Times of Trouble

by Victoria Rollison

  Chapter 2

  When she left her family, she told them she was going to find a better life. Her mother was devastated to see her leave so young, but she had no way of stopping her. There wasn’t enough money to keep her at school, and her younger brothers and sisters needed mothering more than she did. She could hardly believe her luck when the man came to their house, and offered her a job as a nanny in London. Was it really as easy as that to move to another country? With a job in England, she would send them as much money as she possibly could. Her friends were so jealous she was going to London. That’s where the celebrities lived; that’s where people had a chance to make it big. But when she arrived, the job wasn’t what she thought at all. She told him she'd never done anything like it before. He didn’t seem to mind though, and was hardly listening when she checked to make sure he knew how old she was.

  ‘You are beautiful, Veronica. You are going to be a huge star,’ was all he said.

  The first scene they shot wasn’t as bad as she thought it might be. There was only one man, and it didn’t last long. They told her what they wanted her to say, and what they wanted her to do. It almost was like acting, sort of. Her English wasn't great, but luckily they didn't care. They seemed pleased it was the first time she had had sex. She would never admit to her family she lost her virginity this way. But you had to lose it somehow, and wasn’t this quite an exciting way to do it? It hurt a lot, but she knew it probably would; a friend told her the first time was always like that. The man was experienced at least, and he didn’t make her feel uncomfortable. She even felt proud of herself at the end, when he told her how well she had done, how many great shots they got. It gave her enough confidence to feel she could get through the second scene only two days later. Different hotel room, same crew, different actors.

  These men weren’t as nice as the first man. They were rough, and hardly said anything to her. One threw her all over the bed, changing positions every few seconds, making the sex disjointed and painful. And the takes all seemed to last forever too, much longer than she was comfortable with. There were at least three men in each scene, each one with more energy than the last. She tried to make it look like she was enjoying herself. She tried to ignore the pain searing up her thighs, and making her stomach hurt. She didn’t want to make them angry if she didn’t perform.

  She felt sad at the end of that day, and the sadness hadn’t gone away since. The man who hired her let her stay in his apartment, and sometimes took her out to bars. But he also expected something in return. She thought he might have liked her to begin with, but it soon became clear he was only interested in sex. Whenever he wanted. Sometimes he told her she was doing well in the films, but she felt something wasn’t right. Why did he let the men be so rough? Not just rough, but cruel. One slapped her really hard in the face and the crew didn't even react. Another one tied her wrists behind her back and threw her on the floor. She almost cried out in pain, but managed to stay professional, even though her leg was bruised and sore. Then the man she was staying with disappeared, but luckily she had a key to his place, so she stayed there alone. No one ever said where he’d gone, but the work kept going. Other men were organised to deliver her to the set. She hated it more and more each time.

  She didn’t know who to turn to about how she felt. Nearly everyone she met in England seemed wrapped up in themselves, and not at all interested in her. She managed to make one friend, a girl she overheard speaking her language at the grocery store. She didn't tell her what she did for a living though; she was too embarrassed to explain. Then there was a girl on the set of the film one afternoon, to whom she spoke for a little while, admitting she wasn’t enjoying herself. The girl, Molly was her name, was getting her makeup done at the same time for filming in another room. She was older, and seemed really friendly, motherly almost. She wished she could talk to her again now. But she hadn’t seen her since then, and that was months ago. At the time she told herself if this girl was ok with the filming, maybe she was just immature. Maybe this was what it was like to be a real actress.

  Today she overheard them say it was the final scene, so at least she could look forward to having a break for a while. She had been brought to a different hotel as usual, but something seemed strange. There were usually a crew of three or four on the cameras and the lights, a lady doing makeup and a couple of younger guys who ran errands and bossed her around. But today there were only two men whom she'd never seen before. They told her to do her own makeup, and didn’t even give her anything to wear. Usually they gave her lingerie; expensive lacy pieces that made her feel grown up. But she was only wearing plain white briefs and a black bra today. Was this ok for the film? When she went into the bedroom, she could see Big Ben from the window. Maybe she could do a tour of London once she was paid, and explore this city she was living in.

  While one of the men was organising the lights, the door opened and another man strolled into the room. Unlike the other two, he was wearing a suit; she thought he was perhaps the boss. She had never seen him before.

  The man with the lights said: ‘We’re almost ready to go, Jared.’

  The newcomer had a smile on his face as he opened the mini bar, and took out a bottle of champagne. ‘We’ve nearly finished. Let’s celebrate before we start. Lance, Ian, do you want some bubbly?’ He poured four glasses of champagne.

  Then he said to her: ‘I’ve got a special treat for you. It will make this one better than the others.’

  She didn’t know what he meant by this, but could sense it was not a good idea to disagree. He handed her three small tablets, and watched closely as she obediently put them in her mouth and took a small sip of champagne. She hated the taste of alcohol, and hardly noticed the bitter taste of the pills as they slid down her throat. The three men gulped their champagne, and then got down to business.

