb. He reached out and grabbed her face so she couldn’t look away. “I’ve already told you what I do to my property when it won’t behave -”
He didn’t get any further in his threat. Missy clamped her teeth down hard on his hand, biting through the flesh until she tasted blood. He howled and jolted backwards.
Missy seized her moment, wriggled free of the grip that held her and began to run again.
“For fuck’s sake!” Zeb yelled, clutching his bleeding hand. “Shoot the bitch in the leg or something!”
One of the men drew his pistol and aimed it at Missy. Dai leapt forwards and punched him harder than he’d ever punched anyone in his life. The man fell heavily backwards with Dai sprawled on top of him, holding his wrist so that he couldn’t shoot.
The second man, broader and heavily built, drew his own pistol and aimed it at Dai.
Missy, now running as fast as she could given her voluminous garments, stopped abruptly with a sudden, terrified jolt at the sound of the gunshot.
She turned in time to see Alaia, who had intercepted the bullet meant for Dai, sink to the gravel and stay there, her borrowed, white thawb turning red.
~
~ Twenty–Eight ~
Elsie
“Run.” Asim grabs my arm and begins propelling me towards the door. I pull away.
“You were going to betray your own uncle!”
“No I wasn’t!” He snaps. “I really wasn’t. I only wanted to cross the border because Alaia went off with Dai and Missy. You were the one who went and told him about Uncle Baraq!”
That accusation hits its mark. I half let Asim pull me to the door, then I stop.
“We can’t just let him die.” I say, running to Kit’s side. He’s making gulping noises but he isn’t dead.
“I – I didn’t mean to stab him.” Asim says. “I didn’t. I just grabbed the knife, I only meant to threaten him.”
There’s blood on his thigh and saturating his trouser leg, turning everything red and soggy; this requires a doctor and I’m not a doctor.
“We have to elevate you leg.” I decide, but Kit pushes me away.
“There’s a doctor downstairs.” He commands. “Go and find her.”
“Downstairs? You mean where the slaves are kept.” I’m not ever going down there again. “I met her. She branded me.”
He’s losing so much blood now, I wonder if Asim hit an artery? Do I care whether Kit dies? He just murdered Baraq although Baraq was trying to kill him and I don’t know why. I don’t understand any of this.
Asaim sighs. “Go and find help.” He commands, kneeling beside Kit. “Go on Elsie. I know basic first aid.” He’s already ripping at his clothes to make a tourniquet.
“So do I.” I say. Only right now I feel my first aid has been wiped out of my brain along with the rest of my life. Asim concentrates on Kit while his uncle lies only a few feet away. I think I want to stop existing right now.
But I can’t.
I run to the door and out into the big hallway, I can feel my heart thumping faster than ever. How do I find help?
“Help!” I shout rather pathetically. “Please, help me!”
Nobody comes so I run through the hallway and shout louder.
“Help me!”
This house is huge, there are doors and archways leading to other rooms everywhere and I’m starting to panic. I’m useless. I always thought I might be, but now I realise I am. I must be. That’s why everyone leaves me, because I can’t keep my world together. If Baraq and Kit had never met, Baraq would still be alive. I’m the common denominator there, me. I as good as killed Baraq.
I start to sob so desperately I can barely shout and run directly into a white, wooden plinth supporting a blue-patterned Chinese vase. I can’t stop the whole thing overbalancing and it falls onto the polished floorboards and shatters with a sound that seems to scream in my ears. I bet that vase was expensive and now it’s in pieces just like the Japanese one Gran had. The one with Missy’s bible and the locket hidden in it.
Maybe that’s it? Maybe the locket is bad luck. Everything’s gone wrong since I found it.
“Elsie?” There’s a kind voice behind me and somebody places their hands on my shoulders and gently turns me around. “Elsie, what are you doing here sweetheart?”
Through blurry eyes I find myself staring into the soft gaze belonging to Hajjah Jourdete. I give a long sniff.
