The Trafficked (19 page)

47

 

‘Enough! It’s time. Go and fetch her…’

Brandon left.

‘No one ever escapes me, Wednesday, you should know that.’

The Colonel lifted Wednesday’s head so she could look at him. Her face was puffed up like a football. One eye was completely closed, burnt by a cigarette in the eyeball. The hair had been torn from her head and left her scalp bleeding and raw. The door opened and Brandon walked in, pulling Maya by the arm.

The little girl stood for a moment, startled by the terrible thing she saw before her—unable to recognise her mother. The Colonel lifted Wednesday’s chin and it took Maya a few seconds to realise it was her mother. Then she cried out and desperately tried to reach for her.

Wednesday looked at Maya and tried to speak but she could not; her mouth was swollen, her teeth broken from the electric shock torture. Brandon hadn’t put the piece of plastic in her mouth to stop that happening.
But then, he didn’t have any reason to worry if her teeth were broken and he ruined her looks. She was never going to be for sale again.

She tried to smile at the child.
Poor Maya, to see her mother like this. Poor Maya
, she thought. She could see that the child’s eyes were full of fear as she whimpered.
Mama, Mama.

The Colonel picked Maya up by one arm and held her aloft like a rag doll, then he pretended to drop her before catching her around the waist and holding her tightly to him. She screamed and cried out for Wednesday.

‘You want your daughter back? Here she is.’

‘Mama. Mama.’

The Colonel laughed and nodded in the direction of Brandon, who went to stand behind Wednesday’s chair. Wednesday looked at her daughter and tried to speak, but no words came—blood spluttered from her mouth and ran in a trickle. But she had the strength of the dying and the determination and focus of a mother knowing that she is the only chance to save her child. She thrashed and bellowed—hoarse and strange her voice came out, distorted in her anguish and desperation. She shook violently.

The Colonel tutted.

‘What can you offer me, Wednesday? You had your day. I took your cherry and I took your daughter’s—one whore begets another.’ He licked Maya’s face and laughed as the child sobbed in small breaths.

‘Mama…Mama.’

The Colonel walked to the far wall.

‘But, you came alone, as I demanded, so I will give you one last chance to win your daughter back…it’s only fair…If you can get here and kiss my feet, you can have her. If you don’t make it—then she’s mine.’ He ordered Brandon to cut Wednesday’s bonds and free her from the chair. ‘Come and get her, Wednesday.’

Wednesday lunged forwards. Brandon stuck his foot out and tripped her and she hit the floor. He placed a foot on her back. He took his knife and sliced the long blade through the back of her right thigh, just above the knee. The hamstring snapped and curled. Maya screamed and turned away as Wednesday let out a muffled scream and clutched the injured leg as she dragged herself onwards towards Maya. She tried to stand on her left leg but Brandon kicked it from beneath her and she crashed to the floor again. He stepped forward and sliced through the other hamstring. She let out a tormented cry of anguish but still she pulled herself along with her hands like some freakish animal, bald, bloodied and crippled, she pulled her weight on her hands and elbows. She stopped within reach of the Colonel’s feet and looked up at him. Maya held out her hands to her mother.
‘Mama, Mama
’

Wednesday extended a hand to touch his feet. Brandon dragged her head backwards.

The Colonel stared down at her. ‘Look at me, Wednesday. Look into the eyes of your God.’ He kissed Maya on the mouth. ‘And take a last look at your daughter and know that I will have her, body and
soul, until she is no more use to me, then I will kill her.’

Wednesday let out a cry of anguish but no sound came out; her vocal cords were cut as Brandon slit her throat.

48

 

Shrimp turned to look over at David White who was slumped against the wall behind, doubled over in pain, White glanced up and raised a hand as if to say that he was all right, just winded. Shrimp studied him for a few seconds to reassure himself that was the case before he looked back at his two assailants. They had landed a few metres apart. One was now doing his best to stand and crawl back towards the Centrepoint exit, dragging his right leg where Shrimp had delivered a sweeping kick that had smashed his ankle bones. Blood ran freely from a ragged wound on the side of his shaven skull where there was still a clear outline of Shrimp’s boot. The other man lay still with his eyes shut, his chest barely rising and falling.

Shrimp made a move towards White and helped him stand upright. He looked shaken but not hurt, thought Shrimp. Shrimp looked down at himself and instinctively brushed the debris from his new jeans. He looked both ways of the tunnel. There were footsteps coming from the Centrepoint end but they were small strides, slow pace—not threatening. He looked to the other
end of the gloomy tunnel that stank of wee. The three small groups of rough sleepers blinked back in the gloom.

