Victims for Sale

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Victims for Sale Page 9

by Nish Amarnath


  ‘I feel so lucky,’ I whispered, clasping his hands in mine.

  He responded with a childlike smile, which melted my heart.

  We sipped Sauvignon Blanc and gazed outside the window in comfortable silence for a while, watching the sun sink into the horizon as it cast its pink and orange glow across a blanket of cornsilk clouds.

  The food was sumptuous – English asparagus, Yorkshire fettle and marinated olives, and a main course of roasted sea trout and fresh herb gnocchi with truffle and Parmesan fries on the side.

  For a change, Nimmy and I steered clear of heavy or intense topics, including those concerning Asha. As we ate, I forgot all about my visit to Bread Breakers’ and my grief over losing my mother.

  The intimate, romantic dinner and our bouncy, free-flowing conversation culminated into a night of passion in my bed. As daybreak descended, I gently urged Nimmy back to his room.

  After he left, the lightness of energy in my being evaporated. I found myself wondering what those kids at Bread Breakers’ had meant when they indicated their mothers were in the care home. Not all their mothers were support workers or members of staff … were they?

  A distorted image of the breastfeeding woman on the wheelchair played on my mind again. Perhaps, there was a way to find out what was going on there.

  By the time I awoke next morning, I knew what I had to do. I hoped Keisha would be equally convinced.

  6

  The Hotbed

  7 March

  ‘What if I’m playing with fire?’ I asked myself.

  You’re not, a voice said from within.

  ‘How so?’

  Those children need help, the voice reminded.

  ‘Maybe there’s nothing to it, after all. And I could get into big trouble,’ I challenged the voice.

  Do you want to choose selfishness when a bunch of children may be in trouble?

  The second thoughts I was having about my plan dissipated by the time LooSE TV’s president Mark Leatherby ushered me into the network’s office in LSE’s east building. He slid a sleek, black pen cap to me across the desk. I studied it curiously.

  Mark laughed at my apparent naiveté. ‘It’s a pocket spy cam. It’s got a 4 GB SD chip. Clip it to the pocket of your trousers, and it’ll look like you’ve slid a pen in there. When you’re done recording, all you do is plug it into a computer like any normal USB stick. What’s the story behind not using a regular HD or video-cam?’

  ‘I suspect something unusual is going on in a care centre here, and I’m honestly scared … but I really want to investigate it. I can’t say more since it’s related to some work I’m doing for a BBC producer …’

  But that was definitely not something Keisha had wanted me to do.

  ‘Good heavens, San! You’ve got to be crazy!’ She had cried when I shared my idea with her after noting that something didn’t seem right about Bread Breakers’. ‘You’ve only been a newscaster! You don’t have any production experience and the BBC certainly isn’t going to commission you to undertake something like this. Even experienced producers have got to do boatloads to win the trust of the commissioning team. If you do develop a concept plan, design a cost budget, enlist your resources and put forward your bonafides, they’re going to think you haven’t the slightest bit of experience, San. Do you understand what I’m even talking about?’

  ‘We could mull over a news feature,’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s not possible, San. This sounds like an exposé. I would much rather have it out as a documentary. Have you heard of Newsnight or Panorama?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How the hell do you think you will handle it?’ Keisha fumed. ‘You’re wasting your time with this investigative bullshit. The BBC folks would probably put their own in-house team on the chase, if they even decide there’s a story in it. You’re better off going to the police about it. But even that may be a stretch until you provide some hard evidence.’

  The vehemence with which Keisha questioned my experience and investigative skills affronted me.

  ‘Let’s do it this way. I’d like to go undercover and find out,’ I shot back heatedly. ‘There may be something, or there may be nothing at all. Either way, I’ll feel at peace for having tried. Something’s going on, which I think is unusual and possibly harmful. You’ve got to give me a chance. I’ll hand my film over to you when I’m done, and you can decide what you’d like to do with it.’

  Keisha sighed. ‘All right, San. Do what you have to. For heaven’s sake, just don’t get into trouble.’

