Ring Around Rosie (4 page)

Rosie hugged her knees tightly as the truck
rumbled and shook around her. Twelve pairs of frightened eyes glinted in the
semi-dark, some looking at her, some focussed on a faraway place, anywhere but
here.

A girl started whimpering. There were no
tears coming from her eyes, the sound was more like a wounded or distressed
animal. The girl next to her cradled her in her arms, rocking silently back and
forth. She looked up, and Rosie caught her eye and managed a weak smile, the
girl smiled back. It was the first contact Rosie had had with anyone since
she’d been thrown into the room in the bunker the night before, and although it
was just a smile, it coated her fear in reassurance and muffled her pounding
heart.

Rosie thought about her family for what
felt like the hundredth time since she’d been captured. She could only imagine
how worried they must be, not to mention angry with her for running off like
she did. And Ted was probably taking the brunt of it for not stopping her when
he had the chance. Guilt lay in the pit of her stomach like a coiled snake.

“I was in a truck like this once before
when it was full of birds. If you were a bird, what kind of bird would you be?”

Rosie looked up in surprise. The girl who
had smiled at her before was watching her from the other side of the truck.

“I’d be a parrot,” she continued. “They are
great imitators, they have beautiful bright feathers, and they are shipped around
the world to live in elaborate houses and be loved by kind rich people.”

For a moment Rosie just stared, confused by
the fact that she understood what the girl was saying. Then she realised she
was in fact speaking English, if with a slight accent, and it wasn’t that Rosie
had slipped into a parallel universe.

“Umm, I guess I’d be a pigeon,” replied
Rosie at last, not wanting to appear rude.

“Yes, amazing birds, very intelligent and
very underestimated,” enthused the girl.

That wasn’t exactly why Rosie had chosen a
pigeon, more because she thought they were rather plain and uninteresting
birds, considered a pest.

“Really?” replied Rosie.

“Yes, they’re quite remarkable. They can
find their way home in one day from as far away as six-hundred miles. Some
people believe they use roads and motorways to navigate, others say they use
the earth’s magnetic field, and landmarks, and even the sun. They are the most
intelligent of all birds. It was a good choice,” said the girl.

Rosie was aware she was still staring;
mouth agape.

“How do you know all this stuff?” Rosie
asked.

“Oh, my dad exports exotic birds,” she
replied.

The truck suddenly lurched to the side and
screeched to a halt. All the children in the back screamed as they were flung
against the sides and each other. Rosie was ripped from the surreal
conversation she was having and dropped firmly back into the horror of where
she was, hitting her shoulder hard in the process. There was a lot of shouting
outside before the truck started moving again.

Rosie looked around her. No one seemed to
be too badly hurt, just a few bruises and tears. Then the bird girl began to
sing.

Thula, thula, thula, Mtwana

Thula, thula, thula, Mtwana

Ungakhali

Umama akekho

Umama uzobuya

Be still, be still, be still, my
child

Be still, be still, be still, my
child

Do not cry

Mother is absent

Mother shall come back
.

Rosie rubbed her bruised
shoulder as she listened to the soothing voice. She couldn’t tell from looking
at her how old the girl was. Her sad hazel eyes and drawn face reflected a
history, life experiences; but her thin child-like body, and smooth dark skin
had no stories to tell. She was wearing a brightly-coloured dress, one that
Rosie thought would have been saved for a special occasion, and in her hair she
had a sparkly clip in the same shades; red, green, yellow, blue. In their dingy
surroundings Rosie thought she provided a splash of coloured hope and it was
reassuring to look at her.

The girl in her arms was
smaller. She looked younger but her skin wasn’t smooth; her legs and arms were
covered in pink scars. The whimpering had tuned to a low moan; it was unnerving
and Rosie wished she would stop.

“She’s had a hard time,” said
the bird girl as if reading her thoughts.

