The Eighth Girl

by Maxine Mei-Fung Chung

  I feel a paternal urge to calm his disquiet, remembering when I too was in my early twenties, my anxiety back then most likely the reason why I later turned to drink.

  Before I was an alcoholic, I dabbled in the restriction of food. Mildly anorexic in my late teens, I would spend a significant portion of my day obsessing over counting delicious pastries neatly lined up in café windows, though I never allowed myself one to eat. I’d also weigh every portion of food I ate down to the last gram, flake, or sprinkle. Starving myself allowed me the control to resist any longing I felt. Drinking, however, meant submitting to it. This came later, after I eventually left home. The permission I gave myself to become completely intoxicated a paradoxical rebellion against the years of at-home deprivation. My desire to be loved something comparable to that of a feral animal, a low kick felt in my hindquarters every time my father rebuked my attempts at being his soft, sensitive boy, and what he termed my “girly ways.” What to do when a feral animal growls after a good kicking? You give it another drink.

  The anxious young man looks up and catches me watching his clasped knees. I quickly turn away—eyes focusing on a coffee carousel—not wanting to add to his anxiety. I wonder momentarily where he is traveling. Whether there is someone to meet him at the other end. If he has a good shrink.

  I myself never traveled abroad until I was seventeen years old. Before then, family holidays were mostly packaged tours where all-weather clubhouses entertained us for the entire summer. I think now how unsophisticated we were as a family, convinced the evening entertainments of cabaret singers, magic acts, and buffets were the most glamorous things.

  The clubhouse was where I’d usually find my father during the day, with the other men, drinking, talking, and playing darts. If I timed it right, usually around teatime, he’d have drunk enough for his cheeks to flush and his words to slur. “Here he is,” he’d say, a sly look in his eyes as he punched me hard across my shoulder, “little wet wipe. Come to nose around for some more money?” Then he’d throw me a tenner while the other men laughed, joining in his cruelty. I despised my dad when he was drunk. But I often thought it worth being insulted if it meant I could escape for a while, using his money at the amusement arcades, the fairground, or on seaside candy. Misguided, I told myself: I’ll never be like him.

  Lost in my memories, I suddenly think of the Old-Timer’s phone call. Feeling bad again about not speaking with him, I quickly decide I’ll ring when I’ve had a chance to unwind and can give him my attention.

  Instead, I reach for my phone and dial Susannah.

  Hi. This is Susannah, I can’t talk right now, but leave a message and I’ll call you back. Beeeep.

  “Hi, it’s me. Just checking in. Mon and I are about to board. I’ll try again when we get to the hotel. Love you.”

  Click.

  When I look up, I see Monica coming toward me. She drops down beside me, seemingly exhausted but thrilled, a fistful of shopping bags plonked down by her feet. All of a sudden, I’m relieved by her smile, the simplicity of her presence.

  “Let’s go,” she says, an excited child.

  48

  Alexa Wú

  “That’s twice this month.”

  “I’m really sorry, I’ll work overtime next week,” Oneiroi says, speaking on our behalf. Phone lodged beneath the chin, pushed against a fresh zit.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” Jack snaps, attempting to disguise how heated he is.

  “Yes,” she lies.

  “And?”

  “Tonsillitis,” she says.

  Silence.

  “Listen. If this continues, you leave me no choice but to find another assistant. Someone reliable and ready to work. You’ve got real talent, but I can’t be left hanging. It interferes with my deadlines. One more strike, Alexa, and you’re out.”

  Click.

  Oneiroi hands back the Body, the Light passed between us flickering momentarily, her annoyance at being asked to lie on my behalf—again—causing her to vex.

  You’d better get your shit together, Runner snaps.

  Otherwise you’ll lose your job, Oneiroi adds.

  Who cares, the Fouls scoff. Right, Alexa?

  I do, I care, Dolly defends.

  Panic rising inside me, I walk to the kitchen and reach inside the fridge. My finger swiping at a tub of hummus and nudging a tower of sad-looking leftover food in stacked Tupperware—Anna’s attempt at being thrifty. Inside: a boiled egg still in its shell; a day-old turkey bagel, wilting spinach, half an avocado with its pip hollowed out, like an eye devoid of its pupil.

