“This room will be used for films now. Movie Room,” Cassie says, manicured hands pressed against her wide hips. A sheen of sweat sliding across her upper lip.
“When do we need to have it ready by?” Ella asks.
“Next week. First, I need to buy a new bed. Make it look pretty,” she says with a flicking gesture of hands. “Big clients with money want to watch our beautiful girls.”
My stomach churns. An acidy, retching, thick-phlegmy, vile lurch.
“These girls,” she continues, “so lucky. They have good lives. Good care. Plenty of money. Taken from poor homes to live here like princesses.”
Liar! Runner shouts, causing me and the Body to jolt.
Cassie reaches for two large cardboard boxes stacked in the far corner of the room, sleek gaffer tape holding their edges.
With a penknife she slices the sticky tape. “Here,” she says, handing Ella a boxed camcorder and me a tripod. “Take these.”
She then recovers two webcams, a couple of hard drives, microphones, a DSLR, and a stream deck. Their instructions printed in Chinese. A mountain of clear, tiny-blistered bubble wrap spilling out on the floor like frogspawn.
“Tao, hǎo xiōngdì!” She shines.
“He lives in China, your brother?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, “for many years now.”
She turns away.
Ella looks at me.
“You must miss him,” I say.
“Must be difficult,” Ella adds.
Cassie wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, the other attempting to flatten the box.
“Sometimes.” She smiles, canines tinged with a treacherous brown like they’ve been dipped in tea. Payback for all the shit she talks.
I smile.
“I’ll do this one,” I say, grabbing the second box and emptying it of two more hard drives and cuddly stuffed animals, a smaller box inside filled with makeup and pastel sex toys.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing both my and Ella’s arms like we’re friends, “then we’ll eat.”
“Great,” I say, stroking my belly. But as she turns I quickly slip a form labeled Sender’s Invoice into my back pocket, Tao’s address printed on the back. I pull out my phone.
Evidence #1
The Good Brother, Tao Wang, Pornographer/Trafficker.
Lives in mainland China.
Well done, Runner says.
I take a moment to think of the girls downstairs, trafficked under false pretenses. I think about the homes they were snatched away from, or the homes they never had. The pornography they’ll be forced into by men who pay. I think about the webcams, the equipment. The hard drives. And their bodies: too young, too fragile, and still flowering.
And I think about the lies. The lies, most of all, are what haunt me most.
33
Daniel Rosenstein
“A few days ago I tried having a conversation with a blackbird,” she says. “Do you think I’m mad?”
“Did it reply?”
She laughs. “Excellent diversion. And no, he didn’t.”
“It was a he?” I say.
“Most definitely.”
“How do you know this?”
“Females are brown. Juveniles a reddish-brown. He was glossy black.”
“So, you’re an ornithologist.”
She shrugs.
“Your talents are endless.”
“Thank you,” she allows.
A pause.
“I have this crazy idea that birds carry my mother’s soul with them. It’s been a way for me to keep her close. There will always be birds.”
“Just like the Flock?”
“I guess they’re an extension of her,” she says, suddenly animated, “like family. You know, their personalities guiding me like a family might.”
“Not all families get along,” I offer.
“Quite,” she says, crossing her legs. Her body slowly stretching. A switch? Possibly.
I take a sip of water, an eye on the time, making a mental note of my ongoing curiosities regarding mothers and fathers. For a moment I picture my parents, both still alive and rattling around their allotment. I feel relief they still have each other for company yet know one day this will not be the case, a guilty though honest hope that it will be my father who dies first.
Looking back, I believe my Oedipal complex was rampant as a child. I was not completely comfortable with sharing my mother with anyone—especially my father. She was my absolute world. I would orbit her, like Saturn; in the kitchen while she baked, in the bathroom as she applied cold cream to her neck, at the bottom of the garden as she pulled cabbages from the vegetable patch. I was constantly fearful she could be taken away at any moment, just like the time when I was six years old and witnessed her rushed to the hospital after her heart had shivered.
“Are you dying?” I asked my mother while I stood glancing at her flat body.
“I certainly hope not, Daniel. It’s Christmas in two weeks.”
My father told me that it was my fault my mother’s heart was under attack.
“All your soddin’ whining. That’s what’s done it.” He spoke with stern resentment. He was sober at the time, no whiskey to take the edge off his barbed and misguided comment.
To give a child that much power has its repercussions. Naturally, I became petulant and precocious, omnipotent and almighty, believing that when it rained, I had caused it. That when a long-awaited bus arrived it was me my father should thank for the two available seats. I understand now that this magical thinking was an attempt to gain agency while my mother lay in hospital, a desire so deep within me to reclaim control while feeling so utterly powerless.
Years later when Clara died, my worst fear came true. I was abandoned. Lost from the one whom I loved most in the world aside from my mother. My wife disappeared and would not be returning, however insistent my heart, however deluded my magical thinking.
I take another sip of water, my reverie now set aside.
Alexa, or I’m pretty sure Oneiroi, touches the soft part of her neck.
“By the way, thank you for the lychee. They were a nice surprise,” I say, a slice of guilt felt at recalling how I’d eroticized the gift, pictured her stroking the loose tie on her blouse.