Rosie realised she had been
staring. “Sorry. Yes, poor thing, she must be really frightened,” she said
quickly.

“They all are. It’s hard when
you don’t know what’s happening or where you’re going. None of them speaks
English so it’s confusing for them. My name’s Baduwa by the way.”

“How come you speak such good
English? I’m Rosie.”

“English is the official
language of Nigeria, but I speak it especially well because my father is
English. He insisted that I learn what he called the ‘Queen’s English’ because
he said it would help me get places. It seems he was right, look where I am!”

“He knows you’re here?” asked
Rosie, surprised and a little unnerved.

“Oh yes, it was his idea that I
should come to Europe and reach my potential, as he put it,” she smiled.

Rosie looked away. She suddenly
couldn’t look at this strange girl who seemed to be the only one who was happy
about being where they were. She gazed at the frightened faces around her. She
felt sure her own face looked the same, but she took reassurance from the fact
that she was still home, still in England, a place that was familiar to her,
where there were laws and justice that protected her. These children probably
had no idea where they were, or whether they would ever see their families
again.

The truck had slowed down and
was stopping and starting a lot, and suddenly that familiar feeling crept along
Rosie’s spine as she realised they must be in London. Under any normal
circumstances she would have been excited about being home, but now that her
family wasn’t here she wasn’t sure it was home anymore, and she longed to be
where her family were right now more than anything in the world.

Rosie was brought back from her
thoughts by a small hand creeping into hers. She looked down and saw a little
Chinese boy looking up at her. He wasn’t much older than six or seven and his
brown eyes looked pleadingly into hers. Rosie tried to pull her hand away,
embarrassed by this strange little boy’s attention. He seemed to be expecting
something from her but she had no idea what. He held onto her hand tightly so she
let it go limp, hoping he would take the hint.

 “I think his name is Lo,” said
Baduwa. “It’s the only thing he’s said since he got here. He arrived with the
last group of children, those two there, and her,” she said, pointing to three
others.

“I don’t understand,” said
Rosie. “What could they want with all these children?”

“Don’t you know?” asked Baduwa,
looking surprised.

Rosie didn’t get a chance to say
she didn’t because the truck suddenly stopped. The sound of slamming doors came
from the front and then the back was raised, letting in a stream of bright
light that made all the children cover their eyes.

Rosie felt Lo crouch down behind
her, hiding himself from the intimidating silhouettes that loomed in the
doorway. Rosie felt almost jealous that he was able to hide when she felt so
exposed and terrified. She recoiled, ready to bite and claw anyone who tried to
touch her, but it was three other children who were dragged aggressively out of
the back of the truck before the door was pulled shut with a bang.

Rosie wrapped her arms around
her bended legs and tried to stem the flow of panic that was threatening to
suffocate her. Some of the children crawled closer to the back of the truck in
the hope of delaying the inevitable. Baduwa didn’t move. Her confidence was
beginning to freak Rosie out; she seemed so completely unperturbed by what was
happening around her as she hummed quietly, gently rocking the girl still
wrapped in her embrace.

The truck started up again, and
although that came with its own slight reassurance, Rosie couldn’t shake the
picture of the way those children were pulled from the truck, aggressively,
coldly, like pieces of meat. And then a thought suddenly flooded her brain
reminding her of what Gabriel had said:
You’re a no one, a nobody, a piece of fine-cut meat to be sold
on to the highest bidder
.
Rosie gagged on the thought. Is that what was happening to all these children?
Were they being sold like meat to a butcher?

She looked accusingly at Baduwa.

“Do you know what’s happening to these
children?” she hissed.

Baduwa looked a bit taken aback by Rosie’s
sudden aggression. “Well I know what’s happening to me and I assume the same
goes for everyone else,” she replied.

“What exactly
is
happening to you?
What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to get a good job, study if I
want to. I’ve been promised a nice house, some starting out money, a better
life for myself. I have to pay back the money my journey cost but it won’t take
long once I have a good job.”

