by J. D. Weston
“Do I need to tell you a second time, Emma? This is not a game.”
Still featureless, the man peered into the van waiting for Emma to respond.
As if prompting her, the sound of Anna’s body hitting the water punctuated the man’s words. He glanced behind him, nodded once, and then returned his attention to Emma, saying nothing.
Fear gripped Emma’s arms and legs. She tried to move but her body felt alien, foreign and disobedient.
“I will not ask a third time, Emma.”
Basil returned, blocking the remaining light. He lifted his leg to climb inside in an effort to please the larger man. But Emma rolled to her side and stood on one shaky leg. Using the side of the van for balance, she stood hunched over. She expected at least one of the men to offer a hand to assist her but neither moved until she reached the side door, where they parted and gave her room to step down.
Taking in her surroundings, Emma saw the van had been parked beside a ship. It was docked in a port where large, yellow cranes built walls of shipping containers. A hard tug on her arm pulled her from the van. She tried to land on her feet but the weight of her body was too much for her shaky legs and she fell onto the hard ground. The thin fabric of her long dress was no match for the cold bite of the rough concrete.
Seeking an escape, her splayed hands sought an exit in lieu of her feeble legs. She dragged herself away from Basil, tears welling in her eyes, knowing that her attempts were futile.
A familiar brown shoe blocked her path.
Basil’s strong hand grabbed her ankle.
As she reached out to grip onto the shoe, she remembered the driver. The familiar voice.
Basil pulled her back to the van. The weight of her body was no match for Basil’s strong arms as he pulled her to her feet, keeping the same iron-like grip that he’d had in the hotel room on her upper arm.
“I will drag you if I have to.” Basil’s whispered voice offered little compassion.
Emma’s knees buckled. But Basil held her upright until she found her feet. She saw the shoes before her once more. The immaculate, pressed trousers and shirt. The expensive watch.
“You?”
Speechless with recognition and disbelief, Emma implored the man who had dined with her family, who had even paid for their dinner. But she found no emotion, sorrow, or guilt in his cold eyes.
“Move.”
Basil nudged her forward away from the man then walked her towards a corridor between the tall containers. Turning back for one last look at the world she had known, Emma found the sprawling mass of Athens sitting in the cradle of the mountains. Beside the van was the man she had known, the man she had dined with, who her father had laughed with.
As Emma was pulled further into the maze of containers, a figure came to stand beside him. Long hair sat on her shoulders. Her short dress flapped in the warm breeze and she stood like a goddess with her shoulders back, her chest out, and her chin raised as if she commanded the world.
Reaching out a hand, pleading for help, Emma found herself voiceless. Her throat closed, her pounding heart thundered in her ears, and her legs were barely able to take her weight.
Then she was gone.
The deep shadows between the containers felt cold against Emma’s skin. She was pulled this way and that way, left and right. Her shoulders grazed the steel containers and any sense of direction was lost under Basil’s firm hand.
A part of Emma prayed that the journey would continue. She knew that whatever lay at the end of the maze would be the end of her life. But her prayers were not answered. Stopping beside an unlocked container, Basil slammed her against the steel door.
She glanced down at the lever as Basil reached down to open the door.
“Wait.”
The word came from Emma’s mouth in a panicked breath. She felt the vibrations in her throat and she felt her mouth shape the sound.
But it was not her own mind that had spoken, and it was not her own mind that fought for one last chance at life.
“Help me.”
The lever of the door fell back against the steel with a hard clang that, in Emma’s mind, could be heard throughout Athens.
“Help me. Help me escape and I’ll give you-”
Cocking his head with interest, Basil moved closer. “You will give me what?”
With the growth on Basil’s face against Emma’s cheek, she found her own breath raspy and uneven.
But she had committed. And giving everything was her only hope.
“I will give you everything. Just like before. Here. Now.” She glanced left and right. “There’s nobody to see us. Help me escape and I will give you all of me.”
A wandering hand traced the outline of Emma’s chest then slid down across her taut stomach. But there was something different. There was something missing. A firm hand gripped her backside and tugged at her long dress, pulling the material up to reveal her naked skin to the fresh air.
But as Basil’s hands explored all Emma had to offer within the confines of her dress, Emma waited for the quivering power, the warmth that would take root in the pit of her stomach and spread far and wide.
But the sensation evaded her.
In its place was cold fear that found solace in her heart and leaked into her bloodstream. No longer could she feel the tips of her fingers. No longer could she feel Basil’s hard, calloused hands on her body.
As if frozen by fear, Emma did not command the situation. Basil’s heavy breath in her ear did not build the power inside her. She had no control. She closed her eyes, trying to summon her powers, trying to build the confidence to take control.
But nothing came.
Then, without warning, Basil’s rough hands fell from her skin. The long material of the dress fell to her ankles and, for a split second, a warmth fell on Emma’s skin as if her very thoughts had ceased Basil’s advances.
A hard slap to her face sent her reeling. She dropped to the deck of the ship in surprise, clutching her reddened, stinging cheek.