“Mrs. Jourdete?”
Hajjah smiles. “Look at you, you’re white as a ghost. What’s wrong.” She doesn’t seem bothered about the broken vase at all.
“Kit – Mr. Summerday, he’s bleeding badly...” I tell her. Her face adopts a look of concern and she takes my hand and opens a nearby door.
“Sylvester, there’s a problem.” She calls, and old Sylvester Jourdete appears, beaming at me through his glasses.
“My, Elsie. It’s good to see you again.”
“It’s Kit, Sylvester.” Hajjah tells him, and then everything becomes a flurry of movement as Sylvester takes charge of the situation.
I watch as the doctor is called, the same doctor who branded me with as much concern as she might stamp a library book. I cringe back when she arrives to tend Kit’s leg. What will they do about Baraq?
“Elsie?” Hajjah crouches in front of me and offers a glass of water. “Elsie, are you all right?”
I don’t take the water, my hands are shaking too much to hold it.
“Is he...going to be all right?”
“They both are I think.”
I open my eyes wide. “Both?”
Hajjah offers a gentle smile. “Oh sweetheart, you thought the other man was dead?” She shakes her head. “He’s not dead, just badly injured. He’s lost a lot of blood, but Doctor Lewis thinks he’ll pull through.”
I smile at this news and more tears come to my eyes.
“I….I don’t understand,” I say. “Why are you and Mr. Jourdete here?” They live in Kingsheath. Kingsheath is another world, another reality.
She laughs, a silvery, tinkly laugh that makes the whole world feel like a better place.
“This is Sylvester’s house.” She tells me. “I mean he owns it. We don’t actually live here.”
I digest this. “This is...I mean….I was kept here. They buy slaves.”
Hajjah’s expression becomes a frown. “Sylvester doesn’t approve of the business his son runs. It was a bit of a mess really, the inheritance. The house passed to Sylvester but the business passed to Zebedee since nobody else would touch it. They have to remain cordial I’m afraid.”
Hajjah sighs. “I know, but there’s nothing to stop him in the Border. I do wish one of those women’s marches would come and bombard the house sometimes, but I’m afraid Zeb’s security men would just turn their guns on them.” She pauses. “Although they might run away. They’re cowards really who like playing at soldiers.”
“You can’t agree with slavery.”
“I don’t, nor does Sylvester. But what can we do? Zeb’s family.”
“You could not come here.” I say hotly. “You could stop letting him think you approve by visiting him.” To me that seems obvious. Hajjah gazes at me as though I’m a toddler trying to grasp politics.
“If Sylvester and I didn’t keep Zeb in hand I think the poor girls would suffer far more than they do. Zeb is determined to make a success of the business, and things like keeping a doctor on call at all times eats into his profits.”
I feel incensed by all of this. “He shouldn’t be making a profit out of human trafficking at all.”
“I know.” Hajjah agrees. “Unfortunately, Zeb’s isn’t the only Slave Trader in the Border. If I could close down this whole, filthy business tomorrow I would. But I can’t. Any sort of regulation is treated as an attack on freedom.”
“But the girls aren’t free.”
“No.” Hajjah says. “They’re not are they? But as long as they’re brought into the Border already as slaves, then the Border won’t look at introducing any sort of law to combat it. Meanwhile, NuTru won’t admit that their policies towards white slavery and the wolves is so damn racist.”
“You can’t be racist towards white people.” I say, parroting my old teacher. “We….we have privilege.”
Hajjah snorts. “Do you? You might have done, a hundred years ago. I think NuTru has succeeded in redistributing any privilege you had so well that indigenous, heterosexual citizens of Old Britain are the most oppressed people of all.” She strokes my hair with gentle fingers. “Everyone knows the Wolves are Muslim, but that protects them. It’s considered the lesser of two evils to let them do whatever they want rather than be called Racist or Islamaphobic.”
