Naked Lies_Passion, Jealousy, Murder. He has billions, she has his heart.

by Karen Botha

  ‘Paula, you just escaped near death, you’re battered, bruised and burned, and yet, you still ask to return to that damned station to identify some girls. Can’t they send you pictures?’

  He has a point, they could, but that’s not how I work. I want to be there to meet these teenagers properly in the flesh. I need to be there. It’s not negotiable.

  He sighs, shakes his head. ‘You know, I’m going to have to leave you there, don’t you. Poor old Boob is on her own.’

  ‘Here again,’ Lucy says as she wheels me up the ramp beside the old concrete steps and into the police station. As we enter the lobby, her phone rings. ‘It’s Adam.’

  She steps away to take the call, I point upwards letting her know I’m heading upstairs. I’m buzzed through without any fuss, the old desk clerk having been in residence since way before my time. No one mentions my appearance, they'll have heard all about it already, probably with the odd embellishment!

  Steve comes down the steps I’m hauling myself up, one leg at a time, my wheelchair abandoned at the bottom. He places an arm around me. It’s warm and comforting. My skin tingles underneath him, that old familiar feeling punching at my heart, willing it to come alive.

  ‘Come on old gal.’

  He nudges my ribs and it would have hurt had it not been for all the pain killers they dosed me up with at the hospital. Instead, my insides fizz, but I moan anyway. ‘Ow, watch it cowboy.’

  ‘Cowboy, huh?’

  We giggle, that in itself is liberating. Steve is about as far from being a cowboy as any man I’ve ever encountered. Andy and his line dancing pals may well be far more akin to that analogy. I elbow the thought away, cramming it in a box and nailing the lid shut. Why am I comparing the two?

  The girls are being held in the room used for grieving relatives or unstable witnesses who need a little extra TLC. There’s two stained cream couches in there, each facing the other, with a coffee table between them and a tripod holding an old video camera. It sometimes films witness statements, but it remains switched off.

  I hover over the monitor, scouring their faces for any sign of familiarity, perhaps an expression that is reminiscent of one of the girls I eyeballed before being struck down in that East London house. A downcast eye that triggers a memory.

  They chat, their voices low. ‘They’re speaking the same language as I heard in the scruffy house, I think.’

  ‘Do you recognise any, or do we need to keep looking?’

  ‘I'm not sure, I only glimpsed them briefly before I was clonked on the head by a hard object. Can I go in?’

  Steve rubs his stubble, ‘Sure, what harm can it do?’

  ‘I’ll be gentle.’

  No sooner am I in the room with them and they’re up off their sofas and crowding around me. They hug me, and chatter, cooing and rubbing at my bandages.

  ‘You’re alive,’ one says.

  I nod, a grin spreading from one smashed cheekbone to the other. My eyes sparkle as I address the camera. ‘These are the same girls.’

  ‘Come and sit,’ another says.

  They guide me to the sofa, each still fussing me as I shuffle over. The rickety old frame creaks as I sit, and I’m not sure whether it’s the old bones of the sofa or my equally broken ones.

  ‘What happened to you?’ the first girl asks.

  I explain in simple, lamented, English, pausing regularly for what I’m saying to be translated to the quieter in attendance. They chunter as I speak, nodding and discussing.

  ‘What language are you speaking?’ I ask.

  ‘Arabic, we are from Syria.’ A girl who has not spoken before answers. She’s beautiful. Her skin is lighter than the others, and her eyes are large, filled with piercing green. Her brown hair is gathered to one side; thrown over her shoulder.

  ‘Are you refugees?’

  ‘Yes, we left for a better life. To escape rape and torture at the hands of soldiers, to avoid being brutally beaten.’ She raises her eyes and snorts through her nose, lifting her arm to show me more of the bruised limbs I saw at the house.

  ‘Did your captors do this to you?’

  The girls all nod and chatter.

  ‘Yes, they were the ones who beat us. They were supposed to bring us to safety.’ The same girl answers.

