Bitter Sweet

by Mason N. Forbes

  ‘How far to Crew Street Station?’ I asked.

  Jake tucked one of his dreadlocks back under his cap. ‘End of the street and two lefts.’

  ‘Any stops in between?’

  ‘No,’ Jake said, grinning. ‘Lady Luck is with you.’

  I breathed out and grabbed the overhead rail. My phone alerted me to more messages, but first I turned cautiously to check on Ivonne and the girls. This time Ivonne had them lined up along the aisle of the bus, all hanging on to grab handles. Good thinking. The bus was pretty full and by standing in the aisle we’d be well placed to be first off.

  I pulled out my phone and looked at the message; another tweet. This time with a photo of me springing from Dian’s bus.

  Another tweet came through. Somehow, someone had taken a photo of me running towards this bus. The retweet rate soared, right in front of my eyes. I checked on the twitter story. Thankfully no one knew why a nun, three girls and a cop were dashing from one bus to the next. The story did, however, show the approximate route we had taken.

  There was no mention of the black BMWs pursuing us. That ominous fact needed to be altered. I was loathed to use my twitter name – that would reveal my identity.

  Another tweet came in – more of the same, this time with a picture of Ivonne and the girls racing to the bus.

  Yet another tweet. Soon I wouldn’t be able to keep up with them. I tapped the screen, bringing up the message; my jaw dropped.

  Just great. The police had apparently become involved. We, Ivonne and I, although not mentioned by name, were now being associated with the trafficking of the three girls.

  ‘Shit,’ I said.

  ‘What’s the problem, hun?’ Jake asked.

  ‘We’ve become twitter stars.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘That was bad enough, but now the cops seem to think we’re the ones doing the trafficking. I just can’t believe it,’ I said, my frustration rising. ‘I thought the police had been banned from using twitter since that gig at Robin Hood Airport.’

  ‘You mean,’ Jake said, ‘that honky stuck at the airport in the snow, who’d tweeted in frustration that he was going to blow the place up.’

  ‘That’s the one. The police actually prosecuted him for making a terrorist threat, or some such bollocks. He was found guilty, can you believe it? Won on appeal.’

  ‘The police are now after you?’

  ‘Looks that way,’ I said. More tweets were coming in. ‘Talk about being unfair, no one person has tweeted about those mother fuckers in the BMs.’

  ‘And they’re right on my ass.’

  I looked in the mirrors, at both back corners, mere feet from the bus, were the two BMs with their lights full on.

  ‘I got an idea,’ Jake said.

  ‘Phone Liz?’

  ‘You said it. Tell her to find some drivers at Crew Street and get them to snap the BMs.’

  ‘Good idea, why not?’ It would save me from having to tweet myself and revealing my identity.

  I ignored the tweets coming in and phoned Liz, explained what was happening and told her about Jake’s idea. She swore she’d get some drivers photographing and tweeting.

  It was time to work out what to do when we reached Crew Street Station. Getting all five of us off the bus, even with the plan which Liz had told me about, was going to be hairy. I had no clue as to how we were going to avoid Erjon spotting us, let alone how we were going to disappear into the crowds. Erjon was simply too close. I reckoned we’d have to wing it.

  I turned to face Ivonne, who was standing right behind me. ‘I haven’t had a chance to phone the Blue Blindfold.’

  ‘Great, we’re on the run with nowhere to go.’

  ‘Yeah, and after this bus ride I don’t fancy being stuck on a train.’

  ‘A hotel?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re all over twitter, we might be recognised.’

  ‘Not if we lose these costumes.’

  ‘But where? It would have to be someplace like Travelodge, or Days Inn. Someplace anonymous with no nosey receptionist.’

  ‘There’s one possibility,’ Ivonne said. ‘Markus’s place.’

  ‘Is it wise getting him involved?’

  ‘He’s still in hospital. But, I can get into his apartment.’