“Who promised you all of this?” asked
Rosie, digging her nails into the palm of her hand.

“A man. He told me to call him Dupe. He
said he’d been watching me, thought I was wasted in Nigeria and that there was
so much more waiting for me in Europe. I’d always wanted to see where my dad came
from so, of course, I jumped at the chance to come here. He spoke to my dad and
everything first, got his permission. He was so nice, so complementary, bought
me clothes, jewellery,” she rushed, suddenly sensing Rosie’s alarm. “It’s ok,
we had a commitment ceremony; we are bound, and so protected.”

“Where is he now?” Rosie asked, quietly.

“He said he’d meet me here, said he’d find
me.”

The truck stopped again. The back door was
raised and two more children were pulled out. Rosie could hear someone screaming.
She looked around to see where it was coming from, scanning the truck for the
source. It was getting louder and Rosie wished it would shut up. The other
children were looking terrified at her, as if
she
could do something
about it. She covered her ears but that made it worse, how could that be? And
then she realised, the scream was coming from her own mouth, and she couldn’t
stop it.

Ted
threw open his bedroom door and ran over to his CD collection that was stacked
neatly in his bookcase. He rifled through, tossing the rejections onto his bed.
Then he found what he was looking for. He slumped down on the chair by his bed
staring at the cover of
The Streets
album. He leaned forward and grabbed
another, then another; it was there on each one: the Clipper lighter.

He knew immediately what it meant: it was
the one passion they shared, the one thing that brought brother and sister
together despite everything else that was going on in their lives; their love
of
The Streets
. It became their lodestar, their signature band. For them
it represented London and their lives there. And when everything got too much
they each had an ear of the iPod and lost themselves in the music together. And
that was why she’d engraved the picture; his little sister had been taken to
London, back to the one place in the world she wanted to be, but for all the
wrong reasons.

            Ted
slammed his head hard against the wall, his face contorting in agony. He tore
at his face with his hands, throwing the CDs across the room, rage and fear
filling him up until he was ready to explode. He felt so helpless; London was
such a vast city, how would anyone find her? He slumped down onto the floor,
head in his hands. 

            “Ted?”
His mum stood in the doorway. She looked older, afraid.

            “I
think she’s in London, mum,” Ted said quietly.

            He
told her how they’d found the bunker, what it was like, and the picture of the
lighter. He pointed weakly at one of the CDs on the floor. His mum walked over
and picked one up.

            “This
lighter? Are you sure?” she asked, stroking the cover.

            “I
think so, at least that’s all I have to go on. It makes sense.”

            “We
have to call the police again, tell them everything, you’ll have to tell them
everything
,”
she whispered.

            “Sure
mum, whatever it takes.”

“I’ll go and call them, then.” She walked
out, leaving a trail of sadness in her wake.

Ted pressed play on his CD player; he
needed to think.
Keane
came on;
Bedshaped
. The song wrenched at
his heart as he lay on his bed curling his knees up under his chin, Rosie’s
face behind his eyelids. But then she turned away from him and started running,
weaving in and out of the streets of London, always just a little bit out of
reach. As he chased her, each street became narrower and narrower until only
she could fit down them; he was too big to squeeze through. He pushed at the
walls with all his might but they wouldn’t budge. She looked back, saw that he
couldn’t follow and stopped. Her face was drenched in disappointment and pity.
She ran on and disappeared out of sight. Ted sat up, breathing heavily.

He felt someone in the room and looked
around. His dad was standing in the doorway.

“Your mum’s called the police, they’re on
their way,” he said walking over to where one of
The Streets
albums lay
on the floor. He picked it up, stroking the cover like his mum had.

“Are you sure about this London thing,
Ted?” he asked.

“No, I’m not sure, but I have a strong
feeling that’s where she is. I don’t know who’s got her or why, I just think
she’s been taken there. I don’t even know how long she’ll be there…” he paused.
“I need to go… today.”

