He gave me a big hug and requested that we stay inside the apartment with the door locked and bolted, and to stay by the phone, and if in the unlikely event that Erjon was to find Markus’s apartment and come calling, then we must, despite our misgivings, call the police via the emergency services.
12
I switched on the TV, bringing up the twenty-four hour BBC news channel in the hope that the regional news might provide some information as to how the police were treating the bomb threat, and as to whether they were still pursuing the idea that we were traffickers.
Whilst waiting for the regional news, I used my phone to search for the tweet which had mentioned the police interest in us as traffickers. I found the tweet and followed it back to the source and then searched through the list of followers. It looked like the guy who’d made the tweet had been told to shut up as he’d received a tweet to the effect; what the hell are you doing.
Maria called me to the dinner table. The girls served up a mincemeat version of goulash with rice. Whilst eating I sensed the girls, particularly Maria, watching us surreptitiously.
Maria put her knife and fork together and looked at me.
‘Thank you for your help,’ she said, twiddling nervously with her hair.
‘We still have to get you to some place really safe.’ I glanced at Ivonne questioningly.
‘Ah . . .’ Maria said, and then glanced at Olga and Yana, who were studying their plates.
‘Go on, Maria,’ I said. ‘What is it?’
‘But you,’ she looked at me and then glanced at Ivonne. ‘You are prostitutes?’
‘Escorts,’ I said, eyeing up my fingernails.
‘You’re being pedantic,’ Ivonne said.
Maria looked at her puzzled.
‘I do it of my own free will,’ Ivonne said. ‘I work for myself.’
‘But how can you like it?’ Maria asked. ‘Is it not a bad thing?’
‘I’m not going to say it’s moral or immoral,’ Ivonne said. ‘I don’t know. What I do know is; I’m single and I enjoy sex. So why not have sex and get paid at the same time. Same goes for the clients, I’m not going to moralise about them, they’re all old enough to know what they’re doing. They’ve all reached the age of majority, free to make their own decisions.’
Maria shook her head.
‘Maria,’ Ivonne said. ‘What I do is wildly different from what happened to you.’
Maria looked at her and frowned. ‘You are a good person.’
‘Being part of the sex trade doesn’t make me a bad person,’ Ivonne said. ‘The trade is like most things there is good and there is bad. The difference is, maybe, that the bad side is very bad. And that is fuel for the moral objectors’ arguments. They see the bad things in what is for them a morally repulsive business. The abhorrent nature of the things which go wrong adds weight to the age-old clamour to shut the whole business down, rather than to roll up their sleeves and get their hands dirty fixing those aspects which don’t belong – morals aside.’
I had always taken Ivonne for being a clever cookie, hiding behind the veil of a bimbo, and now she was proving it. And she hadn’t finished.
‘As to what works? I don’t know. There is the Swedish model. Ban the whole damn business. That’s not quite true. Their law is very clever. I can offer to sell sexual services, but it’s illegal for the client to buy them. In effect it puts me out of business, or I have to work underground, or lie on behalf of the client. Maybe that law works there; the Swedes are pretty promiscuous and open minded.
‘Then there is the German version – their laws don’t have the moral aspect. The trade is legal; the girls pay social security contributions and taxes. It’s all out in the open. The downside – pimping and living off immoral earnings is legal, and the tax authorities have been quick to reap in the money on the backs of those working in the trade.
‘Neither system is perfect, but then what system is? In my life unfair things happen, minor and major. I get it all the time with my accent, and all sorts of other shit directed at the Poles. Duh, you know it’s also unfair that I can’t earn this sort of money back home. I just accept it. The world isn’t perfect, and by the looks of things neither my politicians nor yours, aren’t going to get it perfect in a hurry.’
Ivonne looked at me and said; ‘Then there is the personal side. If you stay at it too long you become calloused. You start to judge men, in private or in the trade, as stereotypes, partly because you’ve seen so many in our line of business who fit the descriptions. You become hardened, and you fail to spot the men who aren’t, the ones who mean what they say, the ones who aren’t spouting lines full of double meaning, saying one thing but meaning something else, trying to get one over.’
‘Ivonne,’ I whispered, leaning towards her. ‘Heh, I think they’ve heard enough.’
She turned to the girls. ‘Sorry, maybe I’ve said too much.’
They shook their heads.
‘It’s okay,’ Maria said. ‘I can feel that you care.’
13
I got up from the table. I’d reckoned Mike would be back by now and that was beginning to make me edgy. What if the police were at my apartment, or Erjon’s retards? I stood watching the BBC news; it was doing its sports update. I checked my phone. Oh shit, something had just slid into the news; a couple of lines about a man being attacked by a woman at Crew Street station.
Ivonne came into the sitting room.
I tapped at the screen of the phone, looking for more news websites and idly asked: ‘Do you think I’m getting calloused, because I didn’t want to ask Mike for help?’
‘You’re a whole different league,’ Ivonne said, grinning and plonked herself down in an armchair.
I sat down on the sofa, opposite, and drew my knees up to my chin. Was she teasing me?
‘You serious?’ I asked.