Shrimp steered White towards Tottenham Court road tube. A drunk stood swaying as they passed

‘Hey you…’ He waved his bottle in Shrimp’s direction. ‘You put up one hell of a fight, so you did…’ he grinned.

Shrimp looked back over his shoulder to make sure there would be no more fighting needed that day. One of his assailants had already made it out of sight; the other was just trying to stand. ‘Fucking good fight, I said.’ The drunk’s words followed them down the corridor as the rough sleepers mumbled their agreement and turned to watch them go.

49

 

Mann and Becky sat in the old four-seater Cessna 172 and watched Puerto Galera come into view. In the distance they saw a faded purple banner draped lopsided across the roof of the small airport terminal. Becky had been very quiet all through the journey, and when Mann checked on her she looked ashen.

‘Thank you, Remy. The lift is much appreciated.’ Mann was sitting in the co-pilot seat.

Remy looked more Mexican than Filipino. His luxurious thick black hair, lightly dressed with coconut oil, sat on his head in waves of black. He also had an impressive handlebar moustache ‘No problem. I have to see my wife’s cousin who lives here. I am always happy to help the Fathers; they do a great job. I was a priest myself, you know. Got caught up wid a woman—same old story, huh? Ha Ha…’

He started singing the words to ‘Come fly with me’
.

Remy Bulgaros was doing his favourite thing—singing Sinatra songs and flying his planes. They were in safe hands; Remy knew how to fly almost any small plane there was. This was one of two he owned. The
other was used for crop spraying and extinguishing the odd small fire. He lined up the plane with the runway and put the flaps down.

‘Don’t worry if it’s a bit bumpy, huh? It’s a good wind today, great for the beach, not so good for small planes.’

Mann glanced behind and saw that Becky’s knuckles were white as she clutched the seat belt. Her head stayed absolutely still whilst her eyes flicked side to side as the tops of trees came into view. He heard her sigh with relief as they touched down and taxied off to the hard standing area. Remy parked up and switched off the engine.

‘I will be ready to fly you to Angeles whenever you want. Just call me on my cell phone. You have the number, no? You can get a phut phut from here to the resort. Ask anyone inside. Okay? Juz call.’ Remy burst into song again.

Mann and Becky stepped out. Before they’d gone ten paces from the aircraft they were surrounded by a dozen men all gesticulating and grinning, all wanting to carry their bags.

‘It’s not heavy,’ Becky told them.

‘It doesn’t matter—it’s their job,’ Mann said, smiling as he handed them over. ‘There’s not enough work to go round so they invent jobs—keeps them in food for the day.’

At the airport door the bags were passed on to another set of men whose job it was to carry it another twenty metres to a line of phut phuts which were bigger versions of mosquitoes with more roof space and larger
luggage baskets at the back. Some of the phut phuts were already loaded with children on the roofs as well as on every available space on the bike itself. Sometimes up to six managed to sit with the driver, clinging around each other’s waists. The phut phut drivers sized Mann and Becky up and the biggest trike driver stepped forward, chosen to balance the load. He offered to take them to their resort, and put their bags into the seat at the back of the bike whilst they squeezed into the sidecar.

The road ran down narrow lanes, past scooters and tricycles with loaded side cars. A long, narrow road was flanked on both sides with stalls, workshops, the odd house and small hotel. It was all lush and green with forest in every gap between the houses and as far into the island as could be seen. The twenty-minute trike ride came to an end when the road ended and the beach began. There were several porters waiting. Mann recognised the man with the Paradise Hotel shirt logo.

‘Welcome, Mr and Mrs Black. I will take you to the resort.’

BONG
was written on a name badge and pinned to a blue and cream floral shirt, which made up his uniform along with ivory-coloured shorts and flip-flops. He took both their cases from them and marched in front to a waiting
barca
—a boat that looked like a large insect sitting on the water. The boat had
Paradise
written on the side. They loaded Mann and Becky onboard and set off.

‘I can’t believe we’ve got our own boat. What a place!’
Becky sat back and smiled. It was impossible not to. Under the shade of the canvas roof she looked out across the water to the island that lay some way off.

‘It’s a tropical paradise—swaying palms and white beaches—such a contrast to the city slums. So, this place we are going to, it’s not for your average sex tourist?’