  The scene started much like the other scenes. Jared stood in the corner, and watched as one of the men filmed. The third man positioned her on the bed, and then striped down to his underpants. Usually there were lines to say, but she hadn't been given any today, and the man seemed to want to get started with the sex straight away. She tried to look pleased as he started to rub her breasts and put his fingers inside her. But unlike other times, she was finding it hard to concentrate on how she was performing. A dark cloud seemed to be forming in her mind, making the room more muted; everything seemed slow and grey. Just as she felt her eyelids close, she was shocked awake by the man tearing her underwear off in a violent rip. He used one hand to hold her down, and the other to pull on the cotton. The elastic burnt her skin as it snapped. His fumbling hand tore at her bra, breaking the straps, and leaving red marks on her shoulders. Tears welled in her eyes. She had hoped this scene wouldn’t be as rough as the others, but it looked like it was going to be even rougher.

  She knew she shouldn’t struggle, but she couldn’t help it when he forced her legs apart, and started pushing himself inside her. He drove in hard and deep, with more force than she could bear. The pain was worse than it had ever been before. And even though her head felt fuzzy and dazed, this didn’t stop her feeling like her insides were being torn apart. He thrust so hard her head was slamming into the backboard of the bed. She cried out in pain, no longer caring what they thought of her performance. She just wanted it to end. She could see Jared standing in the corner behind the camera man, completely ignoring her eyes pleading with him to make it stop. The man started clawing at her breasts, leaving scratches down her chest and stomach. No one seemed to mind her crying and pleading. Even with her mind jumbled, she could tell they wanted her to be desperate. They wanted her to look like she was trying to get away.

  The cameraman was close to the bed now, and seemed to be focusing in on her, enjoying her anguished despair. Just when she thought it might be about to end, the man on top of her seemed to get another wave of energy, and attacked her with renewed force, throwing her body into a new position, and twisting her legs towards him like she was
a doll. She felt clumsy and heavy as she tried to escape his grip. As he changed position again, this time pushing her back against the top of the bed with a sickening crunch, she finally saw Jared move towards the bed. How could he watch her go through this? When he lent in to speak to the cameraman, she heard his words: ‘Get on with it, he’s almost done’.

  Get on with what?

  She struggled even harder, trying to force the heavy body off her. But she was wedged between the man and the bed head. The harder she struggled, the more force he used to thrust into her. The pain got so bad she almost wished she could black out, to make it go away. She tried to scream but his hand was over her mouth. And just as she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, both his huge hands closed around her throat. She couldn’t get any air into her lungs, and everything did indeed start to go black.

  The cameraman moved the camera even closer to her, zooming in on her face. She could see Jared still standing in the corner, motionless. His face was devoid of concern, and even had a glint of satisfaction that repulsed her. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she tried to open her mouth enough to bite the man’s wrist, but he was too strong; she couldn’t move her jaw. She didn’t want them to have the satisfaction of looking into her eyes, so she closed them, and clenched her mouth shut. Her head felt ready to explode; the pressure was unbearable. And then it was over.

  Chapter 3

  Mum avoided me for the rest of the day. She was sick of me asking about the mortgage, and I think she was also worrying about how she was going fix everything, since she was clearly out of ideas. I tried to go to sleep early, but my mind wouldn’t let me rest. Part of me wanted to storm into mum’s room, and demand an explanation. The other part wanted to run to the computer, and cancel the auction. I did finally fall asleep, but my dreams were full of dark imaginings.

  I slept in as usual, having no real reason to get out of bed. Eventually curiosity motivated me to drag myself to the computer. Mum was outside gardening, the clip of her secateurs as she deadheaded the roses audible through the study window. I sat staring at the auction for a while. There were a few people watching Picasso, and one person had already put in a bid. I felt better knowing we would have a solution to the immediate problem - some cash. I was so engrossed in watching my piano disappear, I didn’t hear mum walk into the room, and peer over my shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She knew as soon as she saw the screen what my plan was. She stared at me with a look of such pained horror that I jumped out of my chair, and wrapped her in a hug. Mum wasn’t expecting my suddenly intimate embrace, and almost toppled sideways. As we righted ourselves, she started to protest.

  ‘Darling, you can’t sell Picasso. It’s like selling part of the family. I just can’t let you do it.’

  ‘I can get at least $5,000 for him. That would pay the mortgage for quite a while. When you’re ready to tell me what the hell happened to the $80,000, we can talk about what we need to do once this money runs out.’

  Finally mum looked defeated; the mention of the exact amount of the debt rattled her. She knew we needed the money.

  ‘But your students. You start a new term next week. What will they play when you teach them?’

  I hadn’t thought that far so I just shrugged.

  The tension in the house was so thick, I sat outside on the back lawn to eat my breakfast, hoping the cool breeze might help me to breathe easier. Mum came outside, and stood for a while as if deciding whether to speak or not. Eventually she sat down, making an effort to be cheerful, even though the stress was seeping out of her like sweat.

  ‘Why don’t we go for a walk at the park? Then I can explain what’s been going on.’

  ‘So you’ve decided to tell me after all?’

  ‘What with you selling Picasso, I know it’s too late to keep this all from you.’

