The Trafficked (18 page)
43The next morning whilst they were waiting for Remy to fly them to Puerto Galera, Mann left Becky interviewing the children who had had dealings with the DDS whilst he went to check his emails again. The PC was in Father Finn’s study. It was a small white-walled room overlooking the courtyard at the back. It was wall-to-wall books and thick files, all documenting the years of bringing western paedophiles to justice or trying to get permission to build his refuges.
Mann sat and punched in his email address. The first thing he saw was another message from BLANCO.
Did you enjoy the Barrio
Patay?Give Father Finn a message from me…PRESS
Father Finn’s image appeared with a naked child sat on his lap and a comic-strip cartoon of an exploding gun by his head—
Bang Bang.‘I’m sorry if I woke you, David,’ Mann said down the phone.
‘It’s okay, I was working anyway.’
‘I got a couple of emails from the kidnapper. In one of them he sent me a photo of Amy Tang with a noose around her neck.’
‘She’s already dead?’
‘No, I think it was a dress rehearsal.’
‘What are they waiting for? Why don’t they just do it?’ asked White.
‘It’s all part of their strategy to keep us looking and to give them time to achieve their real aims—but what they are I don’t know yet. That little girl is just bait in the centre of an elaborate maze, and we are man oeuvred this way and that down one alley just to find it leads to another. We are part of the game. The kidnapper knows where we are, David. He knows who we are, where we’ve been and where we are going. He knows our every move.’
There was a small pause at the other end of the phone.
‘Do you think Becky is the mole?’
‘I hope not, but I’ll limit the information I give to her for a few days. I need to get some inside help with this. The White Circle have the DDS in their pay, and we all know who hires the DDS. Someone in government is making a lot of money from the trafficking. Can you try and find that mayor of yours, Fredrico?’
‘I will try my best. But I am surprised they can be so brazen.’
‘They don’t care. They are still locking kids away in jails, even though the world press has seen them do it on CNN. The Columban fathers are looking after a
young lad who is willing to testify against the government. He is in hiding.’‘Where?’
‘Here at the refuge.’
‘Probably as safe as anywhere. About the mole—I will contact Shrimp and warn him—we are all in danger.’
Shrimp took a sip of Real Ale and decided it
might
grow on him, but probably not. He was sitting in the history-seeped wood-panelled surrounds of the Marquis pub on the corner of Rathbone Street, watching two Albanian pimps work the pub with their troupe of scruffy-looking girls, whilst a portrait of the young Dylan Thomas looked on. Outside, in Soho, the world ambled past, looking for restaurants and company.
It was eight thirty and the person he had agreed to meet was late. She was supposed to be here at eight. If she could tell him where Amy Tang was then it would be worth it. He tried to visualise her from the call she had made to the office that afternoon. She sounded young, and she spoke English with a European accent—maybe German, he thought. Now he was waiting, a slight figure sitting just inside the entrance to the pub at a dark and cosy corner table.
The Albanian pimp decided to try his luck, looked
over at Shrimp, and took a step towards him, pushing a girl before him. The girl smiled at Shrimp. He looked at her face—the thick makeup did a poor job of disguising the beating she had taken. He shook his head apologetically. As they walked away the girl looked back at him and fixed her eyes on his face. It was a look, not in recognition of his sympathy or a look of anger at his rebuttal—it was a warning signal.
He watched the two Chinese men approach him from behind the girl and the pimp. Shrimp was on his feet and out of the door before they got within arm’s reach of the table. He dodged between the groups of meandering people as he sprinted down Percy Street. He looked behind him as he quickened his pace and headed out onto Tottenham Court Road and towards the landmark thirty-two floors of Centre Point building. He knew that marked the junction with Oxford Street. He thought he’d be safe there.
He tried to hop on a passing number 19 bus as the doors were closing, but didn’t make it and bounced off its side. All he had to do was run past the fountain at Centre Point, cross over, and he’d be swallowed up by the teeming mass of Oxford Street. That was the plan, but as he reached the fountain he saw David White emerging from the Centre Point subway that led to Tottenham Court Road tube. For a second Shrimp froze. He turned and saw the men barge through the crowds waiting outside the Dominion Theatre. He looked back at David White and knew in that instant that they had all seen each other and he had no choice. David White stood transfixed for a few seconds as he
tried to make out what was happening and looked back and forth from Shrimp to his pursuers. Shrimp stopped dead in his tracks, then he turned and ran back towards David White—he had no choice, he pulled him back down the subway.
They ran down the dark and dingy corridor with its two runway strips of fluorescent lighting along the ceiling that gave off a green glow. The smell of urine was ever-present. They ran past the drunk and the desperate as rough sleepers prepared to bed down for the night. The eeriness in the tunnel was permeated by the sound of running feet. Shrimp could hear them gaining. David White’s legs were slowing. Shrimp realised he had no choice but to stand and fight. With his back to the wall and David White standing behind him, he prepared for the fight of his life.
45‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-one, ma’am.’
Mamasan Mimi examined Wednesday’s hands.
‘Washer woman hands,’ she said in a derisive tone, and let them drop.