Ivonne crossed her legs. ‘You’re smart, you’re a cool operator. I saw that on the bus, you were working at your best, working hard to save your ass, to get us out of a bind. You’re good at doing that, I couldn’t have done it.’
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘A moment ago you were getting at me, now you’re pouring on the praise.’
‘Just telling you what I saw.’
‘Two different games, Ivonne. The escorting is all about cold hard cash, nothing else. It’s not glamorous. There’s no Julia-Roberts-Pretty-Woman to it. It’s not a clever witty line of work in which you can show off. It’s the opposite; you’ve got to keep your eyes open and your wits about you.’
‘You got it right there. Couldn’t agree more. But, there’s one big difference, I have fun doing it. I live the moment. Just like you, I have a goal. Mine is my own house back home, and a business doing hair and beauty, debt free and no rent to pay. That’s my goal and I’m having fun getting there.’
I looked at my nails. ‘Yeah well, that’s great for you. As soon as I get my degree I’m out of this game.’
I kept my urge to spit back at Ivonne in check – the itch to find out what she thought of me was stronger. ‘So tell me, why am I not having fun?’
‘You really want to know. You’re not going to be angry with me?’
‘I’ll try not to be, okay?’
Ivonne took off her shoes and tucked her feet under her bum, sitting cross legged.
‘Tina,’ Ivonne said, ‘you remind me of a Christmas tree with all the lights on – a perfect image. Savvy and sassy with a quick wit, knowledgeable about this and that, never caught without an answer, you know what I mean.’
‘Go on,’ I said. I was used to listening to clients rabbiting on, listening with one ear, giving the impression of being interested whilst my mind was otherwise occupied. Not now, I was fully concentrated.
‘But,’ Ivonne continued, ‘that’s the exterior. Something has thrown you. Don’t know when, don’t know where. You slide around the things that get in your way. You don’t stand up to problems; you make them disappear, giving the impression that you lead a si
mple and problem free life.
‘And that’s a sign that you don’t really know what you want. Even that Sports and Exercise degree you’re doing. I’m not sure.’
Ivonne pulled her hair off her forehead and sucked her lower lip. ‘I think you’re studying because something else didn’t pan out. Same with your escorting; you get great reviews, but I bet not all the clients get the same treatment. A beautiful alluring voice when you answer the phone, I bet that really magnetises the men, and when you’re in the mood, whatever, then you come across real stunning, masterful.’
‘Alluring voice?’
Ivonne smiled. ‘Yeah.’
‘You’re a good psychologist,’ I said.
Ivonne waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Street psychology. Do you want me to go on?’
‘Sure, it’s getting to be fun.’
‘Ha, ha,’ Ivonne said, shaking her head. ‘I’m having fun. For you it’s all the goal. That and doing well is oh so important. You’re eating the future, not living the present, eyes always fixed on the goal. And there’s the catch, if the goal escapes you then all that effort is wasted.’
Ivonne smiled at me.
‘That’s the fear,’ she said, ‘the real nail biter. And if the oh so perfect Tina were to fall, they’re be a lot of people there to laugh, a lot of people boosting their own egos saying; “Told you so.”’
‘Oh you’re good, Ivonne, real perceptive.’ I put my hands to my eyes. For a moment I thought I was about to give way to all those things I didn’t want to look at, all the things I avoided by being permanently busy.
‘You okay?’ Ivonne asked, putting her arms around me. I hadn’t noticed her getting up from the armchair.
‘Yeah,’ I said, taking my hands away from my eyes.
‘You’re real strong,’ Ivonne said, looking into my eyes. ‘That you are.’
‘Come on, Ivonne,’ I said, my voice sounding brittle. ‘Finish it.’
She sat down again and looked at me. ‘You think there’s more?’
‘I know there is, but I want to hear it from you.’
‘Okay, here goes.’ She leaned back and stared at the ceiling. ‘The brick,’ she said, looking at me. ‘That’s what I call it. The brick is the real thing. The ones prepared to give it all, expecting nothing in return. They will love, knowing that they can be hurt and despite that be open and giving. They are not the boyfriend types, useful, there to fulfil your needs, someone to talk, to keep you warm at night. Oh no, the brick is dangerous, and fascinating because of that total giving, and you know in your heart you must do the same.’
I sat with my knees drawn up to my chest rocking slowly back and forth. Ivonne had served up a lot of home truths.
‘I’d always wanted to be a model,’ I said, staring out the window.
Ivonne said nothing.
‘I wasn’t photogenic . . . didn’t look well in print. The teen-dream was shattered. And there’d been a guy. I’d been head over heels in love, completely infatuated, the big love, the one to marry, to have babies with. But, his head was turned, by . . . another model. She looked real glam in the photos with her enhanced breasts, op’d thighs and nose job.
‘So now you know.’ I turned to look at Ivonne, her eyes big and shiny. ‘Maybe I’d met the brick, or maybe I was the brick that got damaged.’
14
I sat up as the BBC news presenter announced the transfer to the regional desks for the hourly update. The lead item was the bomb hoax. The presenter switched to an interview.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Ivonne said. ‘Detective Sergeant Driscoll.’