“Do you think I would be a fool enough to fall for your tricks a second time?”
She had failed.
A loud squeak added finality to Emma’s last chance as Basil tore open the container door with one hand, took a handful of Emma’s hair with the other, and dragged her through the threshold of the container. A row of glistening eyes peered up at her from the dark. She turned back to face Basil, her eyes wide and her breathing ragged. Each breath seemed to sting her lungs with the poisonous odour of unwashed bodies.
Basil smiled the smile of victory. It was the smile of a man for whom power did not come naturally. His eyes flicked up and down Emma’s body. As if disgusted by her, he sneered.
“Have a nice life, you little bitch.”
Feeling the pressure of his weight against her as he began to push her inside, Emma clung to the sides of the steel container, not daring to look behind her into her dark and miserable future. One last glimpse of the sun. One last breath of fresh air. As she released her grip and fell back onto the container floor, she watched as the door began to close. The corridor of light narrowing. Basil’s face peering inside. His eyes taking pleasure from the despair of Emma’s face in lieu of the pleasure she had denied him once before.
The door was inches from being closed.
The slice of light narrowed along with hope and life itself.
Closing her eyes, Emma took a deep breath.
But a voice broke the bitter silence. Emma snatched her head to the left. Basil’s face dropped from a victorious, cruel smile to the look of a child caught in the act of stealing cookies from a jar.
The voice was familiar but cruel in its intelligence, offering only prolonged suffering and little hope. But still, Emma clung to the words.
“Stop right there.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
The early morning sun had begun to spread its summer warmth across Athens and its surrounding towns and villages. By the time Frankie reached the port, the
sun was in full view, riding high above the mountains, presenting the world with a new day with new challenges and choices.
Long, wire mesh fencing surrounded the small port, but just two guards manned the gate. The first gestured for Frankie to lower his window before speaking in Greek, which Frankie assumed was a request for identification.
“Coast to Coast Transport. It’s urgent.”
“English?”
Frankie nodded.
“What is your purpose here?”
“We have a ship leaving this morning. I need to check the cargo inventory.”
Producing the business card Adrian had given him, Frankie flashed it at the guard.
“You are the managing director?”
“That’s right, and I’m in a hurry if you don't mind.”
Returning the card to Frankie, the guard looked up at his colleague and nodded, who in turn pushed the button for the barrier to rise, presenting Frankie with a serious dilemma.
He stopped the car and called back to the guard, who appeared surprised.
“Sir? It’s been such a long time since I was here. Could you tell me which of the ships will be leaving this morning?”
“You are the managing director of a transport company and you do not know which of these ships your cargo is on?”
The guard cocked his head, sizing Frankie up, his clothes and his car. But Frankie smiled with the confidence of a man for whom wealth softened the challenges of life.
“I sit behind a desk. I dine with clients and I pay salaries. If I want to surprise my workforce with a visit then do you think I should arrive in a Mercedes? Do you think I should wear my finest suit? Or do you think I should arrive in a working man’s car in working man’s clothes and discuss the competence of the port security with the port management after my visit?”
The rhetoric appeared to have worked its magic. Supporting his words with a prolonged, unamused smile, Frankie held the man’s gaze. Clearly, the guard was battling with uncertainty. A long silence ensued during which Frankie knew it was vital not to utter a word.
“There are two ships in dock. Only one is fully laden. A smart man like you should be able to work out which of the two will be leaving today.”
Frankie expected the guard to walk back to his hut to discuss Frankie’s lack of maritime understanding with his colleague. Instead, the man stared back at Frankie, waiting for him to leave. In his rear-view mirror, the guard raised his radio to his mouth and Frankie made his way towards the ship.
Surprised at the lack of activity in the small port, he parked the car in the shade of a wall of containers where he found a place to stand and watch the ship from a safe distance. The ship was not a super vessel designed to carry hundreds of containers across the ocean. Instead, it was a smaller version that would be used to either feed the larger ships out at sea or to ferry containers short distances. Frankie counted eighteen containers. Three rows of three stacked two high.
In Frankie’s mind, the ship would be ideal for a short journey across the Mediterranean. It could dock in the smaller ports where security could be administered with a brown envelope in the right hands, and the contents of a particular shipment could be lost in a series of handshakes and blind eyes.
Bilge pumps spewed sea water from the sides of the ship, and through the windows of the small wheelhouse, Frankie saw a hive of activity.
The ship was preparing to leave and Frankie needed to board it.
At the far end of the ship, guarded by port authority men who wore the same uniform as the men on the gate, was a gangway. It was twenty feet long and connected to a gate in the side of the ship.
Taking a deep breath, preparing himself to repeat what he had told the first guard, Frankie stepped out into the open and walked the length of the ship. To avoid eye contact and the inquisitive glares of the two guards, he feigned an interest in the vessel like a man who might be responsible for the safe delivery of its cargo.
“Good morning, sir.”
The guard said nothing.
“I’ve come to inspect our containers. Permission to board?”
“Mr Lockwood?”