  ‘Did you pay these people to transport you illegally?’ I ask.

  They’re stock-still. ‘Yes,’ she answers, her head bowed. ‘Well, we didn’t pay the people here, we paid someone else and then we stopped in Vienna. That’s where we were passed over.’

  I nod. ‘We were afraid, you have to understand. They killed my mother. My father left to fight in the war and he was also killed. I was alone with my grandparents who couldn’t afford to look after me, so they sold me to a family. I saved to escape. I thought England would be safe. We are no better here.’

  ‘Well, you are now,’ I say, although I’m not sure. They will have to enter a vigorous assessment process, and they may well be sent back to Syria. At the minimum it's likely they'll be moved around between institutions and foster families more interested in personal financial gain than child welfare.

  I choose not to voice this and instead give them a hope that has a fifty percent chance of being false. I’m not supposed to be conducting an interview, but they’re opening up so easily. Them having witnessed my most unspectacular demise previously, combined with the evidence of further malice has gone a long way to engendering their trust.

  I can’t help myself from asking, ‘What happened when you arrived in the UK?’

  They chatter some more, and then the main girl answers. ‘We were transported in containers hidden in the backs of vans. We slept in there, sometimes three to a space. My friend died on top of me as we didn’t get much food. I had to lie there with her dead for hours until someone stopped and found her. They threw her at the side of the road, like discarded trash.’

  ‘Was this before you came to England?’

  ‘Yes, on the way. But it was the same here. And then we were held in a big wooden shed in the countryside. We were chained up. Fed bread and water. We didn’t have bathroom facilities. We felt very weak.’

  The word chains echoes. They were chained up. They couldn’t escape in the barn.

  ‘Can you tell me anything you saw when you were there?’

  ‘Lots of green fields. It was pretty. The shed was big. Lots of areas, but we were in one at the end. They had farm tools outside, big ones. We use horses to do the same at home.’

  More chatter. ‘Are your families’ farmers?’

  They nod, a collective yes.

  ‘So, how did you leave the barn?’ I ask.

  ‘We were taken, not everyone together, just some of us. We didn’t know where we were going. Just unlocked and put in the back of a car.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  She describes Adam’s replica car. It’s no surprise to me now.

  ‘How long was the journey?’

  She nails the journey time from the barn where I was held to the East London house where I was attacked. I’m in no doubt that it was the screams of other young girls I heard when I escaped the stables.

  ‘What did they do to you at the house?’

  ‘We were stripped; checked…’ She points between her legs.

  ‘They wanted virgins?’ I ask.

  They nod. One girl buries her head in the crook of another's arm, their eyes collectively brimming with tears. I swallow down a lump. It sticks and I cough.

  ‘Then nothing. If we were bad, we were left under the steps. When you came, they kept a girl under there. She’s not with us anymore.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I remember the piece of rag I saw under the steps in that miserable hallway.

  ‘They came and got her one day, and washed and dressed her, like they did to us before we were rescued. But she never came home.’

  My jaw clenches, I swallow to release the tension. It clenches again, I can’t stop the warmth rising through my chest. I tast
e the bitterness at the back of my mouth, swallow some more. My skin is clammy. The room is musty with cheap perfume meant to attract the attention of unwanted paedophiles. Unwanted rich paedophiles. I bang my chest with my hand and concentrate on the old box TV in the corner, remembering the one similar I had in my room as a child. Every thought is a contrast to the lives of these young girls. There’s no escape from the invented memories of their lives playing like a film reel through my brain. Was I a contributing factor in ending some young child’s survival?

  I count, 1. 2. 3… And refocus my spinning mind on these girls in front of me who need me now. Who I can help now, who I must help now.

  ‘Do you know what happened to her?’ My voice fractures.

  They shake their heads.

  ‘Have you heard any rumours?’

  ‘No, maybe taken to a place like we were. They’ve never moved us all together before. But they say that happened in the past.’

  I nod. I’m sure it did.

  ‘Can we show you some photographs of people so you can check if you recognise anyone?’

