Deviant (3 page)

For a very long while, Abigail sat alone by the river. She read the letter once, twice—over and over. Each time she had a different reaction.

Her mother had loved her.

Her mother was a junkie, or a drunk.

Her mother made no sense.

Her mother was dead.

Her mother was crazy.

Her mother was a liar.

Her mother had obviously NEVER loved her.

The e-ticket was American Airlines flight number 3846, leaving Glasgow Airport at 10
P.M
.

Tomorrow
.

Abigail looked at her watch. Nine thirty
P.M
. She grabbed the bag of money with her free hand, gently clutching the ticket and the letter to her chest. She scurried up the riverbank, through the woods, jumped the fence, and ran all the way back to the hostel.

The care-worker was talking to a friend on the phone. “Oh hi, Abi,” he said, returning to his conversation. His concern over her bereavement had obviously run its course, or else he’d forgotten. She didn’t have time to argue with him about her name. She ran into her room, slammed the door shut, and sat on the bed to get her head together. Could she trust her mother? This letter? Did she really have a father and a sister in Los Angeles? She glanced around. The window was painted shut and so filthy she could hardly see through it. There were no pictures or posters on the walls, only the marks where previous residents had placed theirs. Camelia’s narrow bed was unmade, the cheap nylon sheets stained from years of God-knows-what. Staff didn’t bother nagging residents to launder their sheets or make their beds. But Abigail didn’t need to be nagged; she washed her linen once a week and made her bed first thing every morning.

Routine was all she had. This grotty hellhole was all she had.

Right
. Even if the letter was total shite, she had to get out. A crap situation in America was better than a crap situation here. And, the money was real.

What would she need? Her thick jacket? No, not for LA. Her books? Since arriving at No Life, she’d borrowed three books every week from the local library to keep her brain from rotting: two serious, one lighthearted. This week they were
The Principles of Biochemistry, The Silence of the Lambs
, and
Funny Physics Problems
. She stuffed them inside her backpack. (She loathed stealing on principle, but the library could replace them; besides, the staff always gave her dirty looks whenever she hung around the stacks too long.) What else?
The Shining
DVD, of course. Her black Fly boots? They were full-on winter wear. But she loved them! She’d wear them on the flight, even though it was midsummer. She’d wear her dark grey combats, her
STUFF THE MONARCHY
T-shirt, and her cropped black leather jacket. Her favorite outfit.

She threw some underwear, spare T-shirts, and socks in the back, then tucked the money, letter, and e-ticket into the side pocket beside Nieve’s photo. She checked the chest of drawers and the tiny sagging rail in the wardrobe she shared with Camelia. Nothing important there. No personal effects. Nothing sentimental. What was the point in gathering things when she knew she wouldn’t be staying anywhere for any length of time? Abigail’s essentials, her whole world, couldn’t even fill a backpack. Last, she went to the bathroom and added her toothbrush, toothpaste, and Fibre Putty hair product.

Stick to the routine. Invent a new one. Abigail could see herself as if looking into a mirror. She snapped into a kind of robot mode under stress. She became methodical, neat, diligent. Most people found it creepy, which also suited her just fine. They left her alone.

Now, she made a mental list to make sure everything was in order. She retrieved the e-ticket from the backpack pocket.

Ten
P.M
. tomorrow. Yep, plenty of time.

The length of the flight would be eleven hours. The books would keep her busy.

Was her luggage the right size and weight? No way could this flimsy backpack weigh more than thirty-five pounds, even with the books.

But when her eyes reached the bottom of the e-ticket, her heart froze:
VALID PASSPORT REQUIRED
.

Why had her mother not thought about this? Why on earth
would
Abigail have a passport? As if kids who are abandoned by their mothers get to go on skiing holidays in Switzerland and summer camps in France! As if she’d ever had the opportunity to get out of this godforsaken country! Sunnier, wealthier, happier Edinburgh was only fifty miles away, and she’d never even made it
there
. (Once, the care workers at Netherall House organized a trip to Loch Lomond. Abigail was excited. It turned out to be a twenty-minute drive. In a minivan. Normal schoolchildren in full-sized buses laughed at them en route. The minivan full of “special” children eventually parked in a deserted lot. The ten children got out and threw stones into the lake. It rained. They drove home.)

