by DC Brockwell
“Nothing to report here. It’s been quiet.”
There had been a time when she’d loved him more than money. Stupid, now she thought about it. After all, a man couldn’t buy you the clothes you wanted, the make-up you wanted, or the dream home you yearned for. Money bought all those things, so why love a man when you should really love money? She would have done anything for him in those early days. Now, he was only interested in testing his girls, his All-Stars. Still he was a good friend and confidant, and she was happy he was here.
While glancing over the monitors one last time before she had to go and freshen up for a charity gala, Beattie noticed some commotion on camera five. Frederick was throwing things about in his room. Pressing a button that linked her to the internal speaker, she asked, “Frederick, what are you doing?” Her tone was intentionally hostile.
She watched as he stopped throwing his belongings and looked up at the camera.
“Let me the fuck out of here!” he hissed. “I’m going to rip your fucking head off, you bitch! Let me out!”
She stood and paused, watching him rage inside his three-by-three cell. Looking at him, it was only a matter of time before he completely broke down, which was sad, yet not entirely unexpected. After all, he was her (current) oldest bee; he’d been with her for five and a half years, and the record was five years and eight months. Since his time with her, he’d caught three sexually transmitted diseases – which her doctor had treated him for – he’d been beaten black and blue three times, and he’d lost both of his little fingers. Bees didn’t have a long shelf life, unfortunately. Oh well, it looked like she would be sending Walter out to replace him sooner than she’d hoped. “Calm down, Freddie, you don’t want to test me today; I’m not in the mood,” she said through the speaker. “You know what comes next.”
“Fuck you!”
“Not when you’re like this,” she replied, angrily pushing a button on a separate control panel, then watching as smoke started filling his room. He’d asked for it. He knew what would happen, and she’d have to deal with him in the morning.
“Bitch!” he shouted while coughing and spluttering.
Once the monitor had gone cloudy – and she could be sure, therefore, that he was unconscious – she pressed the red stop button. “Damn you for making me do this,” she snapped. “Now I’m going to have to think about an appropriate punishment…”
5
Lennox Garvey drove his Mitsubishi Shogun along the snowy narrow road leading to the Harrison farmhouse. At five to nine in the evening, the half-mile-long road was deserted; the Harrisons’ customers were always gone by half eight at the latest, and the road only led to the farm. It was more of a dirt track than a road – lined with potholes and ditches – but he’d traversed this lane so many times it didn’t bother him.
As he pulled up and parked outside the farmhouse, Lennox could feel the crunch of snow under his tyres. His boss, William Rothstein, had informed him that Alan and Beattie were out for the evening, so he would have to let himself in to make the pickup, which wasn’t unusual given the couple’s rich social life.
Lennox opened his door, pulled himself out, and walked around to the boot to retrieve the suitcase. It always amazed him how much money the “blood bunker” – as he called it – took on a daily basis; most days he had to count and sort about sixty grand in denominations of fifties, twenties, and tens. It always took him about half an hour to count, bind, and place the cash in the suitcase.
With the suitcase in one hand and a torch in the other, Lennox walked past the house and along the two-hundred-metre path until he came to the barn, his journey lit only by the glow from his torch.
With the temperature at about minus five, he’d made sure he was wearing suitable clothing: Caterpillar boots, jeans, a thick comfy jumper and a Parka jacket lined with fur. He missed his home country’s warmth – even after living in the UK for ten years, he still wasn’t used to the cold. What he would give to be back in his home city of Montego Bay, Jamaica. But his employment with William Rothstein had been part of a drug alliance between Rothstein and Lennox’s uncle, and he hadn’t been able to turn the job down.
Removing the thick plank of wood locking the barn doors, he leaned it upright against a wall to the right of the door. Then, picking up his suitcase, he opened the right-side door and walked into the large dark barn, the sound of breaking glass under his boots filling the room. Fumbling around on the wall next to the door, he found the light switch and flicked it on.
As there was a Land Rover parked over the hatch that led down to the basement, Lennox had to get in the four-by-four, start it up, and reverse it until it was clear of the hatch. It was something he had to do a lot; the Harrisons used the car as an insurance policy, in case one of the captives managed to escape their cells – and they were, quite literally cells. If one of them managed to get as far as the hatch, well, they certainly wouldn’t be going any further with a heavy Land Rover parked over them, or the glass strewn over the floor. The bees were banned from owning footwear.
After opening the hatch, Lennox walked down about eight steps until he felt for another light switch on the wall, and when he flicked it on the basement lit up, revealing its horrific secret.
He couldn’t help but shudder. The entire set-up had never sat right with him; he knew what went on down here, but who was he to argue with his boss? Who was he to tell him how he should run his affairs? It was true, he’d done some pretty horrible things in his time working for his uncle but kidnapping people and making them have sex with five or six people a day – while keeping them held captive – was wrong on so many levels.