“My pleasure,” she says, fingering her collarbone. “Although I can’t take full credit. It was Alexa’s idea, but Dolly and Runner packaged them.”
“Thank you. Everyone,” I say.
She looks to the floor, shuffles in her seat, gently tugging at the hem of her skirt.
“So, by projecting your mother into living creatures—the birds—you preserve her somehow?”
“Her soul. I preserve her soul.”
“I see.”
“So, am I mad?” she asks.
“I’d say you’re a thoughtful and sensitive observer.” I smile. “Someone who misses her mother a great deal.”
“You’re very sweet.” Oneiroi shines.
34
Alexa Wú
I rush to Polish Me Pretty, already a half hour late. The usual sugary ting-a-ling turning into an angry dong when I burst through the door.
“Sorry,” I whisper, gritting my teeth, trying my very best to close the door quietly. Three girls look up in synchronicity and then return to their chattering. I spot Ella at the back of the salon deciding on a color, hand on hip. Hundreds of nail polish bottles lined up side by side like candy.
I creep up behind her.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” I sing, squeezing her waist. A gift in my hand.
Startled, she turns.
“Fuck,” she says, holding her heart like it’s about to escape. “You scared me.”
The three girls throw us a look, their nails baking under UV lights while they share a joke.
Ella flings her arms around my neck—an overexcited child—eyes ablaze from the new Fendi clutch I’ve blown a whole month’s wages on.
“Like it?” I smile.
“Like it? I love it! I don’t know what to say.” My Reason sparkles with delight.
I blow on curled fingers, rub them against my collarbone, and wink.
“You’re the best,” she says, stroking the embellished clutch. “It’s gorgeous!”
The feeling of getting something perfectly right lifts me, a feather, a cloud, floating amid bliss.
“Come on,” I say, taking hold of her Fendi-free hand, “let’s choose a color, then afterwards I wanna head into the West End. I need a new dress for tonight.”
While we assess the tiny colorful bottles—me reorganizing and aligning the misplaced colors—the three girls all stand at once, each pulling down her skirt, and make their way to the door.
“I’m having this,” Ella says. “You?”
“Mm. Dolly’s got her eye on this one,” I say, holding a glittery pink.
“And Runner?” Ella asks.
“The standard goth black.”
“What about the Fouls?”
I look at her. “Please—”
“Oneiroi?”
“Natural or French.”
“Boooring,” Ella says, rolling her eyes.
Rude! Oneiroi shouts in my head.
“I can’t decide.” I sigh. Sometimes I paint each nail a different color just to avoid a headache, the Flock insisting they each have a choice—my hands a wiggling rainbow.
“Let’s both have this!” Ella insists, forcing the bottle of deep red into my palm, and we head toward the chairs.
The nail bar is quiet. Just the sandy stroke of a nail file.
Seated in our pedicure chairs, we roll the legs of our jeans. Ella’s a little more problematic because of their tightness.
“Gel or normal?” the technician asks.
“Normal,” I say.
As soon as the word leaves my lips I feel a wave of as if crash against me. The sheer notion of a normal person causing me strain.
“Have you heard from Shaun?” Ella whispers.
“Yeah, he texted. Said he’d meet us tonight around ten.”
“Right.”
“To be honest, I really wanna end it. I know you said we need him, but—”
“I get it,” she says.
Silence.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing.”
“Ella?”
“It’s just . . . A couple of the girls. They said he’s been hanging out with Amy. I thought you should know.”
The technician looks up at me and pulls a face that appears confused and concerned all at once.
“Right,” I say.
See; told you he was a dick, Runner shouts, covering Dolly’s ears.
Then Oneiroi jumps in: You don’t know for sure; ask him.
Ask him?! Runner dismisses, flicking a cigarette outside the Nest. He’s a liar.
“I will ask him, don’t you worry!” I speak out loud, the technician now quietly nodding her head.
“You okay?” Ella asks.
“Yeah,” I say, wiggling my toes, “I’m fine.”
I take a moment to picture Amy and Shaun together, naked, trying on the idea of them laughing, fooling around. Their mouths kissing. I note my mild jealousy rising even though I don’t want him anymore, but decide it has to be me who breaks it off, not him. The very idea of Shaun trading me in for another girl something insufferable, my competitiveness overbearing and foul.
When I look up my nails are already painted—tick-tock—a pink spongy toe separator wedged in between my tiny toes. The technician has moved and is bent over another girl’s hands. Ella is flicking through a copy of People.
“You okay?” she asks. “You seem kinda quiet. Upset.”
“I’m fine. Really,” I say, dusting myself down. “So. What’s the plan for tonight?”
“I thought we’d head to the O Bar—”
Runner suddenly sits up.
“—then, well, Navid’s organized a small party at the club. I couldn’t say no.” She whispers with surrendering outstretched hands, “I know it’s not the best idea, but we might as well go. Jane is going, and I’m sure Sylvie will too. What d’ya make of her?”
“Who, Sylvie?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s nice,” I offer. “I think she’s sweet. And much nicer than Amy.”