Sure enough the camera was focused on Driscoll, his nose looking red and veined. I wondered if he looked permanently angered.
The reporter asked; ‘Can you tell us what happened?’
‘The police have been following two suspected human traffickers. Today they eluded arrest by making a hoax bomb threat at Crew Street station.’
‘There are reports of two cars following a bus to the station. Were they involved in the bomb threat?’
‘No, the traffickers quoted the number plate of a car on its way to the station, stating that it was carrying a bomb. There is no connection.’
‘The traffickers were in the bus?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have the traffickers been identified?’
‘They are known to the police.’
‘Is this related to the twitter story about a police officer and a nun?’
Driscoll grunted. ‘No comment.’
Driscoll turned away from the camera. The reporter summarised what was known, and stated that the police were also seeking witnesses to an attack in which a man had received head injuries at the southern exit of the station. The reporter added that so far there was no connection between the attack and the traffickers.
‘Jeez,’ I said. ‘That’s great; next I’ll be facing a charge of GBH.’
‘Take it easy,’ Ivonne said. ‘If they had you on a CCTV camera they’d have given more details. Or maybe you had your back to the camera.’
‘Or Driscoll is playing his cards tight.’
‘That’s a possibility. He knows we’re not the traffickers.’
‘But we’ve generated enough shit to be arrested.’
I jumped up and switched off the TV. ‘Where the hell is Mike? He should’ve been back ages ago.’
‘Phone him.’
‘All right.’
I dialled Mike’s number – no answer.
‘He’s not answering,’ I said, and sat down. ‘Where the heck is he?’
‘Try it again.’
I did and got through. He kept the conversation short.
‘Well?’ Ivonne asked.
‘He says he’ll be here in ten minutes and not to worry. Said he had to do something on his way over and that he’ll explain when he arrives.’
15
As good as his word, Mike buzzed the intercom ten minutes later. I let him into the building and waited at the door for him to reach the apartment.
The doorbell rang. I checked through the spy hole and opened the door.
Mike entered carrying a sports bag.
‘Are you staying the night?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Mike said, shaking his head. ‘I was listening to the car radio; we’ve got some work to do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘At the moment, Tina, you and Ivonne are wanted for human trafficking.’
‘That’s a load of shit.’
‘They will also try and link you to that thug you demolished in the station.’
‘I had no choice,’ I said. ‘I went straight for him, caught him unaware.’
‘I know that,’ Mike said, and grinned. ‘I’d love to have seen you in action. Anyway, it can be twisted into assault, probably into assault occasioning actual bodily harm which is more serious.’
‘All because I struck first.’
‘Correct. However, the scary one is the bomb threat. Luckily there was no mass panic in which people were injured.’
Mike put the bag down and leaned against the corridor wall. He tilted his head and looked at the ceiling. ‘The police will follow the bomb threat because a lot of manpower was involved, and it’s serious, because if they don’t follow it up and make an arrest, every Tom, Dick and Harry might try the same stunt, creating chaos.’
‘It was a snap decision,’ I said, and crunched my teeth together in annoyance. ‘It was that or get trapped on the bus.’
‘Spur of the moment,’ Mike said, pursing his lips. ‘You got away, and that’s why you and Ivonne need to write down your version of events, everything, all the way back to the first contact with Erjon, no omissions, no deflections – the truth.’
‘That will take half the night.’
‘So be it,’ Mike said. ‘And I’ll need your help. In the bag there is a camcorder. We need to record the girls’ stories – their full stories, all the way back to the day they left their homes.’
�
�You really think we need to do all this?’
‘Absolutely,’ Mike said. ‘There is no choice in the matter.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Believe it,’ Mike said softly. ‘I’ve told you the police will have to investigate the bomb threat. And it’s played into Driscoll’s hands. It throws everything on to you and Ivonne. With a bit of spin and a bit of truth doctoring, Erjon’s activities can be hidden, and you take the blame. From their perspective it’s a clever move.’
‘Would Liz disclose my telephone number?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mike said, and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s best to assume the worst. If Liz reveals your telephone number, the police will have your name, and a record of all the calls you made including any with caller ID suppressed.’
‘Which means they could prove I made the call to the Transport Police?’
‘Exactly. Then there’s the bus driver?’
‘Jake.’
‘He witnessed you making the call – case proven.’
‘That’s absurd,’ I said, biting at my thumbnail. ‘All the bus drivers know fine well that we were being pursued and that the girls went with us freely.’
‘That will get drowned out by the bomb threat,’ Mike said. He clucked his tongue. ‘There is another factor: Liz and the drivers know you were being followed. However, after a few days they’ll have had time to think the whole thing through. The doubts will creep in, the ardour of the moment will wane, and they might start to question whether the girls were really with you of their own volition.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No. There’s a thing called peer-group pressure. Driscoll can twist the story, embellish the truth and disseminate information making the two of you look bad.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Yes, and I don’t need to tell you how they’ll do that.’
I crossed my arms over my chest. Nightmare upon nightmare. The police would make our names public, stating that we, two known prostitutes, were suspected of human trafficking.
Bitter Sweet Page 13