And then there was all the other nasty shit that went on down here too. Lennox knew what Alan and Beattie did to these poor people once they had served their purpose (obviously there was no way they were going to let them go) and he knew how they did it too. The whole set-up left a bad taste in his mouth. After all, these were ordinary people who’d been plucked off the street and subjected to vile actions by even viler people. He’d been able to choose his life, and everyone else in his business had chosen theirs. They knew the risks that came with their lifestyle choices, but the poor men and women locked in this dungeon didn’t have a choice.
Yeah, it left a very bad taste.
Still, for a dungeon, it was plush. When he descended all thirty steps, he came to the reception area, complete with a fully stocked bar and several comfy sofas and armchairs. The Harrisons sometimes entertained their clients down here while the poor bastards were locked away, listening to the parties, the laughter.
The cells were situated along the left and right walls – Alan’s All-Stars to the left and Bea’s Bees to the right – ten rooms on each side. At the far end of the bunker was an old furnace room, and next to that was the main office. At the other end, off to the left, was a row of five more rooms, nicknamed C Wing; it was in those rooms that the really vile shit happened. Opposite that were the restrooms – if you could call them that. There were five lavatories and showers, alternating shower, toilet, shower, toilet, and all open-plan so they could be seen taking a shit and showering. Further along there was space for sundries, such as bed sheets, towels, and everything else the Harrisons needed to run their business as hygienically as they could.
Lennox walked past the rooms – which were all eerily quiet – until he came to the fifth room on the right. There were angry frustrated cries coming from that room, and intrigued, he pulled the peephole shutter across to look inside: a man was lying naked on the bed, his wrists, ankles, and neck bound by chains that were linked to thick brown leather cuffs. He could see that the man had had both his little fingers removed. He was thrashing about violently, writhing in pain and anger. Kimiko was in there talking to the man, trying to calm him down. Lennox couldn’t hear what she was saying.
He loved his exchanges with Kimiko. She was easy to talk to, and stunning to look at; it was a shame she was off-limits. He closed the peephole as Kimiko started
walking towards the door, then he waited for her to leave the room.
Lennox stood back as she closed the door behind her, as though she were trying not to wake a baby. Everything she did was so graceful and elegant; it was one of the things he liked about Kimiko. She only spoke when necessary, never for the sake of it. He guessed it was part of her upbringing in Okinawa.
“I try calm him, but nothing I say work,” she whispered.
“Nothing can help him,” Lennox replied in his thick Jamaican accent. “You take on too much responsibility, Kimiko. Go on up to your room and relax. And stop worrying; that guy’s too far gone to be helped.”
He watched as she walked along the room and up the stairs, her long Japanese kimono covering her feet and giving the illusion she was gliding. She was cute, he thought, as he picked up the suitcase and torch and walked the rest of the way to the main office.
When he got to the door, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a set of keys, slipping a small silver key in the lock and letting himself in. After switching on the lights, he walked straight over to the wall safe and used a different key – this one long and thin – to unlock it.
Sat neatly on the top shelf of the safe were stacks of money sorted into fifties, twenties, and tens, and taking the stacks out, he placed them carefully on the desk in front of the bank of monitors. He checked the monitors to find that the nineteen prisoners were quiet, either watching TV, asleep, or nakedly restrained; he only saw two in restraints, the one he’d just checked on and another man he’d not seen before, who looked asleep.
Before Lennox started counting the money, he glanced at a photo of Beattie Harrison sat on a shelf on the wall to his right. Every time he came here to collect the takings, he took a long look at that photo of Beattie, showing her sat by the edge of a pool in some hotel resort. She was wearing a bikini, sat with both legs slightly raised, her arms leaning on her knees. He only wished he’d known her back then.
Who was he kidding, anyway? He knew Beattie was off-limits; her father would kill him if he so much as touched her, that was for certain. In fact, when he’d moved over here from Montego Bay, William Rothstein had read him the riot act on that very matter. Rothstein had even said that he didn’t care whose nephew he was; if he so much as looked at his daughter a certain way, he’d be a dead man, alliance or no alliance. Rothstein had also said that his daughter’s business was worth too much to him to disrupt it over an affair, or worse. Rothstein didn’t really care about his daughter; he was far more concerned with keeping his cash cow milked.
Lennox often thought that Rothstein was far more dangerous than his uncle could ever be, and his uncle was the single biggest exporter of heroin and cocaine on the island, having his fair share of problems that had ended in wars with rival dealers. All this death and destruction was nothing, however, compared to Rothstein’s legacy; he had heard countless stories of his boss’s exploits as a younger man, stories that made him wince.
When he’d first flown over to join Rothstein’s network, Lennox had been the only black man on Rothstein’s payroll, which had brought its fair share of trials and tribulations. He’d had to work twice as hard to prove both his competence and his loyalty, yet on the other hand he’d found hooking up with women to be much easier in the UK.
He’d had many run-ins with Rothstein’s white employees but none that he couldn’t work out – except one that had been resolved by him caving a man’s head in with a hammer. He remembered how the claw end had wedged itself in the man’s skull and he’d had to yank on it twice to release it. Instead of being angry, Rothstein had congratulated him, saying that he never really trusted or liked the guy anyway.