Wednesday looked at them. They were strong hands but not manicured, it was true. Wednesday always put palm oil on them before she went to sleep, to stop them drying and shrivelling, but they weren’t pretty hands.
‘Take off your clothes.’
Wednesday looked at the three doormen.
‘Go away,’ she said.
The mamasan laughed. ‘They will see all they want soon and more, but okay—if you wish…’
She shooed the men away with a wave of her hand. They pushed one another out of the door, giggling like schoolboys. Wednesday slipped out of her sundress for the mamasan’s appraisal.
‘You have had a child. I can see by the round of your stomach. Still, you have good breasts and a curvy figure, the men will like that, and you are light-skinned with
a pretty face. Start tonight. In three hours. Go and get your bikini made in the tailor three doors down from here. Tell him Mamasan Mimi from Lolita’s sent you, hurry, and here…’ she gave Wednesday some change ‘…get something to eat whilst he’s making it. Come back to me in two hours, I will show you where you sleep and where you wash.’Wednesday took the money and thanked the mamasan. She felt sick to the stomach but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more. She had brought Maya into this world and she was all the little girl had. Wednesday would find her and bring her home whatever the cost.
Tonight she would start the search for her daughter.
The tailor stopped eating and took up his tape measure. Wednesday glared at the boys who leaned on their tricycles outside.
‘Wssss…’ they called, to get her attention, and nudged each other as they eyed up the new girl in town.
The tailor measured around her waist, hips and bust. He measured the length of her crotch and his hand lingered. ‘Hurry up,’ she said. ‘I am hungry.’
‘I will get you something to eat and you can sit here and eat it if you like.’
Wednesday waited till his eyes met hers, as he was folding the measuring tape, then she looked deep into them and mouthed the word
No.He shrugged and told her to come back in an hour. She went down the street to a cafe she had known as a child. The old woman serving looked twice at her.
She went to sit at the counter and waited until the old woman came shuffling over to serve her. The woman stopped and scrutinised Wednesday.
‘I recognise you. Long time ago.’
Wednesday smiled and shook her head. ‘Just arrived.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Davao.’
The woman went and returned with a bowl of rice and fish.
‘What about you? Have you been here for long?’
The old woman set the bowl in front of her and snorted.
‘Long? Thirty years. I was a bar girl myself, when the Americans were here. Things haven’t changed much. Not so many of them here, but plenty of others. That’s where I thought I knew you from—long ago there was a child who looked like you. Then, I thought I saw you again, the other day. A child who looked just like you or the person I thought was you. She was with the Colonel. Just the way you…’ The old woman stopped and looked hard at Wednesday. Wednesday reddened and looked away. Her heart was beating so fast she thought the old woman would see it pounding. ‘Oh well…old eyes play tricks, huh?’
Wednesday smiled and thanked her and got down from her stool. She looked at the old woman who was now busy frying chicken. Wednesday knew she had been recognised. Now her time here was going to be very precious. She picked up her bikini from the tailor’s and headed back to Lolita’s, ready to spend her first night as a dancing girl.
46At its busiest time, between ten and twelve, Lolita’s had over eighty girls working the floor. They took it in turns to dance for the clientele in groups of fifteen. They had choreographed routines, matching outfits, and they took centre stage in turns to perform. The rest of the time they milled about waiting to be invited onto tables. When the girls weren’t dancing, and there weren’t enough punters in to warrant them all being out, they sat in a crowded room at the back of the club. They chatted in groups, some dozed, others fanned themselves—there was no air-con and their bikinis were sweaty.
The talk tonight was of the fight. Peanut was still not able to work and Comfort was blamed by the other girls. Comfort had a corner all to herself and an empty seat next to her. Wednesday instantly recognised her when she walked in. They had been children in Angeles together. It was Comfort who had replaced Wednesday in the Colonel’s affections.
Wednesday hoped Comfort wouldn’t remember her. Comfort had seen so many girls come and go, maybe she wouldn’t. She went to sit with her.
‘Hi. Mind if I sit here?’
Comfort gave a shrug.
Not even a second look
, thought Wednesday.
I’m safe.Comfort glanced over at the other girls to see if she was being set up—by their lack of interest she assumed she wasn’t. She figured she could trust the new girl not to attack her. Comfort wasn’t feeling good about the fight either. She had already agreed to give Peanut some of her wages, otherwise she would have nothing to send home to her mother who was looking after Peanut’s baby boy.
‘Why aren’t you in a bikini?’ asked Wednesday.
‘I don’t dance here. I work the bars at the end of the Fields.’
‘Are they all owned by the same person?’
‘Yes, the Colonel owns most of this street.’
‘What’s he like? Is he good looking?’ she asked, feigning ignorance.
Comfort laughed cynically. ‘No. He’s mean and he’s ugly, but he’s the boss.’
‘Have you been here a long time?’
Comfort buried her face in her hands fleetingly, then sat up and gave an ironic smile.
‘Forever. This is my home.’
‘Does the Colonel have a wife?’
‘Huh!’ Comfort’s shoulders shook with laughter. ‘Yes, he has. She is a little girl; he carries her around like a doll.’
