A Room With No Natural Light

by Douglas Lindsay

  A couple of loud teenagers passed him by without him seeming to notice. One of them was texting while shouting, the other just shouting. Pitt steered slightly to his left, away from the next group of high-spirits.

  He saw them sitting in the waiting room, the three women who had left the house. The two Europeans were sitting together, did not seem to be talking. Ju was on her own, only a couple of seats away, but far enough apart to have separated herself from them completely.

  She had her back to him. Head slightly bowed. She had waited until arriving at the bus station before taking three painkillers. He wondered if she had her eyes closed. He glanced at the information point and the timetables on the wall. Pitt, the great unsocial, had no idea if buses ran out to their small local town in the middle of the night. Perhaps she had to get a bus so far, and then a taxi at the other end.

  He did not wrestle with his own thoughts for long. His hesitation was merely his natural reluctance to engage any other human being.

  He walked past the two European sex slaves. That was the expression that came into his mind. They were sex slaves. He did not apply that term to Ju.

  Ju looked up as the slow approaching footsteps stopped beside her. Pitt was standing over her, looking down. Her eyes widened, and in that moment showed more expression than he had seen before. Shock. Panic. She lowered them, looked to the side. She did not know where to look. She turned back up to Pitt.

  She was scared. Delighted. Relieved.

  She was not alone. Perhaps some part of her was excited. Pitt had come for her. The sequence of events ran quickly through her head. How had he known she would be there? Only because he must have followed her all the way, waited for her. Which meant he knew what she had been doing.

  Her eyes dropped quickly once more, this time with shame. He knew where she went and what she did there. He knew what she did on a Saturday night. He had not come to relieve her pain, to take her home, to make her feel better about the horrendous evening. He had come to heap opprobrium upon her, to cast her aside for the heinous things that she did.

  She caught the movement from the corner of her eye. Pitt remained standing before her, but now he had his hand outstretched. She looked up slowly, swallowed. Could not look him in the eye. Why was he offering his hand? He could not possibly want to touch her. She was unclean. She had brought shame to her family, and surely also to her employer.

  His hand moved a little closer, this time gesturing slightly. She looked up again, into his eyes. There was a warmth there that she did not usually see in him, yet which she always hoped must be there.

  Slowly, a gradual movement in nervous stages, she raised her hand. She could not possibly place it in his, but when she had made her hand available to him, he reached forward and took hold of it.

  His skin was rough; the hands of someone who worked outside and did not particularly care for himself. And yet his touch was soft, the way he took hold of her hand almost delicate. If she had been able to think clearly, she might have considered it bizarre how quickly the awfulness of the evening was put behind her, because of the touch of this man; when not much earlier, she could have died rather than be touched by any man ever again.

  She felt the hairs rise on her arms. She felt like crying, but knew she must stop herself.

  As a teenager, Pitt had once tried to repair a lamp without unplugging it from the socket. The result had felt like a sharp jab in the sides. The moment came again, the same sensation, at the first touch of Ju’s hand.

  He stood over her, and this time, when she looked up, she held his gaze. He pulled slightly on her hand; she hesitated and then rose tentatively to her feet. He stepped back, lowering his hand. She let him go, still staring at him, wondering what he wanted her to do.

  Pitt felt far more uncomfortable than he appeared. He was tall, stern and commanding. Inside he was aware that he was walking unthinking into a situation over which he would have little control. Vines and wine were what he knew, and, although he could not control the weather or the fermentation process, he knew how to deal with the problems that arose.

  It only took one other person to have importance in your life and suddenly the control was lost.

  He did not look at the sex slaves as he walked back past them. He had neither sympathy for them nor interest in them. He might at some time have felt pity; he knew they were deserving of it. But there were seven billion people on the planet, a vast majority of whom were deserving of pity. You drew the line somewhere, and Pitt had always made it easier for himself by drawing the line to one side of humanity.