  I sucked on my lower lip – it would work so long as Erjon hadn’t been watching Markus before the incident in Ivonne’s flat.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘let’s try it. It’s not far from here, is it?’

  ‘Two train stops, or a ten minute taxi ride.’

  ‘I’d better see what can be done about those two BMs.’ I turned back to the driver. ‘Jake those cars are going to slide into the station right behind us. There is no stopping them.’

  ‘There’s a bus organised to block them.’

  ‘But they’re too close – only feet away.’

  Jake shrugged. ‘It’s a slow turn into the station.’

  I still couldn’t see how it was going to work. The blocking bus would have to ram the BMs and that, I was sure, was not part of the plan.

  ‘Jake what happens if there is an emergency?’ I asked. ‘Can you contact someone?’

  ‘Sure, I got a two-way radio to the dispatcher. What are you getting at?’

  ‘Someone is going to have to stop those BMs from entering the station. The police would do the job, but they’re going to want to know why.’

  ‘Well,’ Jake said, ‘there is the Transport Police.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They police the railway track and the buildings.’

  Ah ha, but how could I get them involved? I could think of only one possibility, but would the transport police fall for it. And was there still time? I could already see the station in the distance.

  I whipped out my phone and tapped the screen rapidly, searching the net for the telephone number of the Transport Police at Crew Street station.

  I suppressed the caller ID, held my nose to affect a cold, and dialled.

  Keep it simple, I warned myself, no gabbling on.

  The call was answered. I didn’t wait for any questions and spoke; ‘BOMB. Two BMWs will enter the station. Registration numbers; AL 355 and LEK 355. They are carrying a bomb.’

  I ended the call.

  Jake laughed. ‘Good job my shifts ending. If they go for it there’ll be traffic chaos.’

  ‘And that, Jake will be perfect for our getaway.’

  I turned my attention to watching the station. Would they react? The best outcome would be to allow the bus to enter the station and then somehow catch the BMs with traffic spikes – stingers. That, however, was a far-fetched idea based upon hope and not upon reality.

  Some five hundred metres from the station, I saw a man in uniform run out on to the street. He stopped and looked up and down the road, his gaze settling on our bus and the two BMWs.

  Four hundred metres and the transport policeman lifted a mike to his lips, whilst continuing to stare in our direction.

  Three hundred metres. Jake lifted his foot off the accelerator pedal and the bus began to slow. Another officer ran out of the building to join his colleague. They took up positions on either side of the road leading to the bus entrance. The first officer still had the mike raised.

  ‘Get ready,’ I said to Ivonne, and began to undo the buttons on the jacket of my uniform.

  Two hundred metres. I removed my cap and let it drop to the floor. I squeezed my phones into my trouser pockets and removed the jacket, revealing a white blouse.

  One hundred metres. The two officers moved into the middle of the road, their concentration focused on the BMs. Jake slowed the bus further, ready to turn into the station, if allowed.

  Fifty metres left and the bus was down to a walking pace. Jake watched the two officers, waiting for a signal as they were blocking the entryway.

  I held my breath, my attention focused on the two officers and the BMWs in the wing mirrors. The BMWs had slowed and the gap between t
hem and the bus had opened up.

  Two more officers ran out of the station, whilst the two in front of us now ran towards the sides of the bus. The two BMWs peeled off, and with a squeal of tyres accelerated away. I saw the officers come to a stop, shaking their heads.

  Jake kept the bus rolling. A few men stood on either side of the entrance, all with phones in their hands. Too late, the BMs were gone, and there would be no tweets to show that they had been following us.

  As we entered the station, a bus moved to block the entrance.

  Of one thing I was certain; Erjon had not given up. We only had minutes before they dumped the cars and came after us on foot.

  Jake stopped the bus.

  ‘Got to go, Jake,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  Ivonne whipped the veil off her head, undid the two buttons at her neck holding the habit in place. She let it drop to the floor and kicked it under a seat. She shook her head and her blond hair fell around her face; the transformation complete. Any man looking at her would go wow, and the women would be either envious or think blond bimbo, but nobody would make the connection to a nun.