  I touch the back of my left knee, this morning’s wound now stinging and sore.

  Oneiroi takes back the Light and pulls an ice cube from the freezer, sliding it across the tender spot, dried blood slowly vanishing.

  We have to stop the Fouls from doing this, she says, recruiting the Flock as she dabs a tea towel to mop the melted ice. All this self-harm and stress at the Groom House—it’s wrong. We need to go to the police and be done with it.

  Runner steps forward. We can’t, she says, not yet. We need more proof.

  Proof? Oneiroi shouts. At what cost? Christ, look at yourself. Look at what this is doing to us.

  Runner takes a hold of Oneiroi’s collar. Listen, she shouts, keep your eye on the prize, and stop being such a crybaby.

  Fuck you!

  What d’ya think this is, some game? Navid is a dangerous man. A predator.

  Oneiroi turns away.

  You’re losing your head. If we go now, Navid, Cassie, Tao, and whoever else will come after us and Ella. Then there’s Grace. You wanna be responsible for what happens to her if we stop now, huh? What about that?

  What about us?

  Get a grip. We’re doing this. And that’s final.

  Quiet! I order. Runner’s right. We have to go through with the plan. And for that to happen we ALL need to get on board. It’s done. Decided.

  Oneiroi dismisses our case, hands back the Body, and climbs into the Nest with Dolly. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, she snaps, a random twig poking in her side.

  “Good, then,” I say, militant as an ox.

  Tick-tock—

  Outside, two sparrows are resting on my bedroom windowsill, the useless blind raised to reveal the brown husband and wife pecking at the birdseed I’ve placed in a small yellow cup. Even though Daniel left only yesterday, I’ve been aware of adding more feed than usual, in hope that it might entice more birds to settle my anxiety. I reach for my camera, resting on the oak dresser. Click.

  Another bird joins in now, this time a finch. Click. Click. The loyal sparrows hop away, their commitment to each other far outweighing their desire for food. The finch pecks at the yellow cup alone, the plump sparrows now shuffling along the windowsill.

  When I was younger I was fascinated to learn that certain species of birds mate for life. Swans, blue jays, albatrosses, barn owls, ospreys, red-tailed hawks, and scarlet macaws, to name just a few. I thought this very lovely. The strong bonds were nothing like the relationships I’d encountered, and I was thrilled by these solid unions. Having wondered myself about monogamy, I eventually made birds the poster children for commitment and alliance.

  Some years later, though, I read that this idea of commitment in birds was not completely true. For me, monogamy is about remaining sexually, spiritually, and mentally devoted for one’s entire life, but this is not the same for birds. Monogamy for birds may last for only one nesting or breeding season—our fickle feathered friends not entirely devoid of affairs. I picture my father, remembering his affair with the college croupier, Anna sobbing, a pack of Xanax in her hand. Also Navid and Shaun, both men sleeping around and chasing skirt like two robotic lotharios, not a care for anyone’s feelings but their own.

  I look about my bedroom, suddenly stirred—people whom I’ve photographed these last few months blending in with the photographs of strangers already taped to my magnolia walls. Immediately my spirits lift. More people to join
us, I think. Our community of defenders, fighters, champions, and mothers proudly displayed on the walls. I glance at the London Black Revs demonstrator; the grieving mother whose fifteen-year-old daughter was discharged, prematurely, from the psychiatric ward. Next: health workers, activists, pressure groups, and lobbying NHS nurses, arms linked in solidarity; Billy on a swing and his mother—a maternal tenderness in Sandra’s eyes that I hope to feel someday.

  I check my watch, realizing hours have passed somehow, the finch now flown, the pair of sparrows nowhere to be seen—tick-tock. I take out my phone and see two missed calls and two voicemails.

  Hey, it’s Ella, I’ve got a babysitter for Grace. Mum’s gone AWOL, again. I’ll pick you up around six. Love you—Click.

  Hello, I’m phoning from Glendown on behalf of Daniel Rosenstein. Can you please call me as soon as—Delete.

  Runner! I shout. Why did you do that?

  Forget it, she says. He’s on holiday. Don’t be fooled that he gives a shit.