  Now, however, he had moved the line infinitesimally towards the rest of the human race. It had not been his intention when he had set out that afternoon; he had not thought that there would be any contact between them. Yet, he could not leave her here, in a lonely bus station in the middle of the night, when she was so full of pain.

  They watched them go, the sex slaves. The tall, stern man, with the meek broken Chinese girl following behind.

  Pitt glanced back a couple of times to make sure she was still with him. She made no sound as she walked. Silent footfalls in his wake.

  They came to his car; he opened the door for her and stood while she eased herself inside. Her legs were sore, but the screaming pain inside had started to ease. Perhaps with time, perhaps with the pain killers. Perhaps with Pitt’s touch.

  They did not speak. He drove home slowly through the night. There were no words, but a warmth developed between them. He could sense her gratitude, as much as she could sense his concern. They were enveloped in the night, travelling slowly in complete silence.

  By the time they reached the farmhouse, the first grey light had started to appear on the eastern horizon. The car approached slowly, crunching on the gravel. Pitt turned off the engine. He made a gesture with his hand for her to stay where she was, then walked around the car and held the door open for her. She eased her way gingerly out of the car, her muscles having stiffened on the way home. She pulled the small bag over her shoulder.

  Pitt walked with her to the back door. He hesitated, for the first time in several hours, thinking about Daisy. He had a sudden thought that perhaps she would be there, waiting inside. The guilt would be written on him, yet it did not feel the way it had when he had stood so nervously beside Ju two days earlier. He did not care if Daisy knew what he had done that evening.

  He opened the door. The kitchen was dark and quiet. He turned on a light near the back door to reveal the emptiness of the room. Neither Daisy nor Mrs Cromwell had sat up through the night, waiting for him. Or waiting for Ju.

  They stood in the kitchen, in the dim light of a small lamp. Their eyes met. Now that they were home and the comfort of the car had been broken, awkwardness had returned. When Pitt had been driving, when he had been collecting her from the bus station, there had been a definite end, something absolute on which to hang their time together. Now that they were home, standing in the kitchen, a few feet apart, the impetus was lost; the moment had become vague. The next action would be a positive one, and neither of them would be able to take it.

  She looked beautiful. His affection for her, the manner in which he felt bound to her, was much deeper than the simplicity of her physical appearance. But she was beautiful, and in the dim light of a very early Sunday morning, he was enthralled.

  Yuan Ju bowed her head and started to turn slowly away. That she desperately needed a few hours sleep was clear, but that was not in her thoughts. She had to extract them both from the awkwardness of the moment, although in doing so she hoped that he would stop her; that once more his hand would reach out and touch her.

  She hesitated on the turn, but Pitt did not move. Her head remained bowed, her eyes rooted to some obscure spot to the right of him. A final imperceptible nod of the head, she turned fully away and began to walk slowly to the door leading to the hall and away from Pitt.

  He did not stop her.

  She hesitated one more time at the door, hoping to he
ar the sound of his voice. She had heard it occasionally, speaking to the men in business-like fashion; she had heard the defensive tone as he spoke to his wife. She wanted to hear how his voice sounded when he spoke to Ju; the caring side, the man who had gone out of his way to collect her this evening, who must have realised what she had been doing, yet who still wanted to bring her back to his home.

  She knew he would not speak, and she respected him for it.

  She reached the door. She walked through and into the main body of the house, and along the short corridor to her room, without a sound, without hearing his voice, without being aware of him walking silently up behind her, without feeling his hand on her arm.

  She silently closed her bedroom door, dropped her bag on the floor and collapsed onto the bed. Unfulfilled and confused, completely exhausted, she was asleep in under a minute.

  Pitt stood in the kitchen, looking at the closed door for several minutes. For the first couple he contemplated going after her. Stopping her before she left, then when she had gone, he imagined going to her room, entering without knocking, sitting on the bed beside her and taking her into his arms.

  He imagined it while completely understanding that he was not going to do it. He allowed himself the thought, at least, that there was plenty of time for it to happen in the future. Ju was not going anywhere.

