The Mister

by James, E L

  Where the fuck is she?

  What the hell is she mixed up in?

  What do I do?

  How can she face those guys on her own?

  Fuck it. I have to find her.

  Where will she go?

  Home.

  Brentford.

  Yes.

  I dash down the hall to the drawing room and snatch the car keys from my desk, then run to the front door, stopping only to grab my coat.

  I feel sick, my stomach churning.

  There is no way those guys were from “immigration.”

  When I reach the garage, I press the electronic key, expecting the Discovery to open, but instead the Jag beeps to life.

  Shit. In my haste I’ve picked up the wrong key.

  Fuck it.

  I don’t have time to go back upstairs for the correct key. I clamber into the F-Type Jag and press the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I ease the car forward out of its parking space. The garage doors rise gradually, and I exit to the left onto the street and race to the end of the road, turning left again toward Chelsea Embankment. But that’s as far as I get. Traffic is slow because it’s Friday afternoon and the beginning of rush hour. The crowded roads exacerbate my anxiety and do nothing for my temper. I run through my interaction with the thugs repeatedly, looking for any clues as to what might have happened to Alessia. They sounded Eastern European. They looked rough. Alessia bolted—so she either knows them or believes they’re from the “immigration” department, which means she must be in the UK illegally. This doesn’t surprise me. She’s brought every conversation we’ve had about what she’s doing in London to an abrupt end.

  Oh, Alessia. What are you up to?

  And where the hell are you?

  I hope that she’s gone back to Brentford, because that’s where I’m headed.

  * * *

  Alessia sits on the train nervously fingering the small gold cross that hangs around her neck. It was her grandmother’s, and it’s the only possession she has that belonged to her dear nana. She treasures it. In times of stress, it brings her comfort. Though her mother and father are not religious, her grandmother was….She fiddles with it now and keeps repeating her mantra.

  Please keep them safe.

  Please keep them safe.

  Her anxiety is overwhelming. They found her. How? How do they know about Magda? She needs to know that Magda and Michal are okay. Normally she likes traveling by train, but today it’s too slow. As the train reaches Putney, Alessia knows that it will be another twenty minutes before it reaches Brentford.

  Please hurry.

  Her thoughts turn to Mister Maxim. At least he is safe, for now.

  Her heart stutters.

  Maxim.

  He kissed me.

  Twice.

  Twice!

  He said lovely words. About her.

  You’re beautiful.

  You’re stunning.

  And he kissed her!

  That’s how I feel.

  If circumstances were different, she would be ecstatic. She touches her fingers to her lips. It was a bittersweet moment. Her dreams were finally realized, only to be shattered by Dante—again.

  There’s no way she can be involved with the Mister. No. Maxim. His name is Maxim.

  She has brought such terrible danger to his home. She has to protect him.

  Zot! Her job.

  She will be out of a job. Nobody wants trouble coming to their front door and criminals like Dante threatening them.

  What will she do?

  She needs to be careful when she returns to Magda’s. She cannot let Dante find her there.

  She cannot.

  She must protect herself, too.

  Fear grips her throat, and she shudders. She hugs herself, trying to contain her distress. All her vague hopes and dreams are lost. And in a rare moment of self-pity, she rocks to and fro, trying to find some comfort and alleviate her fear.

  Why does the train have to take so long?

  It pulls in to Barnes station, and the doors open.

  “Please. Please hurry,” Alessia whispers, and her fingers find her gold cross once more.

  * * *

  I speed down the A4, my mind hopping from Alessia to those men and then to Kit as I dodge through the traffic.

  Kit? What would you do?

  He would have known. He always knew.

  I remember our Christmas holiday. Kit had been in such good form. Maryanne and I had joined him and Caroline at a jazz festival in Havana. A couple days later, we’d all flown down to St. Vincent and taken a boat to Bequia to spend Christmas together in a private villa. Maryanne had gone on to Whistler to ski and to spend New Year’s Eve with friends, and Caroline, Kit, and I had returned to the UK for Hogmanay.

  It had been an amazing week.

  And the day after New Year’s Day, Kit died.

  Or killed himself.

  There. I thought it.

  My unspoken suspicion.

  Damn it, Kit. You fucker.

  The A4 becomes the M4, and I spy the high-rise towers that dominate the Brentford landscape and signal that I’m near. I come off the motorway hitting the slip road at fifty miles per hour. I slow down, but fortunately, the lights at the junction are green, and I cruise through them thankful that I’d brought her home earlier in the week and know where she lives.

  Six minutes later I pull up in front of her house, leap out of the car, and dash up the short pathway. There are still clumps of snow on the grass and the sad remains of a snowman. The doorbell trills somewhere inside, but there’s no response. The house is empty.

  Fuck.

  Where is she?

  Apprehension overwhelms me. Where could she be?

  Of course! She’ll be coming here by train.

  I’d seen the sign for the station as I’d turned in to Church Walk. I sprint back down the path and turn right on to the main road. The station is less than two hundred meters on my left.

