The Trafficked (17 page)

39

 

Wednesday had not slept. She lay on the piece of hard-board that was her bed and watched the dawn filter weakly through the cracks in her cardboard house. She heard the children outside getting ready for school. She heard the baby crying opposite. She knew that right now she would usually be watching Maya sleeping soundly beside her, and she would get up first and light the stove ready to make them tea and heat water for rice. There was only work for Wednesday to get up for now. Her eyes were sore; her breathing hurt in her chest; her stomach ached for her child. Her whole life was pointless without Maya. The love for her child was the only love Wednesday had ever known. She did not remember the mother who had sold her to the Colonel. She had no memories of any affection. She had grown up sitting on the Colonel’s lap, sleeping in his bed. She was like a lap dog. One night the rage overtook him and when Wednesday awoke the sheets were covered in her blood and her stomach was agony. He had drugged and raped her. From that moment on she was no longer his pet. Wednesday was sold to a Japanese
man with tattoos all over his body. He had been horrible to her—he had shouted at her and beaten and raped her until she learned what she had to do. She had to crawl on her hands and knees to him and tell him that she was his dirty little Filipina, she was not worthy of him. Then he would show her some gentleness.

After the Japanese came the old Caucasians, the young ones, the blacks, the whites, the Asians, and anyone else who could pay. Wednesday lost count of how many she had sex with and she lost all hope…until the day when Father Finn banged on the Dutchman’s door and rescued her from his bed. Until that day Wednesday had thought her heart was dead. But when Father Finn had picked her up and marched out of there with her under his arm, he had changed her life forever and showed her what it was to care for another person, to risk for another and to open your heart and love another. On the first night she had sat with the other children at the refuge she had known her life was just beginning. It was the happiest she had ever been. She learned to play. She learned to laugh. Father Finn was her world. He was a hero to her. He taught her to read and write. He told her how smart she was and made her believe she could be anything she wanted. The Father was always telling her she could stay at the refuge as long as she liked, and she would have done, had she not discovered she was pregnant. She had no idea who the father might be. She had only just begun to have periods and had not known to use contraception. She felt her stomach grow hard and become round and she knew she could not spoil it
all now. She felt the shame of it. She had to get rid of it. She knew the Father would never agree to an abortion. She knew he would want her to have the baby. But this was Wednesday’s chance of life. She had to get rid of the baby. She ran home to Davao, to a woman in the Barrio Patay whom everyone knew as an abortionist. But Wednesday’s flight was in vain. When she lay on the woman’s floor, her legs open and the woman’s fingers inside her, she felt the baby flutter. Wednesday knew it was too late for an abortion now. The baby was calling to her. It knew it had a mama and Wednesday knew she was it. Now she prayed with all her heart that Father Finn could be her hero again and rescue her baby.

She sat on the edge of the bed. It was then she heard the clamour from outside in the alleyways. Someone was calling her name. A small boy that she knew as Pepe was standing at her doorway.

‘What do you want, Pepe? Is it washing for your mama?’

He shook his head. ‘I have a message for you.’

‘Who from?’

‘A man stopped me—a Kano. He said I was to tell you something.’ Pepe hovered at the door. ‘He told me I was to say that you must go to Angeles, the Colonel is waiting and he has your daughter.’

‘Aye!’ Wednesday clutched her fists to her chest. ‘Maya? He has Maya?’

Pepe nodded.

‘What else did he say? You must try and remember everything, Pepe,
please
…’

The boy rolled his eyes skyward as he tried to recollect word for word what the Kano had said.

‘He said tell her to come alone—no priests. If you come with priests he will slit her throat.’

40

 

Maya pushed back the hair that fell over her eyes. It was morning and she knew that she should wash her face and brush her hair. She knew her mummy would not let her look like she did. She could see the bathroom but she had to wait for the Kano to come and unlock her cage, then she would carefully carry the bucket from the back of her cell and empty it in the toilet. She pushed her hair back and tried to make it stay behind her ears. She missed Rosie. She knew it was her own fault that they had got caught. She had known the Kano was coming but she didn’t want to leave Rosie’s side and so the Kano had seen her and he had beaten her and put her in the cage. Maya’s cage was opposite the bathroom. It was four foot deep and three foot wide. At the back of it the cockroaches ran. The Kano came twice a day. He brought her food. Maya had to reach through the bars to get it—the Kano put it too far for her, so that just her fingertips could touch it. It hurt her arms to stretch so far. He shouted at her in English. Maya did not understand what he was saying. She had only learned a few words in English.
She could count to ten and sing a song called ‘London Bridge’ and she could tell someone that she was from the Philippines and that her name was Maya. Every day the big Kano came into her cell and poked her with the buzzy stick. The pain was worse than the jellyfish that had stung her when she went swimming with her mother. Afterwards her teeth hurt and her bones ached. She shivered. She tried to hold thoughts in her head for as long as she could. Maya could see her mother’s face when she closed her eyes. She squeezed them shut and tried to think of nothing else.