  Before he did anything else, however, he had to rid himself of the feeling of impotence. The feeling that he had sat hopelessly by that evening, while Ju had been abused. Had he been too logical in his thoughts? Had he used the logic as an excuse to cover up the pusillanimity of his actions?

  He had sat for a long time in the car that evening, not knowing what Ju was going through. He still did not know. And yet, the misery, which engulfed her as a result of it, was quite apparent. He may have had his doubts, he may have sat remotely clutching his cup of coffee, running possibilities and probabilities through his head, wondering if she was enjoying herself, wondering if she would hate him for charging in on her, wondering if it was possible that what she was doing brought her some sort of satisfaction; yet he had known.

  Ju was profoundly miserable, her entire existence weighed down by the most dreadful melancholy. A melancholy so awful that somehow it was killing the birds. Pitt was much too practical to understand this, and yet, once the thought had occurred to him, he did not for a minute doubt it.

  Ju was a young woman of the most awful sorrow. Pitt did not understand why she was so far from home. In fact, it was not until that evening that he had accepted that she was far from home; that her family were in China, and not a few miles along the M4. She was cut off from everything and everyone that she loved, and, to compound this heartache, she was being made to endure the most terrible torture under threats that Pitt could only imagine.

  He did not know if his actions that evening had been those of a coward, or those of someone calculating the best way forward, but at least that way forward was now clear to him.

  He walked to the kitchen sink and poured himself a glass of water, turned off the small lamp, and sat down at the kitchen table in near darkness.

  31

  They ate roast chicken for lunch. Jenkins was around, so Pitt had invited him, but he had excused himself. And so there were three of them, in a silence that was by degree as intolerable as the silence that Pitt shared with Ju was beautiful.

  Daisy ate quietly, her lips forever pursed in concentrated ill-humour, unhappy in a way that was far removed from Ju’s melancholy. Mrs Cromwell ate with false teeth, her dentures smacking; a horrible sound, although one that Pitt was able to ignore. Every sound that escaped her lips, however, cut through Daisy. A scythe through her humour, darkening her mood and her resentment.

  Ju was standing at her usual position, putting the finishing touches to a delicate summer strawberry dessert. Pitt had not looked at her, although he had noticed that Daisy cast constant glances in Ju’s direction.

  Pitt had sat at the kitchen table until 7.33, at which point he had gone for a shower. He had not slept in twenty-seven hours, but did not feel tired. He could rest when he had done what was required of him, when he had released Ju from, at least, part of what so crushed her spirit.

  ‘Mum called the police,’ said Daisy suddenly. She had finished her plate, and was in the act of helping herself to another roast potato and a few carrots. Some gravy. ‘And the immigration people. What are they called again?’ she asked Mrs Cromwell, her innocence of tone belying the nerves that coursed through her for this open challenge to her mother.

  ‘United Kingdom Borders Agency,’ said Mrs Cromwell darkly. She looked at Pitt as she spoke.

  Pitt barely glanced at her, did not betray the immediate turmoil in his stomach, nor the instant anger he felt at her interference. He made some slight facial gesture at Daisy, which she knew was meant to indicate that she ought to keep talking.

  ‘Mum was wondering what she did on Saturday nights, weren’t you, Mum?’

  Mrs Cromwell kept a malicious silence, chicken sucked through her teeth.

  ‘Apparently quite a lot of these, you know, illegal immigrants, are involved in the sex trade. Mum thinks that’s what she does.’

  She looked at her mum, a strange glance, seeking affirmation, yet filled with loathing. Mrs Cromwell, annoyed at Daisy for giving Pitt due warning before the police had arrived, said nothing.

  ‘You know for certain that Yuan Ju is an illegal immigrant?’ said Pitt.

  He did not glance at Ju when he spoke, or so much as acknowledge that Mrs Cromwell was sitting at the table. Kept his eyes on Daisy.

  ‘Well, I hired her,’ snapped Daisy in response.