  Thank God it’s so close.

  As I dash down the station stairs, I see a train waiting on the far platform, but it’s heading into London. I stop and focus my attention. There are only two platforms, and the one I’m on is for trains traveling out of London. All I have to do is wait. An electronic display hanging overhead announces that the next train arrives at 15:07. I check my watch; it’s 15:03 now.

  I lean against one of the white iron pillars that support the station roof and wait. There are a few other commuters waiting for the train, too. Most of them, like me, are seeking shelter from the elements. I watch as the frigid wind blows a discarded crisp packet in gusts along the station platform and across the train tracks. But it doesn’t hold my attention for long. Every few seconds I glance at the empty track, praying for the London train to materialize.

  Come on. Come on. I will it to arrive.

  Finally the train appears around the bend, and it slowly—oh, so fucking slowly—pulls in to the station and stops. I stand up straight, my stomach churning with anxiety as the doors open and a few people alight from the train.

  Twelve of them.

  But not Alessia.

  Fucking hell.

  As the train leaves the station, I check the electronic sign again. The next train is due in fifteen minutes.

  That’s not too long.

  It’s a fucking age!

  Hell.

  I’m glad that even in my haste to leave the flat, I remembered my coat. It’s bloody cold. I cup and blow on my hands, stamp my feet, and pull up my coat collar in an effort to keep warm. Thrusting my hands into the pockets, I pace up and down the platform while I wait.

  My phone buzzes, and for some insane reason I think it might be Alessia, but of course she doesn’t have my number. It’s Car
oline. Whatever she wants can wait. I ignore the call.

  After an intolerable fifteen minutes, the 15:22 from London Waterloo comes into view around the bend. It slows as it approaches the station, and after an agonizing minute it stops.

  Time suspends.

  The doors open, and Alessia is first off the train.

  Oh, thank fuck.

  Relief nearly brings me to my knees, but just the sight of her calms me down.

  * * *

  When Alessia sees him, she stops short in complete astonishment. The other disembarking passengers stream past them as she and Maxim stare at each other, drinking each other in. The doors close with a hiss of compressed air, and the train gradually pulls out of the station, leaving them on their own.

  “Hello,” he says, breaking the silence between them as he approaches her. “You left without saying good-bye.”

  Her face falls, and her eyes fill with tears that spill down her cheeks.

  * * *

  Her anguish rips through me.

  “Oh, baby,” I whisper, and open my arms. She puts her face in her hands and begins to weep. Feeling at a loss, I fold her into my embrace and hold her. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” I whisper against her green woolly hat. She sniffles, and I lift her chin and plant a tender kiss on her forehead. “I mean it. I’ve got you.”

  Alessia’s eyes widen, and she pulls away. “Magda?” she whispers, alarmed.

  “Let’s go.” I take her hand, and together we hurry up the metal staircase and out onto the road. Her hand is cold in mine, and I want nothing more than to whisk her away to somewhere safe. But first of all I have to know what’s going on. What trouble she’s in. I only hope that she’ll open up and tell me.

  We walk quickly but in silence across the road and back to 43 Church Walk. At the front door, Alessia fishes out a key from her pocket, unlocks the door, and we both step inside.

  The front hallway is tiny and made more crowded by the two packing boxes that stand in the corner. Alessia removes her hat and anorak, and I take them from her and hang them on one of the pegs on the wall.

  “Magda,” she calls up the stairs while I shed my coat and hang it beside hers, but there’s no answer. The house is empty. I follow her into the tiny kitchen.

  Jesus, the place is a shoebox!

  From the threshold of the dated but tidy 1980s kitchen, I watch Alessia fill the kettle. She’s in her tight jeans and the green sweater that she wore the other day.

  “Coffee?” she asks.

  “Please.”

  “Would you like milk and sugar?”

  I shake my head. “No, thank you.” I loathe instant coffee and can only tolerate it black, but now isn’t the right time to tell her.

  “Sit,” she says, and points to the little white table. I do as I’m told and wait, watching her while she prepares our drinks. I am not going to rush her.

  She makes tea for herself—strong, with sugar and milk—and eventually hands me a mug inscribed BRENTFORD FC that bears the team logo. Taking the seat opposite me, she gazes down at the contents of her mug, which is emblazoned with the Arsenal shield, and an uncomfortable silence settles between us.

  Finally I can bear it no longer. “Are you planning to tell me what’s going on? Or do I have to guess?”

  She doesn’t respond, but her teeth worry her upper lip. Under any normal circumstance, this would drive me crazy, but seeing her this distraught is sobering.

  “Look at me.”

  At last her big brown eyes meet mine.

  “Tell me. I want to help.”

  Her eyes widen with what I assume is fear, and she shakes her head.

  I sigh. “Okay. Let’s play twenty questions.”

  She looks puzzled.

  “You answer each question yes or no.”

  Her frown deepens, and she clutches the little gold cross that hangs at her neck.