  I jumped off the bus to the sound of sirens coming rapidly our way.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said, heading towards the concourse.

  Once we were well into the crowds, I stopped and quickly looked around. The sirens were closer, but the people in the station did not seem to notice in their hustle and bustle to meet trains. And best of all, no one was paying us any attention.

  ‘Okay, Ivonne,’ I said, ‘what about you taking the train?’

  She looked at the departures board. ‘Platform six in five minutes.’

  ‘You’ll make that, easy.’ I leaned in closer to her. ‘What about you taking Maria and Olga, and I’ll take Yana?’

  ‘Good thinking.’

  ‘What’s Markus’s address?’

  ‘Number fourteen George Street. It’s a big block of flats, apartment 611.’

  ‘How do I get in? Or should I meet you coming off the train?’

  ‘No, the station is just around the corner. Just keep pressing numbers until someone lets you in. Then go straight up and wait.’

  Ivonne made sure the girls knew what was happening. I gave Ivonne a quick hug. ‘See you soon.’

  Yana looked unhappy as I took her hand.

  I had seen a few taxis at the front of the building on our way in, but I ruled that option out – too many police. The station had an exit to the north; again I ruled that out – we’d have to go back towards the bus entrance. In addition, the BMs had sped north to avoid the police and the fastest way for Erjon to get into the station was via the entrance on the north side. That left the southern exit – the one furthest from where we stood.

  I gripped Yana’s hand tighter and set off, staying close to the rows of shops and delis – our progress hampered by their clientele. Halfway across the concourse, I stopped to appraise our situation. There was no sign of Ivonne, Maria and Olga on platform six. I hoped they were now settled on the train.

  Behind us, near to where the concourse and the bus terminal converged, the crowds were thickening and revolving blue lights flickered against the walls of the station.

  No one was running or striding purposefully in our direction and nobody averted their eyes as I scanned the crowds in our vicinity.

  I set off again, holding Yana’s hand. As we weaved our way through the throngs of people, I kept my head lowered, all the while scanning the people in front of us and glancing intermittently in the direction of the southern exit.

  We approached the exit, a grand arch with three steps, at the bottom of which some ten feet away, was a sliding double-glass door. The doors stood open. I started down the steps. A man wearing a leather jacket and jeans rushed in from the street, heading towards the doors.

  He looked up. Our eyes met in recognition. It was one of the thugs from this afternoon.

  I let go of Yana’s hand, jumped the last two steps and landed centring my balance on my back leg. My brain flashed; bodyguard combo. I ran towards the thug. He hesitated, surprised. Using my right leg, I pushed off. My left leg flew upwards, braced for impact. The speed of my foot flying forward, combined with the momentum of my body, drove the sole of my foot into the man’s torso with over three hundred pounds of force. He lurched backwards, doubling over. My right foot landed on the floor, giving me the spring necessary to launch my left leg upwards to shoulder height. I was now airborne. My left foot flew towards the man’s nose. The foot connected. I heard the crunch of cartilage and bone. The man fell to the ground.

  With both feet now back on the ground, I spun around, bringing my fists back to my sides.

  Yana stood with her mouth open, staring at me.

  I knew the thug wouldn’t be getting up. However, someone had probably seen me attack, and I wasn’t going to hang about to explain.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, grabbing Yana’s wrist.

  We rushed out of the station. On the street, I turned right. Adrenalin was pumping through my veins with all my senses on alert. I spotted a cab, just as its rear passenger door opened. I raced towards it, pulling Yana along.

  11

  I slumped on to the sofa and explained my fears to Ivonne. She listened without interruption and then said; ‘The only person, besides me, who knows you made the threat is Jake.’

  ‘Do you think he’d give me away?’

  ‘Only if someone knows to put him under pressure. If he’s threatened with the sack – yes.’

