by Holly Seddon
He hears the mice now, running under the floorboards and squirming around the walls. There are babies in there, their shrill squeaks helping to block out his other thoughts but not helping him to sleep. He falls back on a shameful method he’s adopted recently, counting the number of women who have had new starts financed by the physical sacrifices at the Bluebell, plus the number of people who have been given new starts through rescue, through tip-offs and enquiries that would not have otherwise happened.
He holds that swelling figure in his guts like a growing baby. He nurses it in these early hours of fitful and dismal sleep.
In the morning, pin-eyed and exhausted, he tries to make light of the infestation. Naming the mice, making a joke of it. They’re nibbling into the food but there are too many little bodies to consider hurting them. They’ve done nothing wrong; everybody has to eat.
After work, Marianne and Greg move the food into different cupboards, put flour and sugar into Tupperware, block the gaps in the skirting and check for trails of droppings.
‘I’ll check the airing cupboard in case they’re nesting there,’ he says and she shifts uneasily.
‘I’ll do that …’ she starts, but it’s too late. His hand finds the box of cigarettes before his eyes understand. When he looks back at her, she crosses her arms but looks away.
‘We need to get some poison for these mice,’ she says, colour creeping up her neck.
The thought of poisoning them destroys him, far more than her lying about smoking. He can’t begin to explain why.
*
Thursday, 4 June 2020
‘Can I have a word, Eloise?’ He keeps it light but he’s worked here too long and his boss knows Greg too well.
She nods towards the sunshine-yellow meeting room and they slip inside. He tugs on his shirt sleeves, trying to find comfort in the familiar fabric. It’s his favourite shirt, one bought for him by Marianne a couple of birthdays ago. It’s looser than he remembered.
‘I need to take a bit of extra annual leave this year,’ he says. She doesn’t reply at first but sits back and studies him.
‘You still have some leave left, I think?’
‘I need to use that too.’
She twists her heavy silver ring and waits for an explanation.
‘Marianne is a teacher,’ he laughs. It sounds fake. ‘You know how it is, she wants to do things in her time off and I, you know, I can’t keep up.’
Eloise looks unconvinced. She studies his face for a moment, focuses on his chin – his fast-greying beard – the scraggy mess of his hair. Her gaze is almost maternal as she searches his eyes, the new lines that seem to burrow deeper every day. He looks down.
‘This is a tough job, Greg,’ she says, eventually, but he can’t meet her eye anymore. ‘You throw yourself at it, I know that, you all do. And we give you all as much holiday entitlement as we can afford as an organisation but—’
‘Please,’ he says, looking up. ‘It can be unpaid, I don’t care. I just need to take the time off I’ve booked and I need to book another two weeks in the summer.’ Eloise is wrong-footed by his outburst, embarrassed by his pleading. She flicks a long lock of hair back over her shoulder as if it’s a naughty infant.
‘Greg,’ she says softly. ‘I’m worried about you.’ He opens his mouth to protest but doesn’t trust what will come out. Instead, he coughs and shakes his head. Willing the threat of tears back into his throat. ‘You know you can tell me if anything is worrying you? No judgement.’
Oh, it’s so tempting. To just open himself up and pour it all out. All the badness, seeping into the bright yellow room. Letting someone else tell him what to do, punish him even, call the police. Just let it be over. But it’s not that simple.
‘Mate,’ she says, ‘what’s wrong?’
I’ve been responsible for trafficked women getting chopped up in a dirty hotel room. I’ve been responsible for their injuries. Maybe even deaths. I’ve lied to you, my parents and my wife. I’ve found out that I’m the very fucking opposite of the man I thought I was. Every single bit of good I’ve ever done amounts to nothing. I’ve fucked everything up and I’ve no way out.
‘I think my marriage might be in trouble, Eloise,’ he says finally. ‘I really need this.’
Her shoulders drop but she nods. ‘It will have to be unpaid – and don’t you dare tell the others.’