  Too tired from the earlier medication to argue, I reclaim the Light and scroll through the photographs on my phone, creating an album called Groom House, and upload them to my iCloud. I imagine a bird of prey guarding the evidence that Ella and I have collected, and more that we will gather later tonight when she drives us back there.

  I stare at the photographs: Tao’s address, one of the bedrooms at the Groom House, and while knowing they’re helpful quickly realize we’ll need more. Maybe proof of the trafficking, withheld passports and the actual setup, and then we’ll have a case?

  We’ll need more than that, Runner says. What we really need is hard evidence that the girls are underage.

  Tick-tock—

  Ella drops down on the bed, bored. I notice a Venetian three-way mirror has been planted on top of the pine dresser alongside a new headboard, erected in oyster velvet, its fabric the exact same as the barstools in the Electra. On the walls of the Movie Room are prints of sunsets and kittens and soft, naked bodies. A floor-to-ceiling mirror drilled and nailed to catch every angle of a girl’s forced exploit. Tacky ivory satin sheets are draped across the bed, more stuffed animals, cushions that sparkle of girly innocence. Santa Baby, one reads in a leaning, peppy font.

  The Banana Hater swipes at Tinker Bell with a pillow, and then tilts her head back and laughs.

  Hissss.

  “Stop it!” Poi-Poi shouts. “Tǎ mǎ de biâo zi!”

  Hissss.

  The Banana Hater approaches slowly and grabs a fistful of Poi-Poi’s thick ponytail.

  “Call me a bitch again,” she warns, tugging hard, “and I’ll chop its fucking tail off.”

  She makes a chopping gesture with her free hand and Poi-Poi starts to cry. I step in between them.

  “Hey, come on,” I say, my body a barrier, “let’s go eat. Cassie’s made food, niúròu miàn.”

  The Banana Hater thrusts her palm in my face and strides out while Poi-Poi attempts to fish Tinker Bell out from under the bed.

  Together we kneel down and peek beneath the bed, Tinker Bell and her hovering green eyes crouching in the corner like a solitary specter from a previous life.

  “Let’s leave her,” I say, “she’ll come out when she’s ready.”

  Standing behind Poi-Poi, Ella mouths something I don’t quite understand, pointing at the pine dresser, a drawer carelessly left open.

  Wait, I mouth back, my expression exaggerated and voiceless.

  “Say, how long have you lived here, Poi-Poi?” I ask, trying my best to act dense.

  “Since the summer,” she says, reversing on all fours, “when Shaun came to get me.”

  “Shaun?” I say, my voice cracking on the question mark.

  “The nice man who works at the nightclub. Amy’s boyfriend.” She giggles.

  Ella and I catch each other’s eyes. A pelvis-to-throat anger-envy surges through me like wildfire, remembering our last night spent together, six weeks ago. Shaun wearing a silk eye mask to rest his sly eyes and insisting we sleep top to tail: him yin, me yang. My face staring at his feet because he couldn’t sleep, was hot, needed space. In other words, another man-child who feared intimacy. I’d been worried he’d kick me in the face, so I’d turned the other way—reversed, upside-down spoons—feeling abandoned after our sex, over quickly and, for me, orgasm free. How lonely and hollow I’d felt. Not sleepy in the slightest.

  I’m done with this crock of shit, I voiced in my head—

  Thank God! Runner smiled.

  Just for today I am strong.

  Just for today I will try my best to be the person I needed when I was young.

  I take Poi-Poi’s hand with energized determination. “Your mummy and daddy must miss you,” I say.

  Poi-Poi lowers her head and shakes it side to side. “They’re dead,” she says. “They got sick. But I have an older mummy and daddy—my grandmama and grandbaba.”

  Tinker Bell suddenly appears from beneath the satin theater curtain: a four-legged actress, dipping, humble for an encore.

  “Tinker Bell,” Poi-Poi sings, springing up and hugging her tightly.

  Purrrpurrrpurrr—

  I stroke Poi-Poi’s ponytail—a maternal act—imagining it gives me far more pleasure than her.

  “Do they ever visit, your grandparents?” I ask.

  Poi-Poi shrugs. “They live in Hong Kong and they’re old,” she says, readjusting Tinker Bell’s collar. “That’s why Uncle Tao said he’d take care of me. With Auntie Cassie’s help. I’m very lucky to be here.”