  ‘But as you said, they’d have to know.’

  ‘And what’s more,’ Ivonne said, ‘the police would have to join a lot of dots to get that far.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I said, feeling a lot more confident. ‘And only Liz knows my phone number. She’d have to divulge that before they could make the connection.’

  I kicked off my shoes and drew my knees up under my chin. ‘As to a trafficking charge, there is that recording device in my apartment.’

  Ivonne frowned.

  ‘The DVD recorder, or whatever it is, that I lifted from Martha’s place.’

  ‘Yeah, got you,’ Ivonne said. ‘Do you think it’s safe in your apartment?’

  ‘Erjon wouldn’t, would he?’ But he would, and I knew it, and it was obvious he’d go looking for it in my apartment or Ivonne’s. Just as it was it was bleedin’ obvious as to who had helped the girls escape.

  ‘So how are we going to get it?’I mused.

  ‘Well, Tina,’ Ivonne said. ‘I know how uptight you are about keeping your private life and the escorting separate.’

  I said nothing, aware that in a round-about-way criticism was about to get dumped on top of me.

  ‘All those rules,’ Ivonne continued, ‘for escorts to follow, you’d think it would make it easy. And I’ve read all the books; the upmarket racy ones, titillating society with sexual revelations and perversions, all the way to the hard-ass massage parlour ones who’ve counted the number of Johns they’ve serviced in their careers.’

  Oh, oh, here it comes.

  ‘But all those rules are guidelines written from the safety of a desk. And you think you’ve got it all mapped out in your head. Maybe you have. There is one thing you’re missing though: you respond to some clients, giving of yourself without knowing it, telling them things you shouldn’t, sharing with them things you shouldn’t. It’s just the same as in your private life – one guy is on the same wavelength as you, the next one isn’t. There’s nothing you can do about that.’

  I nodded at the truth of what Ivonne was saying and then drew my knees further up to my chin, wrapping my arms around my legs. Ivonne wasn’t finished.

  ‘Right now you know the answer; you’re just being stubborn about it.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You just don’t want to ask for help. He is a client, and taking his help, asking for his help just doesn’t sit. The last time you took his help, you just kinda let things roll along, saying yes to keep him hap
py. And then bingo, you needed help and it was there. You didn’t even have to ask for it, but it saved your ass. And that suited you just fine, didn’t it? You didn’t need to break any of the rules.’

  I sat frozen. Ivonne was dumping not just criticism, but truth on me. It exactly described the way in which I had accepted Mike’s help. I’d gone along with his idea, and yes, mainly to keep him happy.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ivonne said, ‘from what I’ve seen the two of you are long past the client-escort relationship. You mightn’t like my saying that. But you know each other too well. Mike is a clever guy, not just brainy; he’s clued in as to what makes people tick.’ Ivonne leaned forward. ‘It’s just your principles, your stubbornness that’s stopping you from seeing that the line between escorting and your private life is fuzzy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Not that.’ Ivonne laughed. ‘You’ve got a one-track mind. You think you can keep him and your private life in two separate compartments. But you are one person, not two.’

  Ivonne placed a hand on my knee and gave me a playful shove. ‘Phone him,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘I’ll be in his debt.’

  ‘That’s what friends are all about.’

  Ivonne was correct; Mike was more a friend than a client. I still didn’t like the idea of being in his debt. And there was the damsel-in-distress factor – men really loved to help when called upon. Would Mike end up getting too close, wanting more than just friendship?

  I made the call – it was the right thing to do.

  Twenty minutes later Mike arrived. I gave him a big hug and told him exactly what had happened. He listened, only interrupting now and again to clarify the odd detail.

  I had expected him to come over all concerned, but he never once made any emotional comments, although I could see his forehead tensing up. It was all factual, as if he were some kind of recording device.

  I gave him the key to my apartment. He asked for and received the mobile tracking device; after all he would be entering Erjon’s territory – the Merchant Building.