  “Are you a failed asylum seeker?”

  Alessia gazes at me, then gives me the briefest shake of her head.

  “Okay. Are you here legally?”

  She blanches, and I have my answer. “Not legally, then?”

  After a beat she shakes her head again.

  “Have you lost the power of speech?” I hope she notices the trace of humor in my voice.

  Her face brightens, and she half smiles. “No,” she says, and her cheeks color a little.

  “That’s better.”

  She takes a sip of her tea.

  “Talk to me. Please.”

  “You will tell the police?” she asks.

  “No. Of course not. Is that what you’re worried about?”

  She nods.

  “Alessia, I won’t. You have my word.”

  Placing her elbows on the table, she clasps her hands together and rests her chin on them. A range of conflicting emotions crosses her face as the silence expands and fills the room. I hold my tongue, silently begging her to talk. At last her dark eyes meet mine. They’re full of determination. She sits up straight and places her hands in her lap. “The man who came to your apartment, his name is Dante.” Her voice is a pained whisper. “He brought me and some other girls from Albania to England.” She looks down at her mug of tea.

  A shiver runs up my spine to my scalp, and I have a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach. Somehow I think I know what she’s about to say.

  “We thought we were coming here to work. For a better life. Life in Kukës is hard for some women. The men who brought us here…We were betrayed—” Her soft voice halts over the word, and I close my eyes as revulsion and bile rise in my throat. It’s as bad as it could possibly be.

  “Human trafficking?” I whisper, and I watch her reaction.

  She nods once, her eyes tightly closed. “For sex.” Her words are barely audible, but in them I hear her shame and her horror.

  Fury like nothing I’ve felt before ignites inside me. I clench my fists trying to control my anger.

  Alessia is pale.

  And everything about her falls into place.

  Her reticence.

  Her fear.

  Of me.

  Of men.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “How did you escape?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

  We’re both startled by the rattle of a key in the front door. Alarmed, Alessia leaps to her feet, and I jump up, knocking my chair to the floor.

  “Stay here,” I growl, pulling open the kitchen door.

  A blond woman in her forties stands in the hallway. She gasps in alarm when she sees me.

  “Magda!” Alessia cries. Dodging around me, she runs to embrace Magda.

  “Alessia!” Magda exclaims, and hugs her. “You’re here. I thought…I thought…I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Magda babbles, anguish in her voice, as she begins to cry. “They were here again. Those men.”

  Alessia takes Magda by the shoulders. “Tell me. Tell me what happened.”

  “Who is this?” Magda turns her tearstained face to me with suspicion.

  “This is…Mister Maxim. It is his apartment that I clean.”

  “Did they come to his apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  Magda gulps and holds her hands up to her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

  “Perhaps Magda would like some tea, and she can tell us what happened,” I say gently.

  * * *

  The three of us are sitting at the table while Magda puffs on a brand of cigarette that is unfamiliar to me. I’ve declined her offer to try one. The last time I smoked a cigarette, it set off a chain of events that led to my expulsion from school. I was thirteen and with a local girl in the grounds at Eton.

  “I don’t think they were from the immigration department. They had a photograph of Michal and you,” Magda says
to Alessia.

  “What? How?” I ask.

  “Yes. They found it on Facebook.”

  “No!” Alessia exclaims, and clamps her hand over her mouth in horror. She looks at me. “Michal has taken the selfies with me.”

  “The selfies?” I ask.

  “Yes. For the Facebook,” Alessia says, frowning. I quickly mask my amused expression.

  Magda continues, “They said they knew where Michal went to school. They knew all about him. All his personal information is on his Facebook page.” She takes a long drag of her cigarette, her hand trembling.

  “They threatened Michal?” Alessia’s face is ashen.

  Magda nods. “I had no choice. I was scared. I’m sorry.” Her voice is little more than a whisper. “There was no way I could contact you. I gave them the address where you were working.”

  Well, that clears that mystery up.

  “What do they want with you, Alessia?” she asks.

  Alessia gives me a brief, imploring look, and I realize that Magda doesn’t know the full details of how Alessia came to London. I run my hand through my hair.

  What to do? This is far more than I bargained for….

  “Have you contacted the police?” I ask.

  Magda and Alessia both speak at once: “No police.” They are emphatic.

  “Are you sure?” I can understand Alessia’s reaction, but not Magda’s. Perhaps she’s here illegally, too.

  “No police,” Magda says, banging her hand on the table, startling both Alessia and me.

  “Okay,” I say, raising my palm to placate her. I’ve never met people who don’t trust the police.

  It’s obvious that Alessia can’t stay in Brentford, and neither can Magda and her son. The thugs who turned up on my doorstep were bristling with barely contained violence. “Is it just the three of you living here?” I ask.

  They both nod.

  “Where is your son now?”

  “At a friend’s house. He’s safe. I called him before I got home.”

  “I don’t think it’s safe for Alessia to stay here, or you for that matter. These men are dangerous.”