She had been nowhere, done nothing. She’d be
stuck
nowhere if she didn’t find a passport.
Shite
. She couldn’t snap out of robot mode. Now she had to focus.

Abigail poked her head in the hall. Camelia was in the television room. Several other girls were sprawled on the frayed, red-fabric sofas, watching a twenty-year-old soft-core porn show called
Eurotrash
. The teenagers watched the ten-ton television set all day here—hungover from drinking and drug-taking, comatose with bloodshot eyes. Staff never questioned it. It kept them quiet. Camelia had put makeup and a coat on since Abigail had last seen her, and was standing at the window.

“Camelia, can you come here?” Abigail called.

Her roommate flinched and blinked, then quickly rushed over
to the door. Unlike the other residents, her eyes were alert. She was new, thank God: a junk and misery virgin. She still had hope.

“Have you heard from Billy?” Abigail asked.

“Billy is coming here to get me.” Camelia’s English was stilted but understandable.

“When did he say that?”

Camelia looked at the clock on her phone. “Five hours ago.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“His text say he caught up in a meeting in town?” she answered, as if posing another question. Her accent thickened with her uncertainty.

“A meeting, right. He’ll be at the Solid Bar.”

Camelia’s eyes brightened. “You take me to the Solid Bar? You know where it is?”

Abigail said simply, “No, I’m not going to take you to see him. Billy does not love you. He is not your boyfriend.”

She blinked again and tried to smile. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said,” Abigail stated.

“I don’t understand you. Billy and I, we are together, you understand? He pays for my ticket here—”

“Come with me,” Abigail interrupted. “Come and talk.”

Closing the door behind them, Abigail sat Camelia down on her bed. She tried to offer a smile, but her heart was pounding. “Listen. I don’t have much time. But I want you to know: when I look at you, I see girls who have died. Please listen to me, Camelia. You’re not the first girl Billy has done this to. He targets girls who have nothing to lose. The girls who end up here. He gets them hooked on heroin. You know
what heroin is? Smack? And then he gets them to sell their bodies.”

Camelia’s heavily made-up face darkened. “I know what heroin is. But you are not right. Billy helps me get a job and brings my family over here. My mother is very sick.”

Abigail shook her head as patiently as she could. “He’s not. He’s a bad, bad guy.”

“No,” Camelia snapped. “I heard the other girls say you’re strange. Leave me alone.” She stood and reached for the door.

Abigail chewed her lip. “Okay,” she blurted out. “You want to see him? Fine, I’ll take you there.”

T
HE BUS SHELTER HAD
no glass and no roof, and the rain had started up again. Camelia’s mood soured significantly by the time she and Abigail reached the Solid Bar an hour later, soaked to the skin. The warm wind had turned the rain horizontal, obscuring the view of the tenement flats on Argyll Street and the long, dreary queue of shops on Sauchiehall Street.

As suspected, Billy was sitting with a young girl at the back of the dark, narrow pub. Rock music blared from television screens in the dark corners. The place stank of booze. Billy rubbed the girl’s arm, looking completely wasted. If he’d been brought up somewhere different, maybe he would have been handsome. The basics were there, certainly: dark hair, deep brown eyes. Abigail imagined his Facebook profile pic might seem quite appealing. But he’d grown up in Glasgow. It had muddied him, made him ugly.

Camelia stiffened a little.

“Don’t get upset,” Abigail whispered as she pulled her toward him. “What you’re learning now might save your life.”

Billy’s glassy eyes zeroed in on Abigail. “Well, look who it is, Mother Theresa!” His pet nickname for her ever since she refused to inject. He blinked and tried to straighten, noticing Camelia. He stopped rubbing his companion. “Hello! What are you doing here?”

“She’s been waiting for you,” Abigail snapped. “You were supposed to collect her, remember? You were supposed to help her because you love her?”

“Sorry I got waylaid, sweetheart,” Billy slurred, his bloodshot gaze still on Camelia.

“I told her everything about you, Billy,” Abigail continued evenly. “What you do with your girlfriends. She doesn’t believe me.”

He sneered. “What you on about?”