“Really? I think she’s weird,” Ella says, missing my barbed comment. “Skulking around the club like some goody-two-shoes.”
“Maybe she’s looking out for Jane,” I say, defense in my voice.
“I guess.” Ella shrugs. “Also, there’s a group of guys flying in from the Netherlands tonight. I’m pretty sure they’ve got something to do with what we unpacked the other night . . .”
She looks up, her words trailing off. Checking that no one can hear. Taking a deep breath, she admires her nails.
“I heard Navid on his phone talking to Tao,” she says, lowering her voice further, “something about a shipment coming via Utrecht.”
I close my eyes, imagining the night ahead. Shaun. Amy. Navid and the group of men flown in from the Netherlands—the idea of a new dress now seemingly wrong. I stand up. The pink sponge spreading my toes further. My heart suddenly waning. Hope starting to shrivel up.
A ring, Runner says, eyes ablaze. He’s organizing a trafficking ring.
35
Daniel Rosenstein
Alexa’s late. Alexa is never late.
I rearrange my stapler and letter opener, aligning them with the small gold clock, then check my top drawer for chocolate. Nothing.
I decide to reevaluate my notes, our progress, or lack thereof. Alexa is still somewhat of a wildling, untamed and not unlike mist. Her core self not quite tangible, her personas complex and startling. Where is she? She’s now twenty minutes late.
Alexa Wú: December 6
Today is a no-show. Alexa and I have now been working together for nearly four months. Although trust is emerging, it’s proving difficult to integrate Alexa’s personalities. I don’t even know if this is the goal anymore. Maybe she needs to exist, or they need to exist, as separate parts of herself? I wonder if integration is even possible.
Alexa remains involved with the Electra, attempting to gain evidence against Navid (the club owner), using Ella, her best friend, as reason to stay entangled. I wonder if she is addicted to the thrill? The threat? Might she only feel alive amidst conflict and risk?
I need to be more rigorous, have her realize that her career as a photographer is far more important than acting as a snoop for her so-called friend. I will challenge her. Make her realize that her past is informing her present behavior.
Even though it’s not my responsibility to engage with the drama, I question whether I’m being a bystander. Maybe I’m reenacting something from her past? Ignoring her ugly surroundings. By this, I have Dolly in mind. Is Dolly trying to warn me of something? Has part of me been refusing to listen?
I check my watch.
I’ll wait another five minutes, I think, and then I’ll call.
Through the window I observe two nurses, both thin in white coats, dash across the lawn like quick cigarettes, Charlotte clearly enjoying the chase. Eventually they catch up with her, each nurse taking an arm. Charlotte looks up at the sky. Her face strained, eyes like the sludgy puddles on Glendown’s path.
Eight twenty-five a.m.
I pick up the phone and dial Alexa’s number.
No answer.
I try again.
Still no answer.
Something’s not right.
36
Alexa Wú
My eyes flip open—tick-tock—phone out of reach and ringing off the hook.
Scrunched up beside me is a gold sequined dress, dirt dried along its hem, sequins escaped and scattered across the floor like glittering confetti.
I slowly stretch out an arm, noting a deep bruise on my wrist, sore and amethyst, my watch missing.
How careless of me to get my new dress so dirty, I voice in my head. Careless an
d stupid.
I close my eyes and try to focus.
What’s happened? Why am I lying on my bedroom floor, naked?
The smell of rotting meat suddenly crawls inside my senses. A thud at my temples and a thirst in my throat.
Get up, the Fouls order.
Amazingly, the Body obeys.
Clearly I drank too much last night. Reorganizing myself, I stare down at my legs—pimpled and bare. Wasn’t I wearing stockings?
I look about my room, but there is no sign of them. I attempt to sit up, noticing then the bruising on my other wrist. Frightened, I realize I have lost time. Lots of time.
I must have checked out, I think, knowing I lose time only when I am stressed, fatigued, frightened, or in denial. I tap my head, hoping it will shake something loose, or wake someone up. Runner! I shout. Oneiroi!
Nothing.
I stagger to the bathroom and collapse on the toilet. Bang the back of my head against the wall on purpose. As soon as I start to pee I realize I haven’t lifted the toilet seat. But the act of standing again feels like too much effort, so I remain, warm piss streaming down the backs of my legs.
When I finally stand, I realize I’m still drunk—my balance unsettled as I bend to clean the dripping seat.
Look at you, the Fouls sneer, you’re a disgrace.
Fuck you, I throw back.
I make my way over to the sink, running the hot water, its mist quickly filling the mirror above. With my palm, I rub away the fog in three swipes like a car windshield wiper. Thudsqueeze. Thudsqueeze. Thudsqueeze. My body jolts suddenly. A bruised girl stares back at me, a slice of violet already living across her neck. A small cut on her left cheek.
Is that me? Me, with all those bruises?
I quickly check the rest of my body for more hurt: the curve of my shoulder, I note, also grazed.
What happened? I ask again, desperate.
Silence.
The Fouls snicker.
Tell me, I scream.
Make us, they sneer, their smug and cruel faces turning away to form a putrid circle of rotting contempt.
The Eighth Girl Page 20