‘Some areas are made for sex tourism; others are purely for the divers and the families. It’s a great resort—spread out, covering several beaches. We are going to Sabang, which is not the prettiest place—lively and trashy; not really for families but we need to look up a couple of people—two men on the list of prominent westerners working the system out here. The good places, unspoilt, are not far from where we are staying—just a twenty-minute walk away is La Laguna—some of the best diving in the Philippines. Some of it is so unspoilt it’s breathtakingly beautiful. But can’t see us getting to see it, sorry. This is a one-night stop-over. It would be nice for you to come back and see this place properly one day,’ Mann said.

‘Definitely.’ Then she thought about it. ‘Don’t think Alex would get it, though. He’d be irritated by the slow pace. He just doesn’t do “lying around on beaches” stuff. For him it’s all action and decisions.’ She closed her eyes and settled back against the wooden seat. ‘But I love it—it’s stunning—like a postcard: white sands, tall, swaying palms.’

‘What’s Alex up to whilst you’re away?’ ‘This and that. He’s fine. Says he’s busy making money. He didn’t seem to mind.’ She opened her eyes,
looked at Mann and looked away quickly. His expression said it all. ‘All right, Detective—he said it was the same old bullshit. Work always comes first. And maybe he’s right.’ She dipped her hand in the water and watched the wake. ‘I am not really trophy wife enough for him. Nothing I do is right. My hair is too short, my hips too broad. My bloody eyes are probably the wrong colour. I can’t do anything right any more. Maybe I never could.’ She sat up and smiled sadly as she looked out to the turquoise water. ‘I can’t get over how beautiful it is here.’

‘Nature’s an awesome thing. I have the utmost respect for her. She can give you life and she can snuff life out in a second.’

Becky opened her eyes a tad. ‘Like triads, you mean?’

‘Yes. I guess so.’ He looked quizzically back at her. ‘But, if you have certain values, believe in certain things, then they are worth dying for.’

‘That really
is
you, isn’t it, Mann?’ She sat up. ‘You are willing to give up your life for others—people that don’t even exist in other’s heads, nameless victims—you will die for them. Why?’

‘Because I understand what it’s like to be helpless—to be vulnerable.’

‘What about personal happiness, Mann? What about you finding contentment in
your
life?’

‘I get my happiness where I can. A lasting love is not for everyone.’

‘Alex told me that when he first saw me he knew I was the one.’ She stared out at the glistening sunlight
on the water. ‘Not sure I believe in that kind of thing either, really.’

‘Are you faithful?’

‘Of course.’ She was flustered, almost insulted by the question. ‘When I spoke my wedding vows, I meant them. Till death do us part, all that stuff. I am not a quitter, Mann.’

‘What about him? Is he faithful to you?’

There was a pause. ‘Truthfully? I don’t know. I hope so, but I am not sure. There have been times when he’s come back from a business trip and he’s been different.’

‘In what way?’

She became flustered.

‘Well, in bed for a start. He’s made love differently. Almost as if he was making love to someone else. But everyone wants to be with someone—no one wants to be alone. Except for you, it seems. Have you never fallen so hopelessly in love that you would have cut your arm off for her?’

‘Never wanted that kind of love. I don’t want love that you can’t control. My father’s death, Helen’s, it’s not worth loving someone at any cost. I would far rather never love than feel that loss again. And anyway, I don’t believe in love at first sight. I’ve had plenty of other feelings at first sight. So far none of them were love. Maybe I’m not romantic enough.’

‘Huh! I bet you are, really. You notice things.’

He looked at her. In the sunlight her face was honey-coloured and her cheeks were pink from the sun. ‘So you don’t think you are ever going to find love again because you don’t want to. What happens if it just happens?’

‘Things don’t just happen—you have to let them happen.’

‘You blame yourself for Helen’s and your dad’s deaths, don’t you? You must have loved your father very much.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes and stared out at the ocean and the looming shoreline. As Mann stared out into the water, the blue filled his eyes and senses; the fresh sea spray cleared his head and he realised something he had never admitted to before. The thought jumped out at him and it shocked him. He turned back to Becky and looked at her concerned face as she waited for an answer; he knew she had unlocked another piece of the puzzle for him.

‘I never really knew my father—I never got the chance.’

A jolt interrupted them and a commotion ensued as half a dozen men waded in to pull the
barca
up onto the sand and moor it alongside a dozen others. Becky reached into her pocket and handed the man a note in exchange for her bag. He held it up in triumph for the others to see. His workmates slapped him on the back and congratulated him.