Slightly surprised by the efficiency of the guards, Frankie said nothing.
“We received a call on the radio from the gatehouse.”
“Of course.”
The guards parted to give Frankie access to the narrow gangway. He turned and found them both watching his every move.
“How long until she leaves the port?”
“Not long now, Mr Lockwood. You will hear the ship’s horn when it is time to clear the deck. Try not to get waylaid.”
Nodding, Frankie continued along the gangway until his boots found the steel deck below and a wall of containers stood in his path. Between them were narrow gaps wide enough to walk down. Studying each of the containers in turn, he made his way through the corridors, grateful that the ship was small and there were few containers to check.
On each of the steel doors, a plastic seal had been put in place. It was a practice he knew was used to ensure the containers were not opened and contents taken out or put in during transit.
But one container bore no plastic seal.
The lever handle that opened the doors hung loose as if waiting for Frankie to pull it open. But instead, he placed a hand against the steel wall then leaned in and pressed his ear against the side of the container.
He heard no sound. No muffled sobs of a condemned girl. No wailing cries for help from the darkness inside.
The ship’s horn sounded, loud and obtrusive in Frankie’s ear. A loudspeaker spewed the gritty voice of a man speaking Greek across the ship. Frankie did not need to know the language to understand that the ship was due to leave.
With no time to hesitate, Frankie reached for the handle. Images of what he might find inside played across his mind. An empty container with only Emma hunched into one corner, scared, frightened, and blinded by the darkness in which she’d suffered for a week. Maybe a stack of boxes that Frankie would need to pull out to discover what lay behind.
The horn sounded once more. Three blasts followed by the sounds of men’s voices calling to each other.
He pulled the handle. A small part of him prayed that it would be seized by corrosion or locked somehow from the inside.
But it came up with only a hint of a squeak.
Levering the door open, a slice of darkness revealed nothing inside. Only the rank stench of something fouler than foul emerged like the bowels of hell had opened.
Human waste.
Taking a deep breath, Frankie yanked the door open fully, letting it swing back and collide with the neighbouring container with a bang like that of a gong, reverberating until the sound dissipated.
The darkness inside waned. Daylight ventured in with the bravado of a guard dog, stopping halfway to ensure that Frankie followed.
Frankie was following, while fighting the urge to retch and vomit. The stale odour of faeces hung thick in the air, leaving scarce room for breathable oxygen. But once he was inside and the bright daylight no longer shone, Frankie found a glistening at the far end of the container like sparkling diamonds among the darkest coal in the deepest mine.
They blinked in pairs. Some out of time and some more than others. Disappearing only for a fraction of a second before they returned, moist and frightened.
The further Frankie ventured inside, the darker the space became. His pupils widened to suit until, stretched to their limits, they opened as wide as they could go. Frankie began to make out the shapes. There were no definitive forms. Only shades of blacks and greys. The darkest of the shapes sat at the far end of the container. Each of them bore two of the glistening gems that had enticed Frankie inside.
“Emma?”
He waited for an answer but none came. Just the blinking of jewels that followed him as he stepped closer. Then a shimmer of pale, bare flesh. It was a girl.
“Emma?”
Pausing to count the frightened eyes, Frankie
dropped to a crouch to be on the same level, as an adult might try to connect with a scared child.
“Emma Fletcher, is that you? Are you here?”
“So close, Mr Black.”
The voice came from behind. It was deep, tinted with Greek, and wore the tone of cruel success. Frankie turned on his heel, standing to face the intruder.
“I am afraid you are too late.”
Chapter Fifty
Shock, hope, and anguish tore at Emma’s mind like the talons of a scavenger bird, pulling at her any which way they could to tear the largest piece of flesh from her bones.
The warm, familiar hand of the lady rested on her back, guiding her through the containers to the gangway where, beside a sleek and shiny car, Mr Francesco waited. His arms were folded and he leaned on the car looking up at her with indifference. It wasn't the longing and lust-filled look of infatuation but a stare that conveyed only his inquisitiveness, a curiosity that was fed with wealth.
Stopping at the sight of him, Emma turned to the lady.
“I don't understand. What happened to Duska? I thought she was the one he wanted. What does he want with me?”
“What he wants, Emma, is somebody he can talk to. Someone with intelligence who can argue a point and provide him with mental distraction as well as physical satisfaction.”
“And Duska? Is she safe?”
“She is safe.”
“So he wants us both?”
At that moment, the driver of the car opened the rear door. A long leg emerged, thick, bare, and enticing, but the person that followed was a quivering mess, scared and confused. Duska turned three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in her environment before finally resting on Mr Francesco who refused to return her stare.
The gangway was once a white steel platform with white painted chains for handrails but now bore red pockets of rust like scars of service. The lady stopped before it, holding out her hand to prevent Emma from venturing further.
Below them on the port side, the driver shoved Duska forward so that she stumbled on her heels and fell to her knees. Impatient, Mr Francesco muttered something in another language and the driver pulled Duska up by her hair, only releasing her when she had stopped struggling. Tears rolled across her cheeks.