  I smile sadly, looking at Ella. My hand still not removed from her sleek hair.

  “Shall we go and eat now?” I ask.

  She nods. “I just need to wee-wee.”

  “I’ll wait for you,” I say.

  Click-clack.

  Ella pulls me toward her and points again. “Look.”

  Inside the drawer are five passports. I open one. A young girl with short black hair stares back at me.

  Surname: Táng

  Given name: Huan

  Citizenship: Chinese

  Date of birth: 28 May/2003

  Huan? Christ, there’s nothing lucky about this girl, I think. She is very unlucky, very un-huan indeed.

  I flip open another.

  Surname: Cheung

  Given name: Poi-Poi

  Citizenship: Chinese

  Date of birth: 10 September/2007

  I take out my phone—tap, tap, tap, tap, tap—and quickly photograph the five passports.

  Evidence #3

  Passports/visas of girls trafficked from China with diversions/transfers covering Macau, Taiwan, and Laos. Four girls arrived on December 7, 2018. Cheung Poi-Poi (alternate name: Britney) arrived in the summer of 2018 when Shaun Richards—a barman at the Electra Club—escorted her to the UK. She refers to Navid and Cassie as “uncle” and “auntie.” Both of her parents are dead. Her grandparents, who she refers to as “grandmama” and “grandbaba,” cared for Poi-Poi. Did they sell her on? Were they naive to Navid’s intentions? She is 11 years old.

  I finish typing my note. The air feels thick and lifeless.

  Poi-Poi returns. A pearl comb with two shoots of dangling lotus added to the crown of her skull.

  “Come on,” I say, taking her hand—Just for today I will try my best to be the person I needed when I was young—and close the door to the Movie Room, where girls fight for survival and are made to feel lucky. A room where dreams are killed and girls are forced to commit heinous crimes. Abused. Raped.

  The four new girls are seated in the kitchen at the low wooden table with the moonfaced girl. All five are cupping plastic bowls in their palms while chopsticks clack at the glistening beef noodles. The Banana Hater walks past Poi-Poi, gives her a push, and makes her way over to Jane, who fingers her vermilion hair.

  Holding court with two other Electra Girls, Jane keeps them in line with a firm word or glance. I pick up on the pecking order as usual while she hands out makeup, magazines, and boxes of chocolates—gi
fts, bribes, and bait—the girls cooing and grabbing while Jane draws on their adoration in a cool, distanced manner.

  On seeing Ella and me, she nods. An air of composure as she reaches for a fork, stabbing at the vat of noodles—pulling at them until they reach her mouth.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” she throws back.

  “How’s Sylvie?”

  “Fine. Why?”

  “I haven’t seen her for a while,” I reply, “that’s all.”

  She dismisses my curiosity and looks away, while Poi-Poi scoots into her side and points at the Banana Hater.

  “She’s been hurting Tinker Bell again,” she whines.

  “Snitch!” the Banana Hater shouts, an edge to her voice.

  “Have you?” Jane asks, chewing.

  The Banana Hater shrugs. “I don’t like cats,” she says, her eyes traveling down Jane’s body and reaching the floor. “Especially that one. It shits everywhere!”

  “No, she doesn’t!” Poi-Poi screams.

  “Yes, she does!”

  “She shits on your stuff because you bully her. Bully, bully, big tits.”

  Jane raises her fork-free hand. “Enough,” she orders. “You. Stop taunting the cat. And you. Stop being such a baby. No one likes a snitch. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Poi-Poi says, her head dipped.

  “Here,” Jane says, handing Poi-Poi a boiled corn on the cob, slathering on a knob of butter, and giving it a shake of salt. “Eat this. Then you can have some ice cream.”

  Jane turns to the Banana Hater with cold, flat eyes.

  “I expect you to set an example for the younger girls. Not fight with them,” she says, swiping back her earlier gift of a blush compact from the Banana Hater’s hand, offering it now to one of the new girls and adding an insanely friendly smile.

  The new girl smiles back.

  “You’re welcome,” Jane says.

  Standing at the sink, one of the girls washes plastic bowls while Jane braids Poi-Poi’s loose ponytail. Ella reaches in her purse for a cigarette and lights it on the stove. Her black bob now grown out and swinging with her movements.