‘Thank you,’ he pants, barely able to speak for the relief. Relief about the holiday and relief that he managed not to tell her anything, even as the truth presses up against his tongue. ‘Thank you so much.’
At night, he holds Marianne tightly as she sleeps and he nurses the growing number of girls until it’s tattooed into his eyes and he dreams of a great pile of dolls, with him tossing yet more plastic bodies on top. He dreams that the dolls come to life, shrieking like mice until Marianne pours poison in their mouths.
He wakes coated in sweat and shivering, with Marianne staring and shaking his arm. ‘You were calling out in your sleep,’ she says. ‘That must have been one hell of a nightmare.’
All he can do is nod dumbly.
Samantha
Thursday, 4 June 2020
I focus on keeping my glass still and my face passive. ‘What do you mean, Steve?’ I say. A gentle half-frown, as if I’ve misheard.
I take a sip of my drink. It’s so strong it might as well be paint thinner. ‘Mmm,’ I say. ‘Thank you for this.’
A silent metronome ticks over the scene. Any moment, any second.
‘You’ve not been going to that charity in months,’ he says.
I say nothing, the wheels in my head spinning unhelpfully. How does he know? What else does he know?
‘You said you’d made a mistake, you said you’d stopped seeing “him”, whoever he is.’
‘I have,’ I say, turning to face him. He stares back, innocent and hurt. ‘I know you don’t believe me,’ I say. ‘But I wouldn’t take that risk again. I need you, I need this.’ I gesture around me. ‘And Joe is my family, you and Joe are my family. I just wanted to be touched, that’s all, just for a while. We don’t, I mean, it’s not been like that with us for a while.’
He stares back but doesn’t say anything.
‘I promise I’ve not done anything else. Not since I told you.’
‘So where have you been going every day then?’ he asks, his eyes pleading for me to convince him and stitch this all back together.
Joe’s key hits the lock and we both paint on smiles and move closer on the sofa, stage-hands sliding the set back into place for the audience.
When we’ve greeted Joe, I go upstairs to the bathroom and lock the door. My hands shake so much I drop the SIM three times before I can get it in the tray.
‘You need to get me an alibi,’ I write.
You’re responsible for your own activities.
‘Not a legal alibi,’ I write, hot tears falling. ‘My husband is questioning where I’ve been going while he’s at work. If you don’t help me come up with a good excuse – and proof – this life I’m protecting will be over anyway.’
I wait. Outside I hear Joe asking where I’ve gone, his voice rising with concern. I start running the taps and peeling my clothes off.
‘Mum?’ I see his long shadow peek under the door. My boy. My heart. ‘Hi, love,’ I say. ‘Just about to get in the bath.’
‘You OK?’ he says, lips pressed to the door.
‘I’m fine, I just need a soak. Actually Joe, could you do me a favour and get me a green tea?’
‘Of course.’ He lingers a little longer until I eventually hear his reluctant steps heading for the kitchen. A message arrives.
Leave it with us.
‘I need it now. I need proof for whatever story I give him – and fast! I’m hiding in my bloody bathroom!’
Wait 30 minutes, then check your email inbox.
*
My hair is scooped up on my head by a towelling turban. I’m wearing my dressing gown at the table like an
in-patient. Steve won’t meet my eye and I don’t seek his. The unresolved questions sit at dinner with us. We wait for Joe to scrape his plate clean and put it in the dishwasher, then I reach into my pocket.
The printouts are warm and soft from my body heat and I slide them across the table. I was still printing them as he called us down to eat.
‘What’s this?’
I carefully unfold them and leave most of them in front of Steve, holding the first one up for him to take.
‘I know it’s hard for you to believe me after what happened.’