  I nodded in agreement, and we both went inside silently to get changed. For me, it meant throwing on a t-shirt and a pair of old cargo pants. Mum always took much longer to get ready, so I passed the time by playing a few of my favourite piano pieces, aware of having to make the most of my time left with Picasso. I ended up with the last movement of the Schubert B flat sonata I‘d won him with, which was appropriate, since it was the last of Schubert's ‘Last Sonatas’.

  Mum looked just as she always did after cleaning herself up from gardening, with her freshly applied mask of makeup. Even when on school holidays and facing a crisis, she still saw no reason to dress down. I'd cheerfully wear track pants every day for the rest of my life, but mum thought that was vulgar. She dressed carefully each day in a dress suit, or short sleeved shirt, skirt and cardigan, stockings and sensible heels. Her slim, short frame had been the same size for my entire life, and some of the clothes she wore were nearly as old as me. Her long fair hair was always carefully wrapped into a bun, the flyaways plastered to the side of her head with hair spray. I never understood where she found the motivation. Or why she felt the need to look like a librarian.

  We barely spoke on the way. On our last long walk, mum told me she too was mourning the loss of my career as a pianist. My first reaction was outrage. How dare she tell me she was sad? How was that meant to make me feel better? But as she kept talking, I realised she wasn’t sorry I failed. She was just sorry I wasn’t going to be happy. She wanted me to live my dreams as much as I did. I felt then that mum and I were in this together, and maybe everything would be ok. The day after, I finally worked up enough courage to place an ad in the local paper for people wanting piano lessons. Eventually I had a couple of enquiries, and two students soon became three, then five and then eight. It wasn't exactly a full time job, or even part time really, since the lessons were only half an hour each a week. And it wasn't the job I wanted; it was just the only option I seemed to have.

  I hoped after teaching my first lesson, I would feel some satisfaction at guiding a new pupil around the piano. But I hated it. I absolutely hated it. I had no patience with my students. I had no concept of how difficult it was for a beginner to play the piano. And to top it all off, I didn't even care if my students never got any better. Listening to them clumsily prod and trip over the keys just gave me a headache. I looked forward to the end of each lesson, so I could go back to my bored stupor. All these students would have to be called this afternoon. How embarrassing to cancel their lessons because I didn't have a piano. But we had nothing else of real value to sell, so I had done the only thing possible. Sold the goose that laid the golden egg (if you could call $25 for a half hour lesson a golden egg).

  I stood by the car waiting for mum to get out, but she seemed to be stalling again.

  'I can see how difficult this is, mum, but how bad can it be?’

  I’ve never been a patient person and now I was getting to the point where I wanted to shake her and see if the words just tumbled out. Eventually she stepped out of the car and started walking so briskly, I had to trot keep up.

  ‘Ok Ellen. A few months ago, I got a very strange email from an address I didn’t recognise. At first I thought it was spam, and I almost deleted it. But luckily I didn’t, because god knows what would have happened if I had.’

  Visions of Nigerian email scams, and suckers sending thieves their bank account details over the internet, flooded into my mind. Please don’t tell me mum had fallen for something like that?

  ‘Can't you tell it any quicker ...’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m getting there. So, the email was from an address I didn’t recognise.’

  She’d already said that.

  ‘What did the email say?’

  Much to my surprise, she'd brought a prop. She pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket and handed it to me. She had printed the email.

  The first thing I noticed was the subject line: ‘Ob La Di Ob La Da’. And I immediately knew, just as mum must have, who this email was from. The message was short, but the implications of what it said caught in my throat: ‘Except it doesn’t. I need somebody. Not jus
t anybody’. To anyone other than my mum and me, this message would have been meaningless spam. But I could see what mum saw. It was from my sister Sophie. And she was in trouble.

  My mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour. Mum could tell I had cottoned on. We both stopped walking.

  ‘Ob La Di Ob La Da, Life goes on, Bra, La-la how the life goes on.’ I spoke the words in a monotone; it wasn’t the moment for song.

  Mum nodded. ‘And she needs help.’

  ‘Help, I need somebody, help, not just anybody, or else her life won’t go on.’ More Beatles lyrics.

  Mum nodded again, this time more slowly.

  The email had been sent from a nonsense address, tpjk67@hotmail.com, on the 15th October last year.

  ‘What happened when you wrote back? How could she have known your email address? You haven't had one for long’.

  Mum was now red in the face, her forced calmness disintegrating.

  ‘When you put my name in a search engine on the internet, my email address comes up as the contact on my book-club's website. That’s how she must have found me. When I replied, the email bounced back. It said the address didn’t exist. But it did exist because it was right there. I must have tried it 20 times, and it just kept bouncing back. I asked her where she was, what was wrong, how could I help? But the message just kept coming up that there was a permanent error, from some mailer daemon.’ Mum’s voice started to shake. She sounded shrill and panicked as she recounted her frustration.

  ‘The account must have been deleted after she sent the email,’ I said. ‘But why didn’t she tell you where she was? How were you meant to help her if she didn’t give you any details?’