‘What was all that about?’ Becky looked confused.

‘The rounds are on him tonight. You gave him the equivalent of a month’s wages.’

There was a jostle amongst the porters as to who would get to carry Becky’s bag up the beach. She left it to them to sort it out and followed Mann. Bong hurried off to make sure all was in order, whilst Mann and Becky walked along the beach. It was a narrow
strip of sand that was already congested with moored
barcas
, small hotels and bars that crept almost as far as the water’s edge. There were a few couples sunbathing, and a few more sitting in the shade of beach umbrellas. Excited children were kicking up water at the ocean’s edge.

They headed up the beach towards one of the beachfront bars, which were built on stilts resting half onto the beach. A few tables and chairs were pitched into the sand. Laid-back beach music drifted out from inside the elevated bar area. Becky caught up with the porter and took her bag from him. She dug in her pocket and, not wishing to appear mean, produced the same note as last time. It caused great whoops of triumph from the porters. Becky plonked herself on the stool in the sand. They were immediately surrounded by men wanting to sell them diving adventures and sailing trips.

The barman left his seat, on the steps of the bar, and sauntered over to their table to take their order. The touting locals moved on and up the beach.

‘Two San Miguel.’ Mann ordered their drinks.

‘Yes, sir.’ He came back with the tray. ‘You staying at Paradise Hotel, sir?’

‘Do you know somewhere better?’ answered Mann.

‘I know d best place in Sabang.’ He grinned and pointed to the second floor rising above them. Washing and wetsuits hung down from the balcony above and the sound of heavy-duty bass came thumping out from the open balcony. ‘We have rooms above d bar.’

‘Yeah, right, now tell us somewhere where we can actually get some sleep.’

‘Okay. Okay. I see you want d best for such a beautiful lady.’ He grinned at Becky. ‘Paradise Hotel—it’s real nice, at d end of d beach, quiet, own by English guy, name Bob. It is good place for you.’

‘Tell you what…we’ll see how it works out. If it’s bad we’ll come back to you. Okay?’

‘Is that one of the men you were talking about?’ Becky asked after the waiter had left.

‘Yes. English Bob, or Bob English, is an expat wanted for armed robbery and firearms offences back in the UK and in Thailand. He has twice managed to avoid prison for underage sex. He isn’t fussy—girls or boys.’

‘Nice bloke. He gets away with it here by paying people off?’

‘That’s it. He pays off the police, the parents and the politicians, and he sends the child back to the country side, lost forever. Bob has been here five years. Seems to have found himself some useful friends, one of whom owns a few of the bars along this beach. It’s probably a good place for us to start asking questions.’

The waiter came back. ‘Your man, Bong, is coming back in five minutes—just making the room ready. You want another beer?’ He pointed to Mann’s empty bottle. Mann declined.

‘What else do you know about this English Bob?’ asked Becky when the waiter had left them and was working his way across the sand and up the wooden steps to the bar beyond.

‘He owns a few clubs here. He is bound to have been approached by the White Circle, and I know he has
had dealings with Stevie Ho…Here’s our man, and…’ Bong appeared to inform them that all was prepared for their arrival. They followed him along the beach as he carried one bag on each of his broad shoulders. He was in no hurry at first, but he sprinted the last bit as the hot sand got too much to bear. They arrived at the beach entrance to Hotel Paradise, whose boundary was marked by posts and three rows of sturdy-looking sun-loungers, set out in pairs, with thatched sun umbrellas between each set. There was a sentry post, a small windowless box, and a smartly uniformed officer grinned and waved at them from inside, his rifle over his arm.

‘Why is
he
armed?’ Becky smiled and waved back. ‘I can understand the airport security, but why here?’

‘They have had problems with terrorists for so many years. They are used to a high level of security. They have a “better safe than sorry” approach.’

Two women met them at the boundary of sunbeds and presented them with their welcome pack—shell necklaces and fresh papaya juice. They had garlands of flowers placed around their necks and were ushered towards reception.

The reception area was being swept, the sand was being brushed out; it was a continual process. There were three girls behind the desk dressed in tightly fitting flowery uniforms, their hair tied up, glossy and black, caught at the back of their heads with a flower. They were flustered and giggly at Mann’s presence. Becky realised it was a fact of life that he was the average Filipina’s winning lottery ticket.