Abigail turned her attention to the girl sitting beside Billy. The bags under her eyes matched her thick, badly applied eyeliner. Another three weeks, maybe two, and Camelia would be in the exact same place. But this girl was even younger than they were. Fifteen, maybe.

“Get out of here,” Abigail snapped.

The girl rolled her eyes dramatically. Then she took some money from her bra and handed it to Billy, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. With that, she raised a finger at Abigail and Camelia. They watched as she staggered out in the rain.

Billy just laughed. “Now get out, Mother Theresa. I want
some time with ma bird.” He ushered Camelia to sit beside him. “C’mere, Amelia.”

“Camelia,” the girl corrected, her voice shaking. “You
bou
 … 
carule … Bagate-as in mormant
.”

Abigail placed herself in between them in case Camelia was tempted to smash Billy in the face. “He’s not worth it. Go and wait for me at the door. I won’t be long,”

Eyes blazing, Camelia stomped out. Once the door swung shut behind her, Abigail turned back. “I need a passport. It’s urgent. I have to have it by two
P.M
. tomorrow.”

“Wit!” Billy laughed as he exhaled smoke. He peered over her shoulder, trying to spot the girl who’d trotted off into the rain. “It takes days to get those sorted. And it’s expensive. Talking money, you owe me for that girl. Her ticket cost nearly two hundred quid.”

“If you get me the passport, I’ll give you a thousand.”

“Hmm.” Billy took a long drag and said, “Uh-uh, cannae do it for that. No way.”

Abigail turned and reached into her bag, shakily counting out £2,000 with only her back as protection. “This is all I have,” she lied, making sure to keep the other wads of cash hidden from him. “Two K, if you get it to me by two
P.M
. tomorrow. I’ll meet you here. And if you disappoint me, I swear I’ll come back here every night and day, scaring your girlfriends away until you’re broke or dead—whichever comes first.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and looked at the cash. He smiled at Abigail, then at Camelia’s back in the rain-soaked window. Finally he nodded and extended a hand to shake.

She did not reciprocate. Instead, she divided the money into two piles, pushed one toward him, and said, “Half now, half tomorrow. Here. Two o’clock.”

Before he could protest, she strode from the bar and took Camelia’s arm, hurrying back to the bus stop. It was no bluff, her threat. She only hoped it was enough to scare Billy into coming through. But it probably was. He knew she made good on her promises.

T
HE HOSTEL WAS EMPTY
when they returned, except for a night shift worker Abigail had never met before. Coincidentally he happened to be flipping through her orange file. He put it down nervously, embarrassed to be caught.

“Hello.” He extended a hand. This one, she did shake. “I’m Arthur.” He was new to the world of social work, obviously. He wanted to talk to them, get all their gory details. “You want a cup of tea, girls?”

Abigail recognized the look of morbid fascination on his middle-class face. Beneath it was a dollop of fear.

“No thanks, Arthur. Bath and bed.”

She took Camelia’s hand and escorted her to the downstairs bathroom. “By the way, what did you call Billy back there?”

“A
bou
—a castrated bull. I told him he’s an ass and I want to put him in an early grave. I want to do this so much. You cannot understand how much I want to do this.”

Abigail squeezed Camelia’s fingers and let go. “He’ll do it himself, honey. Two years tops. Save yourself the bother.”

Camelia swallowed, blinking back tears and shaking her head.

“It’s a big day tomorrow. We’re going to get a good night’s sleep,” Abigail went on. She set about scrubbing the iron bath of its brown stains and clearing hair clumps and soap bits before running the water. “Have a good soak. I’ll use the one upstairs.”

“Big day for you, yes,” Camelia said. “But what am I going to do?”

“You’re going to go home.”

“But I can’t. I have no money …” Camelia began to tremble. She wiped her cheek.

The bath was full. Abigail turned off the taps. “Don’t cry. Get in. I’ve got money. I can get you home. You dodged a bullet, missus. You’re gonna get out of this place. Everything’s going to be fine.”

A
BIGAIL COULDN
’
T SLEEP
. S
HE
eventually gave up trying. She lay still in the darkness, Camelia snoring softly across the room. Her thoughts raced. Her mother was dead; she was leaving her country; she had a father, a sister … If she ever fell asleep and woke again, would it all be a dream? Or part of the same old nightmare?