Lennox took a final glance at the photo of Beattie, and got to work counting the day’s takings. He would be done by ten, when he’d drive back to Rothstein’s home to deliver the suitcase. After that, Lennox would be meeting his date for a bite to eat. He’d be there by quarter to eleven.
He glanced at the photo of Beattie again…
6
Day 6
Tuesday, 16th January
Kimiko missed home; she so badly wanted to be back there, where she could embrace her mother and father. Most of all, she missed her younger sister, Fumiko, whom she adored. As Kimiko showered she tried hard not to cry, tried not to remember playing with Fumiko in the fields behind their home. This country was horrible and dirty.
Although she hated living here, she was grateful to Mrs Harrison for the chance to work and earn money – money that she sent back home to her parents through the Harrisons as soon as she’d earned it. Her family were so poor they needed every penny she sent them, and it made her feel good that she was able to help them – really help them.
After stepping out of the shower and reaching across for a towel, Kimiko wiped her face, her arms, her chest, her tummy, and finally her legs and feet.
She knew she had to pull herself together; Mrs Harrison would be angry if she thought she wasn’t happy – grateful even – to be here. And she certainly didn’t want to make her employer angry, not for a second.
“Kimiko, honey, are you almost ready? We’ve got a lot to do this morning,” Mrs. Harrison’s voice asked through the door.
“I be ready soon,” she replied, her voice strained. “Five minute.”
She had to hurry. Mrs Harrison hated to be kept waiting. Kimiko had to admit she didn’t like her employer as a person – and would even go as far as saying she disliked her. Even more than disliking Mrs Harrison, Kimiko was afraid of her, which made her want to be all the more obedient.
Kimiko knew it could be a lot worse for her, however, as she could have been placed in the adjoining house with the support staff who were mostly Eastern European, hailing from the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Serbia, and other poorer countries. They were made to sleep in a two-bedroom cottage next to the farmhouse in horrible squalid conditions, while she had her own bedroom, access to the whole house, and the freedom to come and go as she pleased – not that she ever left the farm considering she had no access to transport.
More importantly, she could have been placed in one of the bee rooms, forced to have sex with as many paying customers as Mrs Harrison deemed fit, and Kimiko was grateful to have escaped that particular fate; if she’d been put in there she would be dead by now, her body incinerated in the huge furnace.
No, compared to the rest of the support staff and the bees, she lived a more or less pleasant life – other than the tasks she was asked to perform.
Finding her turquoise kimono in the wardrobe, she tied it around her waist, slipped on some black plimsolls, and quickly walked out of her bedroom, along the landing and down the stairs. Kimiko walked with speed, knowing that she and Mrs Harrison had chores to do before the customers started arriving. She had to wash and prepare the New Bee, Danny, and then help with Frederick.
Kimiko had a horrible feeling that something bad was going to happen to Freddie today, which was why she’d tried to calm him down the previous night. She had grown fond of Freddie since he’d arrived over five years earlier, but she had worked for Mrs Harrison long enough to know the end was coming.
In fact, it was sixteen long years since Kimiko had first arrived here, having been persuaded to come and work for the Harrisons. Had it really been so long? Where had the time gone? Fumiko would be twenty-one, she thought, imagining a beautiful, strong, intelligent young lady. Kimiko smiled, just about managing to hold back the tears.
Sixteen years earlier, Kimiko met the Harrisons when they were holidaying on her island; she’d been selling fruit on her father’s stall in the centre of her village, and Mr and Mrs Harrison – who’d both been carrying backpacks and were in the process of sightseeing – stopped at her stall and bought apples for their journey. She remembered Mrs Harrison being so beautiful and glamorous, yet also friendly, and they’d soon struck up a conversation in Japanese. Her father had come over, impressed that white Westerners could speak his language so fluently, and after a long c
onversation, he offered them supper at their family home, as well as a place to stay for the night.
The Harrisons had been so pleasant, affable, and interesting back then. The fact they were able to speak her language fluently made them even more appealing.
A week later the Harrisons had returned, asking her father if Kimiko would be allowed to travel with them to England, to work for them. Her father – who immediately liked the idea – had asked her if she’d like to go, and although she’d steadfastly refused at the time (not wanting to leave her much younger sister) her father had persuaded Kimiko that she must go, that the extra money was needed and that this was a great opportunity for her to leave behind the poverty she’d been born into. Her mother had mirrored her father’s wishes, so reluctantly Kimiko had agreed. Just one week later she’d arrived at the farmhouse.
Her adjustment to her new situation was slow, and she’d felt homesick for months after the move, although the Harrisons had been very gentle and understanding – at least for the first couple of months. Her duties back then had been those of housekeeper and maid, essentially. She’d been warned never to go into the barn, to stay in the house and around the farm. She’d groomed the horses in the stable and had mucked them out, and she’d also helped Mrs Harrison with the fruit and vegetable allotments; it had been a relatively peaceful existence during those early days. Even so, she soon noticed people parking up outside the house, the activity around the barn having increased over those first couple of months.
Then one day, Mrs Harrison asked her to follow her into the barn, and it was on that day that she realised what was going on deep under the farm. Yes, it was on that day that her true duties were revealed; she finally understood why she’d been invited to work for them.