Maya watched the big bald Kano come up the stairs a few feet from her cage. His massive legs were like a monster’s. His back was bare and a huge bird flew across the skin. He glanced her way then he went on into the bedroom where the women were. In a minute Maya would hear the chains clanking as he released them; soon she would see the women pass by to wash. But today there was screaming. Maya covered her ears. It was a terrible sound to hear the Kano beating someone like a dog being whipped. Maya shut her eyes and ears as hard as she could. When she opened them she saw that the Kano had Rosie by the hair and he was dragging her into the corridor. Maya held tight to the bars as she watched Rosie being punched and kicked. Rosie was not making any sound. There was just the noise of the Kano hitting her. Maya looked out from her cage, watching wide-eyed. Then the Kano stopped hitting Rosie. Rosie was lying on the floor; she was not moving any more. The Kano’s chest moved up and down as he breathed hard. The veins in his head stood
out like worms. The other women were crying. Maya moved to the back wall, where she sat as small as she could in the corner. The Kano knelt down in front of her cage and beckoned her forward. Maya didn’t move. She pulled nervously at her T-shirt and chewed her lip and pressed herself back hard into the wall. He beckoned again.

‘Come.’ His fingers snapped open and shut.

The Kano had to be obeyed. Rosie had told her;
always do what he wants and then you might see your
mama again. Never disobey the Kano.
Maya inched forward.
Only keep your heart your own. They cannot take what is inside your heart and head, but give them
the rest, give him the body, otherwise they will take it
anyway and they will kill you.
She took one step forward, then another. When she was near enough the Kano reached through the bars and pulled her by her T-shirt until she was squashed against the bars, then he reached behind and pulled Rosie forward by her hair and pushed her face against Maya’s. She had no eyes left with which to see Maya. Maya’s seasoning was nearly complete.

41

 

‘You understand there will be no turning back.’

Two men faced one another in the damp-smelling basement that had tables and chairs stacked in the corner, spares for the restaurant above. People passed by on Wardour Street outside. Only their calves were visible as they walked by the barred windows set at pavement height.

The younger man was bare-chested and his feet were shoeless. His skin was smeared in dirt.

‘I understand. I have made my choice. I come before you a poor man with nothing.’

The older man wore a white tunic with a red stole around his neck, and around his waist was a white sash. On one of his feet he wore a grass sandal.

A third man, dressed in black robes, stood in front of an altar covered in a red cloth, on which stood an idol of Kwan Ti, the patron saint of triads. Joss sticks burned jasmine incense in golden holders. Triad weapons: eight throwing stars, four bone-handled shuriken and a spiked chain were spread out upon the
red altar cloth, their bright steel incongruous in the gloom and dirt of the makeshift triad lodge.

‘I have made my choice.’

In front of the statue of Kwan Ti was a rolled piece of parchment on which was written an agreement, a treaty, an allegiance. It had been witnessed by the three men and now it needed to be signed. But no pen would do the act, blood must be their bond. Each man would spill his blood into a cup and it would be sipped and shared amongst them. Then the parchment would be burnt and the contract would become binding. Two men had already bled into the golden bowl—one remained to commit the act that would seal his fate. The older man handed the small carved-handled shuriken, its tip especially sharpened for the job of cutting flesh, to the young man. His face intent on the job, his muscles tense along his arm, he swiped the blade across the inside of his forearm and held it out for the older man to catch the drips.

Now, the smell of the burning paper filled the small room as its cinders floated in the air, and Micky’s arm still dripped blood.

42

 

‘Come, sit on my lap.’ The Colonel patted his leg. The Colonel and Terry were sitting on the balcony at Lolita’s. They sat by the metal railings, looking down. The place had been done out in a builders’-yard style, there was a lot of sheet metal and iron cladding.

It wasn’t the Colonel’s usual seat, but he liked to surprise himself now and again and see his world as a punter might see it—from all angles.

Brandon pushed the child forward and then left to check on things. Maya walked slowly towards the Colonel. He pulled her onto his lap.

It was early but Lolita’s was busy. There were several tour parties of young men in. All eighty-six GROs were out, winding their ways around poles, dancing in couples. The girls smiled at Maya. She stared back. Maya wondered how the girls could like wearing what they did: yellow thong bikinis and black high-heeled boots. All the women Maya knew would be very uncomfortable dressed like that. They would never show their stomachs and their legs.