 “Why you? Why not wait for the police to
organise a hunt?”

“Because it’s my fault. And because I can’t
wait around hoping the police will find her. I have to do something now.”

Ted waited for his dad to say no, but all
he did was look Ted in the eyes and sigh.

“I’m not sure your mum will be happy to
have both of you out of her sight but I’ll talk to her.”

Sitting on the bed, he wrapped his arms
around Ted. They sat there for what seemed like ages. Then they heard a car
pull into the drive.

Detective Sanders and PC Jones sat at the
kitchen table drinking tea and asking a million questions. Ted tried to be as
helpful with everything he knew as he could, all the time twitching on the edge
of his seat, desperate to get going. Sitting around and doing nothing was
killing him; they were wasting time.

The police dredged up the past, wanting to
know everything about Rosie. Ted could see the flicker of suspicion in their
eyes when his mum mentioned all the trouble that Rosie had been in, as if that
suddenly added a whole other explanation as to where she might be, and why. PC
Jones scribbled in her notebook. Ted wanted to grab it off her and cross out
that part, as if he could cross out that bit of Rosie’s life for her. But he
held himself back; knowing that if he made a fuss the whole process would just
take longer. He stood a much better chance of finding her than they did,
anyway. He knew London, and he knew people; people who could get places the
police couldn’t, knew how to get at the mechanics of London; turn up the
pressure, turn down the heat.

The detective got on his radio and
instructed the person on the other end to send out forensics. They wanted Ted
to show them the bunker, see if they could get some fingerprints, and look at
the picture of the lighter that Rosie had carved.

Ted looked at his dad, pleadingly. He
nodded.

“Detective, I went with Ted to the bunker,
do you think it would be possible for me to show it to you. Ted’s had very
little sleep and I think he needs to rest.”

His mum looked questioningly at his dad,
and he took her hand and squeezed it. The detective nodded and agreed that it
would probably be best if Sam went anyway. Ted smiled at his mum and dad and
then shook the detective’s hand.

“Anything else you need to ask me, don’t
hesitate to call,” said Ted.

Ted left the room and sprinted up the
stairs to pack. He threw some clothes into his bag, his iPod, wallet, phone. He
saw one of
The Streets
CDs lying on the floor. He picked it up and
looked at the cover.

“I’m coming, Rosie,” he whispered.

He threw the CD into his bag and looked
around the room for anything he’d forgotten. His eyes fell on a pile of loose
photos sitting on his chest of drawers. He picked them up, thumbing through
them until he found a recent one of Rosie sitting on the steps of their old
house. She looked so young; her chin resting on top of her knees, the sun
warming her pale skin, her full lips slightly turned down at the corners. Ted
had never noticed that faraway look in her eyes before; like she wanted to be
somewhere else, or someone else. But how long would it be before they reverted
to that look again now that she was back in London? He had to find her before
that happened.

Ted turned to put the picture in his bag.
His mum was standing in the doorway. 

“They’ve left. Your father said to take you
to the train station,” she said. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? I
don’t think I could stand to lose both my children.”

Ted walked over to his mum and tentatively
put his arms around her. She rested her head on his chest and Ted could hear
her breathing him in.

“I have to do something, mum. I know some
people; they may be able to help. I don’t know anything for sure, but I can’t
sit around here waiting.”

“I know. Your father and I will come to
London too, probably tomorrow, and stay at Uncle Jim’s. Where are you staying?”
she asked pulling away.

“I’m gonna stay at Dillon’s. I haven’t
asked him yet but he said I could anytime.”

“Ok, well let’s go then.” She picked up
Ted’s bag.

“I’ve got that mum,” he said, taking it off
her.

As they walked out of his room, Ted
realised he had no idea when he’d be back and, strangely, felt sad to be
leaving. London suddenly seemed sinister and dark, a place that bad things
gravitated to, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back there anymore.