The email he’s frowning at now is dated three months ago. I don’t know how they did it, but I don’t question it. The printout confirms my acceptance as something called a Local Angel, part of some scheme I’ve never heard of. It may be a completely fabricated concept for all I know. Steve wrinkles his nose but says nothing. He places it down carefully, then leafs through the rest, studying them the way he would a wine list. Each email contains ‘tasks’ sent for elderly folk or people with disabilities, errands to run, all generated by ‘Local Angel HQ’ and all of them, quite staggeringly, matching up to days I’ve actually spent running errands of a different kind. For the first time since all this began, I realise just how detailed the records are that my handlers are keeping. That this is, in a warped way, a sophisticated and well administrated organisation. The thought freezes any misguided gratitude I felt at the fast fix.
‘You’re an odd-job woman, then,’ Steve says, finally. ‘That’s what you’re doing with your time.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Paid? Surely you can’t risk it?’
I shake my head. I’ve certainly made no money from this.
‘And you didn’t tell me because … why?’ His voice is softer now, almost guilty. Please don’t feel guilty.
‘I didn’t think it would interest you, that’s all. How did you know, anyway?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t get you on your mobile the other day so I called the charity and asked for you.’ He shrugs, the moment over, and flicks the television on. ‘I don’t think you’ll be able to carry on doing it, though, at least for a bit. Sorry.’
I follow him into the lounge and he starts to watch a food show that he’ll soon be arguing with.
‘Dean’s left the Leatherhead shop with immediate effect,’ he says, without taking his eyes off the screen.
‘What?’
‘Yeah, he’d been in the till again. I suspected it before, but he got sloppy.’
‘Oh god.’
‘So I need you to take on some shifts while I’m recruiting.’
‘Me?’
He mistakes my concern for lack of confidence and smiles. ‘You’ll be great, don’t worry!’
‘How many shifts?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice light while my stomach swoops and spins.
‘That’s not how you brown butter!’ he scoffs at the screen.
‘I’ll just need to tell the, er, the Local Angel people, Steve.’ He ignores me and shakes his head again.
‘How many shifts, Steve? How many days a week?’
‘Oh, I don’t know exactly, but most days. It won’t be for long.’
Fuck.
Greg
Friday, 31 July 2020
Marianne’s body is warm when he wakes up. It’s early, the light outside still a thick orange, Hackney’s mouth quiet for once. Greg stands in the silent kitchen watching a teabag stew until the liquid is thick. He’s burnt out, sluggish. He knows he needs to stay alert but his eyes hang with sleep.
He hears her calling and snaps to attention, scooping out the teabag and slopping in the milk. It’s lukewarm when he sips. Revolted, he chucks the lot in the sink and starts again.
Marianne is propped on her side on their bed. It’s sticky at night now and the morning room stinks of their bodies. She wears a vest and shorts, her breasts falling to the side, her hip at an angle. She looks momentarily broken. A Picasso wife.
‘I was thinking,’ she smiles and he knows that smile. ‘Maybe you should take a sickie today and we spend it in bed?’
The desire to climb back under the covers, crawl up to her, into her, be consumed and consume is so strong his fingers twitch with it. But he shakes his head. ‘I can’t.’
She lies back down and stares at the ceiling. ‘OK.’
‘I’m so sorry, it’s just such a busy day and—’
‘It feels like they’re all busy days at the moment, Greg.’
‘I know, but this …’
‘Surely one day won’t make a difference?’
He crouches next to the bed, rests his head on her chest. Her skin is tacky in this heat. The smell of her is more familiar than his own scent. More than a smell, a feeling, a … Fuck, what’s the word? A state, a temperament, a disposition? Something like that.
‘Greg?’
‘Sorry?’ He looks up at her, lifts his head from her skin and kisses her, losing himself for a moment.
‘So you’ll stay off?’ she mumbles into his mouth. Oh god, Marianne, I want to more than anything.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, pulling away. ‘I’m really sorry.’
*
Lina is exhausted. She sags in her seat next to him on the train to Godstone and allows the window to rattle against her cheek bones. She flops the other way and for a moment Greg imagines her resting her head on his shoulder. He imagines how it would feel to provide her that small comfort. It would feel paternal. The way he feels for the mice, the way he felt for the idea of Jenna and his theoretical teenage accident. The way Marianne so wants him to feel, a feeling he fights giving into.