Wednesday couldn’t help the gasp that stuck in her throat, and for a moment she could not speak. She looked away for a few seconds so that Comfort
might not see how that little girl’s face matched Wednesday’s.‘And will he be here tonight? Will he watch us dance?’
‘Who knows? Probably not.’ Comfort got up to walk away. ‘But if he is in, he’ll want you. He wants everything new.’
The ten girls filed out and stepped on to the elevated bar that they were expected to dance on top of. Most of the men sat around the long, oblong bar. A few of the tables were occupied. Wednesday was the fourth in the row; Mamasan Mimi had told her what she had to do. They had four poles between them; they took it in turns to dance on them. She would have to wait her turn for the pole. She didn’t mind. They hadn’t had poles when she used to dance, but her moves were the same. She began gyrating her hips slowly to the beat. She was a good dancer. She caught the attention of a noisy table of young men from the UK. They were indulging in the hair of the dog, talking about the previous night’s escapades and getting themselves in party mood. When she finished her dance she was called over to their table. They made room for her to sit in-between one of the drunkest and a sullen one. She tried to make conversation but was ignored by the sullen one. The drunken one touched her breasts.
‘No can touch.’
‘Yes can touch,’ he mimicked. ‘Can touch as much as I want.’
He fondled her roughly. Wednesday squirmed from his hands and pressed him firmly away. His face was
purple with drink. His breath stank. He nuzzled into Wednesday’s neck and tried to remove her bikini top. The others around the table laughed. She pushed him away harder this time.‘Hey, you’re a strong girl. Look at these muscles!’ The lad across the table reached over and held up Wednesday’s arm. ‘Fuck me—that’s more like it! Come and sit over here and I’ll give you an arm wrestle.’ The lad pulled Wednesday out of the clutches of his drunken mate and she scrabbled over laps to sit next to the arm-wrestler. He cleared the table and set his elbow on it. He held tightly to Wednesday’s hand.
‘Ready steady
go!’They both held each other’s eyes and Wednesday could see that he was going to let her win. She played along and finally she pressed his hand flat to the table. A cheer went up. They kept drinking. It was getting late; she had to be out by the time the Colonel came in. Wednesday had to make a move on her lad. She slid from the table and began a private dance for him. His eyes fixed on her as she spun her body around the pole. She never took her eyes from his. She walked onto the centre of the stage and leaned her back against the pole and slid down it, opening her knees wide. She had been taught to dance by the Colonel and the mamasans when she was a girl. She could still open her legs into the splits. She dropped into a straddle and turned into a scissor splits. She rolled over and pulled herself up on the poll before arching her back and bringing herself slowly to standing. She wiggled her hips like a belly dancer as she moved
towards him and jiggled her breasts in his face as she straddled his lap. His face was lost in lust. He pinned her to his lap and ground her to him. She could feel that he was hard.‘You better take me home, big boy. I gonna private dance for you.’
Mamasan Mimi was called. Negotiations were made and Wednesday was bought out for five ladies’ drinks—the system that got around the supposed illegality of bar fining, which was the payment given to the bar to buy a girl out for sex. She went to change. Her heart was in her mouth. She had run away from this work nine years ago, now she was back where she started, but one of these lads might be able to help her. If she told them her story, one of them might help.
Back at the hotel she tried to get the sex over with, but he was in no hurry. Wednesday tried to engage him in conversation in the hope that he would want to know something about her, that he would care what her life was like, that she could tell him about Maya and he would help. But when the sex was over he went to sleep. At dawn he awoke and wanted sex again. At nine she decided to leave. She felt the hopelessness of it all. Soon the Colonel would find out she was here, and she didn’t know if she could face him again. It had been years since she’d seen him, but inside she would always be that little girl he had owned. The Colonel would come and get her and she would never get her baby back. He had told her to come alone and not to contact the priests. Those had been the Colonel’s orders
—Pepe said: ‘tell her to come alone—no priests. If you come with priests he will slit her throat.’But now, Wednesday realised that she could not do it alone and she could not afford to face the Colonel; she did not have the strength to do it alone. She would call the only person she had in the world to help—Father Finn—and ask for help from Mann and Becky. But she would try one last thing before she did that.
She dressed quietly and slipped out of the hotel room. She walked down Fields Avenue to the police station and asked to see the officer in charge. Three police officers watched her walk in. They stood and watched as she gave an account of Maya’s disappearance to the sergeant and what she knew about her whereabouts now. The sergeant wrote down what she said.
‘Okay Wait here.’ He left Wednesday standing at the counter. The three policemen stared at her. One of them tried a conversation.
‘What do you do back home in Davao?’
‘I take in washing.’
‘Your little girl goes to school?’
‘Yes, every day. She is very clever.’
‘You are a good mother to come and find her. You have a husband?’ Maya shook her head. ‘You should—pretty girl like you.’
The door of the police station opened. The sergeant reappeared from his office. Wednesday turned. The Colonel was standing behind her.
‘You bastard!’ she screamed. ‘You pig!’
‘Call me what you like,’ said the sergeant. ‘You are nothing but a whore, and you insult the man who pays our wages. Get out of here. We will not help filth like you who can’t even look after their own children.’