  ‘Yes.’ They smile. Beautiful smiles. Still full of youth; only tarnished, not quite destroyed.

  Pain scorches up my side as I struggle from my low seat then out of the room to get the necessary organised.

  Lucy

  The night air is damp from drizzle, the hazy lights of cars forming a series of ever changing yellow patterns. Modern LED street lamps contrast the car lights, casting a white glow over the live art. It’s simple beauty in a complicated world.

  I texted Paula. She’s fine at the station, so I’m heading to meet Adam. She doesn’t need me, and I’m done in. This is her domain and about as far removed from healing as you get. All this evil and distrust is draining. Paula is safe again. I can relax and re-establish my life. The time of avoidance has finished. If this past few days has taught me anything, it’s that life is finite. I need to stop messing about and take every opportunity to cherish what is important. And let the people know, the people who make my life special, that my heart is filled with love for them.

  Simply because Adam is a man, it doesn’t automatically follow that he will be bad. He’s a simple person. Like me, and Paula. I don’t have a problem trusting her, and Adam has never let me down. Even with all this chaos surrounding him, he’s always delivered. He doesn’t come with verbal promises, but instead proves his worth with his actions. I have a new branch of life waiting for me, quietly growing in the shade, and it’s time to water it and let it blossom.

  Adam pulls up on a double red line where I’d plonked myself without realising. I climb in. I am exhausted, and yet still, time stops as his face reflects through the half light of the night and the window glass. I make a choice, I’m going to be strong. Strong enough to risk being broken again. I will allow myself to fall in love, knowing the fragility of my heart and only allowing that to intensify the power of my conviction. I lean over and kiss him. It’s not a special kiss; in fact, it’s fleeting. But it’s there. Initiated by me. A wordless invite to care for my soul.

  He gets it. Makes a sharp intake of breath and puts the gear into drive. He doesn’t say a word and we don’t speak during the journey. The traffic is light and we’re both done in. We hold hands. Mine stretched across the substantial divide between us, aching slightly at the wrist.

  ‘Do you need food?’ He asks as we pull closer to an M&S garage.

  I do, but I’m too tired. I want to shut down. No more tasks.

  Metal gates open as we approach his home. We slow, winding around more of a pathway than a drive. As we climb and round a bend, London sits to the left below us, a twinkling version of romance belying the harsh reality of power and money. I notice his house, but it doesn’t register. I've never been here before, I should be impressed. I am impressed; it’s a stunning example of what an architect at the top of their game can deliver.

  But I’m not wowed.

  I don’t care.

  Too much has happened in too short a time for bricks and mortar provided only by an excess of cash to be impressive. I’ve seen firsthand how intentionally cruel some are to achieve success - and cash. And so, the demonstration of years of Adam’s hard work isn’t that thrilling.

  I'm not awkward in his space. It’s warm and inviting. I’m at home. It’s clean, clinical even, it should be soulless, but it’s not. I kick my shoes off, he grabs two bottles of water from the fridge and unlocks both caps whilst walking over to me. I take a sip, then glug the lot. I hadn’t realised how thirsty I was.

  He leans forward, and his lips brush mine. They’re cold from his chilled drink. My heart doesn’t do backflips straight off; instead, it just feels right. I kiss him back and our lips part. Our teeth graze from the pressure of two bodies coming together after too long apart. And now I get the backflip; our tongues meet. The love that has been simmering away for months, burns bright, finally ignited. We push deep into each other's mouths, exploring the other half of our bodies.

  My hands are on his back, pressing him closer. He’s doing the same. Any space between us is too great now that we’ve finally come together. He’s hard against me, but I don’t explore. I take my time, enjoy this moment. I run my nails over the cotton of his shirt, up his spine, down again.

  He groans, into the back of my mouth. I rip his clothing loose of his waistband, and then, I caress his skin.

  It’s as though this is the first time I’ve ever touched him. It’s different feeling him through a layer of oil. He’s silky soft, his muscles taught. Love for this man overpowers me, whilst giving me the restraint to indulge in the elation of this gentle caress. Two people, now complete.