To give Lina that comfort would be so much better, sweeter, more human an offer than the one he made. A small pile of cash in exchange for a vital chunk of her body.
He’s careful to alternate the trains that he takes the girls on but has learnt fast how few ticket inspectors there are.
This middle-aged woman with a rigid perm and concerned eyes has seen him with other girls several times. The decision not to make this proposition to men was a conscious one, one of risk assessment and cowardice, but he would look less suspicious if he weren’t always with young, frightened women.
An unease wells in his chest as she lingers in the aisle, clipping some college student’s ticket but looking over at him and Lina. Greg inches away, widens the gap between them as if they’re strangers but the carriage is half empty and they have identical tickets to the same tiny station.
The inspector walks down to them, payment machine clipped to her belt like a gun, eyes still concerned.
‘Tickets please.’
Greg hands his over and Lina copies robotically. The inspector checks them, clipping each one in turn but not handing them back, not yet.
‘Are you OK, love?’ she asks Lina.
The young woman looks up from under her amber hair. Her eyes are exhausted, purple black rings underneath. She’s sleeping in a box room with three others, no proper bed, and this is still far better than where she was before. And before that.
The train rattles on, Lina flicks her eyes to Greg and he smiles what he hopes is a natural, encouraging smile. As they surge into a tunnel and the carriage goes grey, Lina finds a smile and nods.
The inspector watches for a moment more, swaying with the movement of the train. Then she hands the tickets back. ‘I’ll be in the front carriage if you need anything,’ she says.
Lina smiles. ‘Thank you,’ she says in accented but flawless English. ‘I’m fine, though.’
Greg is still smiling when the inspector walks away, his jawbone tight.
‘Well done,’ he says. Lina says nothing. She’s danced this dance before.
*
He’s asleep on the bed when it happens. He hadn’t even intended to lie down. He had propped himself up deliberately and kept his shoes on but it was no good. Exhausted from months of nightmares and adrenaline spikes, lies and fears, he’d passed out.
Someone is shouting, that’s what must h
ave woken him up. It’s Pavel, he thinks, and Rosie as well. Pavel is telling Andrew to do something, grab something, fix something, help. Greg can’t make it out. Everything falls silent. He gets off the bed and walks to the door but doesn’t dare go out into the hall. His presence can’t possibly help anything, he can only get in the way. Besides, he’s scared shitless of what he’ll see.
Instead, he just opens the door a crack and listens, hand gripping the handle. He hears Rosie again.
‘She’s bleeding out!’
He hears Pavel.
‘Andrew! I need you to check her heart rate.’
Whatever the mumbled response was from Andrew, Rosie and Pavel are unhappy with it and the yelling continues. Until it doesn’t.
Even before they tell him, he knows. David is barking at Pavel and Rosie to wrap her, get rid of her. Greg stares at them all as they fuss over the client who sleeps obliviously on the next bed. Then he grabs his bag and runs out of the hotel as fast as he can.
Samantha
Friday, 31 July 2020
Karen watches me as I ring up a customer’s sale. I’m an underling but I’m the boss’s ‘wife’. For Steve’s most trusted lieutenant, our situation poses a paradox. I’ve tested her over the last six weeks, taking ten minutes extra on breaks and waiting to see if Steve raises it back at home. So far he hasn’t.
I’ve asked him about recruitment, about how long I’ll need to do this, but he’s been so generous for so long that it seems churlish not to play ball. And I suspect he still doesn’t trust me, and with good reason.
Karen asked me a while back if I had trouble with my ‘water works’, so frequent were my toilet trips. ‘Hormones,’ I told her, with a mixture of conspiratorial sharing and melancholy designed to shut the conversation down. The longer I wait with no tasks, the edgier I feel. As if something is growing, bulging, just out of shot. Swollen and ready to burst.
Sure enough, as I sit on the loo in our small staff toilet and change the SIMs, there it is. After weeks of no contact and only a few scant errands before that, the growth I feared has burst all over me.