‘You look like your mother.’

It was her first time out of the Bordello in two weeks. She hadn’t seen Rosie since the day the big Kano had beaten her. The other women said she was dead and that the big Kano had taken her body and thrown it away.

When the big Kano came to get her she thought he was going to kill her. But then he made her wash and brush her teeth. He gave her a clean T-shirt and some shorts to put on and brought her here. Maya looked at the man whose lap she was sitting on; she didn’t like the look of him at all.

‘Yes, you are just like your mother,’ said the Colonel. ‘I took her cherry too, it was on a Wednesday.’ He laughed at the child’s bewildered face and rocked so hard on his chair that Maya nearly fell from his lap. ‘You are right, Terry…’ He stopped and leaned forward; his face was sweating and his eyes yellowed. ‘…they are a whole fucking generation of baby whores.’

On the main circular stage downstairs, ten girls dressed in schoolgirl outfits trooped out to perform a choreographed dance routine. They swung their hair and lifted their miniskirts to reveal frilly thongs. Ten minutes and three routines later they came off the stage to whoops and hoots from the men. The place was charged tonight, throbbing with testosterone and youth. The young men banged their fists on the table and wanted to see more. So did the Colonel. His head snapped from side to side as he leaned over the railings and watched the goings-on. His eyes shone as he laughed like a lunatic and called out from the balcony. Trouble was brewing—sporadic fights were breaking
out everywhere. Their youthful energy made the Colonel mad. Young men demanded more action. They were content in the first few days with just being whorists, and then they wanted to go that extra mile. They wanted to be entertained. Tonight Fields Avenue was packed with them.

Brandon came to join them. One look at the Colonel told him they were in for trouble. It made Brandon very uncomfortable when his boss was in this mood. Brandon glanced at Terry. Terry didn’t respond and kept working on his laptop. Anyway, he had seen it all before. The Colonel needed him—it was Terry’s name on the property documents and on the licences. Brandon had a lot to learn. Unless it benefited Terry in some way, Terry was not quick to help him. Why should he? It was every man for himself in this world. But Terry was uncomfortable with Maya jigging about on the Colonel’s lap. Terry didn’t care what people did behind closed doors, he didn’t mind that most of the girls dancing around him were under sixteen, but at least they could pass for older. The child on the Colonel’s lap was a baby. Someone in the club wouldn’t like that, he was sure.

On the lower floor the men were having drinking competitions. One of the tables was getting carried away with some of the GROs.

‘Fuck her. Go on…fuck her…’ screamed the Colonel from his lofty position as he watched the scene below becoming lewd—two of the men were holding a girl’s leg open whilst a third was simulating sex. The girls looked at him and giggled nervously. Boundaries
might be crossed that could not be uncrossed.
No sex in the club. No lewd acts in the club.
Those were the rules, but the Colonel had made them and he could break them.

‘We need some more fucking action in this place, Terry.’

Terry didn’t answer, just tapped away at his keyboard.

The Colonel turned to Brandon. ‘Make them fight.’

Even Terry looked up from his laptop at the Colonel to make sure he’d heard right. But the Colonel wasn’t looking at Terry; his bulging red-rimmed eyes were fixed on Brandon. He repeated his demand.

‘Make them fight.’

He had blobs of spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth and he was spraying as he spoke. There was no placating him now. They had left it too late. They’d have to roll with it now—no choice. Terry would have to have a word with Brandon later, tell him how to work the Colonel better next time—otherwise it would go badly for them all. An out-of-control speed freak was not what they needed to front their rise to power.

Fight? Brandon didn’t know what the Colonel was talking about, but Terry did. The Colonel wanted a boxing match. He wanted the girls to fight. Terry remembered the boxing matches of old. They had nearly brought about the end to the club scene—they were a step too far. The priests in the refuge had organised pickets and some of the girls had been foolish enough to join them. In the end, inevitably, the ringleader had their throats slit and the pickets stopped, but so did the fights, and it had been bad for business
as people stayed away until the fuss died down. It had been fifteen years since Terry had seen the last boxing match here. Now the men had to content themselves with watching girls fire corks out of their pussies at each other, or write Lolita’s whilst holding a pen inside their vaginas. But now, courtesy of the Colonel, they were in for a savage retro treat.

‘Clear some space. Tell the manager to get the boxing ring out of storage. It’s time we gave these guys a show. It’ll be like the old days when the Americans were here. We need an Amazonian contest. We need proper entertainment again.’