  A hole I never knew existed heals at once as my heart dances around my chest. I become suddenly greedy. He understands my energy, and begins undressing me. He’s gentle. Not feeble, just respectful.

  Removing my clothing, he savours me naked. I enjoy standing nude in front of him. Finally allowing him to see me, to feel me inside and out. He removes his shirt and unbuckles his dress trousers. They slip down his hips and he steps out of them. Taking one step, he strokes me, runs his fingers down my middle from my cleavage, stopping right above my pelvis. I pool in anticipation.

  I nudge my legs further open. He ignores me, pulls his hand back up again, cups my breast and kneads it, slow, firm; nipping my nipple between his finger and thumb, twisting me pert. He takes the other, buries his head between them and kisses me. He kneels and brushes his lips against every part of my skin.

  I follow him onto my knees. He pushes me lightly so I’m leaning on my hands, legs splayed, hips raised against the bolster of my calves. He teases me, creeping up the crease on the interior of my thighs with his finger tips and tongue. He lets out a groan as he touches my wetness; I groan as he touches my soul. His fingers are deep inside me, then out again, circling. I’m full, nerve endings craving, pulsing, hovering on the cliff edge, waiting to fall, asking to dive, begging. He plunges within me again, keeping two fingers curled on the outside; and I convulse.

  Even as he rips out of me, my pleasure continues and when he finally fills me again, a husky growl rushes from my groin. Gone is the crazy needing, hunger, and craving, replaced by a solid fullness. I unhook my ankles and use my feet to force up against him, driving him deeper within me. I want this man to be within my spirit, to claim every piece of me. I clench and push, and he’s done, crying out in relief.

  He collapses on top of me, and we laugh. Finally, we are as one. He presses himself up on his arm and kisses my mouth.

  ‘I love you, Lucy.’

  It's not bad, or scary; it’s perfectly normal. Somehow, within the catastrophe that has been the last few days, normalcy is the most amazing sensation in the world.

  ‘I love you too,’ I say.

  Lucy

  I ache when I wake. We’d passed out on the tiled floor and only made it to the bedroom after way too long. Even in the dark, Adam’s bedroom is impressive. It’s a large open space with a
statement bed planted central to the room.

  I didn’t notice when it was dark, during the night, but the light is too bright now through the full-length windows. I want to go back to sleep. Blinds have a time and a place, regardless of the lack of privacy. Right now is that time. Please, just another few hours of not thinking… I snuggle deeper down into the soft fibres of the bedding, scrunch the covers up over my chin and roll over.

  It’s no good.

  Adam is shuffling. He’s already sitting up in bed. I groan. It’s too early for checking emails. Is this how life will be now, waking before the birds to an energy vibrant with sales figures and targets?

  I remind myself he is hoping to sell the casino. This won’t go on too long. He’s also been distracted for the last few days, and the business still needs him regardless of his personal issues.

  Forgiven, I roll over to face him. I snuggle up closer, smelling his warmth under the fresh covers. He twitches as I touch him. I'm satisfied, my other half, slotted into place in the jigsaw of life. I’ve found my protector, and I’ll protect him with my last breath. This emotion is that strong; that right. Finally, I’m whole.

  I wrap my arm over him and pull him to me; the room temperature is cold. Adam doesn’t budge. There’s a musty smell in the air; perhaps stale cigarettes? I open one eye.

  The hairs on my neck stand on end at the same time as I let out a parched cry. The self-satisfaction of being secure a distant memory, replaced by a crushing invisible force.

  Adam’s back is pressed against the pillow leaning on the headboard. His neck is at an angle. The hand over his mouth is not his, and the jagged hunting knife depressing the delicate flesh at his throat is connected to Ginger, who stands behind the bed. A wicked grin casts across his mouth, eyes manic, copper hair falling round his face in wild ringlets.

  ‘What…?’ I start.

  ‘Shut it, bitch!’ He hisses the words through gritted teeth.