  ‘From whom?’

  It was rare for Pitt to question Daisy on any matter – one had to talk to question – but she did not like it at all. Mrs Cromwell was outraged on her daughter’s behalf; angry at her daughter, and angry in her daughter’s defence.

  ‘There was an advert on the notice board down at the supermarket. Staff available for hire, that was all.’

  ‘To whom did you speak?’ asked Pitt.

  Daisy was flustered, a piece of potato on the corner of her lips. She could feel Mrs Cromwell’s gaze burrowing through her. Suddenly, she felt the claustrophobia of their situation, the three antagonists trapped forever in the bright summer kitchen.

  ‘A woman,’ said Daisy. ‘I never got her name.’

  ‘Chinese?’

  ‘Oh, you’re full of talk now. I try to get you to talk about the vineyard and there’s nothing. Not a word. All of a sudden you can’t shut up about the cook. Where on earth did that come from?’

  Mrs Cromwell snorted, and directed a glance containing all the maliciousness her eighty-two years could muster in Pitt’s direction. Daisy noticed the look, and followed her mum’s gaze.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ she asked.

  ‘Was the woman you spoke to Chinese?’ said Pitt.

  Daisy scoffed and shook her head.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I see I’m going to get as much from you as usual. No, she wasn’t. She was Bristol probably.’

  Pitt held her gaze for a short while, then dropped his eyes. Nearly finished his dinner. He felt like walking out, turning his back and not returning to the kitchen for the rest of the day, but he also knew that Ju had spent the last twenty minutes preparing dessert. At least someone should appreciate it.

  He put the last of the chicken into his mouth and placed his knife and fork neatly onto the middle of his plate. He stared at the centre of the table, seemingly having switched off. But he knew he now had something else to think about. Something else to add to the list.

  The birds were dying, DEFRA were coming, the bank were closing in, Ju was an unwilling victim of the sex trade, and now Mrs Cromwell had done her best to sabotage Ju’s entire life in the country. Or maybe the sabotage was aimed at Pitt.

  A warm breeze came into the kitchen from the open window by the sink, the smell of summer in the air.

  32


  Pitt wondered if Daisy had even noticed that he had been out the whole of the previous night. He presumed that she had, but was not surprised that she had not asked him about it. She was sure to be curious when he took himself out for the second evening in a row, but, beyond a quick thought of her as he left the kitchen for the last time before committing murder, she did not come into his mind.

  He did not like the thought that he was leaving Ju at home with them, but he had not had the chance to take any other course of action. He left hoping that she would be safe on a Sunday evening, knowing that she could not accompany him. She could know nothing about it.

  Daisy watched him leave at some time after six. She did not look at Mrs Cromwell, who was staring furiously at Daisy, demanding that she ask Pitt where he was going at this time on a Sunday. Mrs Cromwell, festering at the fireplace, still spitting fury that Daisy had alerted Pitt to the some time arrival of the authorities.

  The door closed; the three women were alone in the kitchen without a mollifying male presence.

  ‘Where’s he going?’ demanded Mrs Cromwell.

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ retorted Daisy. ‘I’m not his keeper.’

  They snarled at each other. At the kitchen sink, Ju felt naked without Pitt’s protection.

  ‘He’s probably just gone downstairs to sit in amongst that bloody wine of his,’ said Daisy.

  Mrs Cromwell stared coldly at her. From outside they heard the sound of the old estate car starting up. Mrs Cromwell did not shift her gaze. Daisy scowled.

  ‘I said I don’t know,’ she muttered, wilting beneath the stare.

  ‘I suppose you noticed he was out all last night too?’

  ‘Who elected you head of security?’ snapped Daisy.

  Mrs Cromwell spewed silent and bitter rage.

  Ju felt the claustrophobic weight of uncertainty. In some ways, she had not been helped by Pitt’s arrival the previous night, only thrown further into confusion. Pitt was just one more thing to think about, and she had no idea how it would help her.