Within half an hour a boxing ring was assembled on the multi-coloured stage.

The Colonel called the mamasan over and told her to fetch Comfort and Peanut. It was an unequal contest—Comfort was by far the stronger. Peanut, puny but wily, was still in shock from having been left under Jed’s dead body for an hour before being rescued. But, just looking at her pissed the Colonel off, and he had a soft spot for Comfort—an uneven fight would give a better result. Peanut would be battered to within an inch of her life, the men would be fired up for the night ahead, and the Colonel had plenty of girls waiting. That was the good thing about the young men: they could go through a few different girls a night, they weren’t there to make conversation. The old ones wanted a companion for twenty-four hours. Even with help from the Viagra sellers outside, they still wanted to talk about it first.

Fight, fight!

The Colonel banged his fist on the table and sprayed beer over Terry, who quickly closed his laptop. The Colonel moved Maya nearer to the railings so that they could get a better view.

The men downstairs took up the Colonel’s cry.
Fight
,
fight.
The ring was made ready and the betting began. The girls paraded out in their shiny boxing shorts. Peanut was in red, Comfort in blue. The shorts were too big for Peanut’s skinny legs and had to be rolled at the waist to stop them coming to her knees. The men screamed their bets as the girls struck their poses. Brandon held up their puny arms with the weight of the massive boxing glove attached. The men in the club whooped and clapped and bayed for the fight to begin.

The Colonel was brought a large hand-bell. He leaned over the balcony and roared at Brandon that the time had come. Brandon climbed into the ring to announce that all betting had ceased. A noisy hush descended. The men sat sweating and excited. The Colonel, Maya on his hip, the bell in his hand, raised it and it sounded. Brandon stepped up to the ring. His presence was enough to start the girl’s feet moving. Their skinny legs in shiny boxers’ shorts started shuffling. They reached out and tentatively touched one another with the boxing gloves that sat almost comically on the ends of their puny arms.

A chorus of catcalls went out. ‘You can do better than that. Fucking hit her.’

Comfort swung a left hook and caught Peanut on the side of the head. Peanut staggered backwards, lost her balance briefly and Comfort lunged forward again.
She caught Peanut full in the face with a second punch. The cheers went up. Peanut staggered to the corner. Her eyes were watering; blood filled her nostrils and then ran in two straight streams down to her mouth. She tried to wipe it away with the big glove but only succeeded in smearing it across her face. She looked around her in a panic—trying to find a way out of the ring. The wall that was Brandon’s chest stopped her. She turned back to the ring. Comfort was waiting. She was shaking with adrenalin and excitement. She knew she could come out of this the winner if she kept at Peanut. She was sad it was Peanut: they weren’t friends but they knew one another, had seen one another every day, seven days a week, twelve hours a day, for the last year. But they both knew they had no choice. Peanut came forward gingerly. She made no attempt to put her guard up.

‘You can hit me—go on,’ Comfort whispered.

But Peanut was not seeing straight. She didn’t know where she was or what she was doing there.

The men began stamping and screaming.

Peanut closed her eyes, swung her arm out and missed. Comfort punched back as hard as she could. Peanut was hit square in the face. She fell backwards against the ropes and landed near Brandon’s feet. Peanut managed to climb up Comfort’s legs and clung there. Comfort tried to push her off. Peanut clung tight. The men stood up, crowded around the ring and applauded as Comfort started kicking out at Peanut. She kicked Peanut’s head just as she had kicked the green coconuts when she was a child and the anger and the frustration got too much.

The men chanted:
Kill her, kill her.

Brandon pulled Comfort off and raised her gloved hand.

‘And the winner is…Comfort.’

Peanut lay in an undignified pile, trails of blood across the floor behind her. There was blood over Comfort’s legs where Peanut had clung to them. It dripped from her shiny blue shorts. The crowd applauded.

As Brandon held up her arm in victory the rest of her body slumped. She was hysterical, laughing, crying. The men cheered. The ring was hastily dismantled. Peanut was carried away. A cleaner came out with a bucket. The men turned back to their beers, a little sheepishly now. The dancers came back out—girls in plastic yellow bikinis gyrated expressionlessly around the dance floor whilst the cleaner mopped up Peanut’s blood.

The Colonel was elated. He sat back heavily in his seat and rocked it back and forth on its back legs. He felt his lungs open, expand, big, full of air. He drew his shoulders back and snorted from flared nostrils. His body glistened with sweat. He looked at Maya. For a moment his eyes softened. He looked at Terry. He knew what Terry’s eyes said—they said wait—she is not ready. But the Colonel did not want to wait. Fuck
and
fight—he could have both tonight.