  ‘The film is top secret until I have a say-so,’ I told Mark now. ‘Is it illegal to use a hidden cam to …?’

  ‘Not in journalism or the law,’ Mark cut in. ‘You said you were doing it for the BBC.’

  Since I wasn’t doing it for the BBC, I had no legal protection. I wasn’t even sure how the data protection laws worked in the UK. Of course, I couldn’t share those thoughts with Mark.

  ‘On a freelance basis,’ I gabbled. ‘But …’

  ‘Well, in that case, you should be good so long as you’re not capturing activities that are exceedingly private,’ Mark intoned. ‘Reading up on national voyeurism laws will be incredibly helpful. I’m not suggesting you’re a peeping tom, but you want to keep your guard up, y’know? You don’t want a hamper of legal bullshit slapping you in the tush ’cause you stumbled upon something unintentionally … see what I mean?’

  I nodded. ‘Thanks, Mark.’

  ‘By the way, any news on the CEO interview for Career Q&A?’ Mark inquired.

  ‘I’ve been after EGG’s PR agency – no bites yet.’

  8 March

  I re-adjusted the scarf over my curly blonde wig and handed the receptionist, Erica, my business card at the Bread Breakers’ Community Residence. It read:

  Maya Farmah,

  Nursing Sciences Professional,

  25, Cumberland Close,

  Amersham, HP7 9NH

  It listed a mobile number that had once belonged to Nimmy.

  With my complexion and heavy makeup, I could easily pass for an English country girl. I had borrowed the wig from LooSE TV’s Joey, who was a theatre junkie. I also wore cheap blue contact lenses, thick powerless eyeglasses and a hideous overall over a sloppy old cardigan and a pair of grey jeans. The cardigan belonged to Nimmy. He had last worn it two nights ago and tossed it into the laundry basket in my bedroom before we made love. Afterwards, we had had a heated argument, too. ‘You seemed too frozen this time. You’re not bored of me, are you?’ he asked when we lay spent.

  I sighed. ‘Just a little preoccupied. And still recovering from Saahil’s death.’

  Nimmy propped up an elbow on bed. ‘Are you in this relationship out of guilt or obligation?’

  ‘Where did that come from? How do you define guilt anyway?’

  ‘Guilt is a necessary emotion, isn’t it?’

  I disagreed. I went on to share my own definition of guilt and mentioned that I believed instead in Carl Rogers’ notion of self-actualization. Nimmy flew off the handle, then.

  ‘Are you citing personality psychologists when I’m the one who has seen, first-hand, all that Asha is going through?’ he fumed.

  And there he was, bringing Asha up again. Again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, hoping to make peace.

  He stormed out of my room, slamming the door behind him. I hadn’t really spoken much to him after that. And I don’t think he was aware that I was wearing his cardigan now as part of this queer ensemble that completed the identity of an out-of-work mental health nurse hopeful.

  The unpredictability of what set him off saddened me. I took in a deep breath, now.

  Focus, Sandy. Focus on the task at hand.

  Erica looked up at me. ‘Whataya here for?’

  I produced a copy of a fake CV I had crafted the night before.

  ‘I’m Maya Farmah,’ I said in a low-pitched Liverpudlian scouse accent that I hoped was different from my own high-pitched voi
ce and my mixed Queen’s English-Mumbai accent. ‘I’m outta work and I ain’t no place to stay. I’m wonderin’ if I can find work here. There’s my CV.’

  Erica looked cross. ‘We didn’t have any job listings online. For chrissake, we don’t even have a bleeding web page. How in hell did you find us?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know ‘coz I don’ have access to the innernet. I’m a friend of Ugo, the support worker who works ’ere,’ I said. ‘You always need more hands ’round ’ere, she said.’

  Erica looked puzzled. ‘Ugo said nothin’ about it to no one,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you run along and wait on those chairs there. I’ll check with Ugo first and have our manager see if anyone here wants to have anything to do with you.’

  I shuffled my weight. ‘Could I use the loo, please?’ I pleaded. ‘I haf come a long way. From Merseyside. I hafn’t haf a chance to …’

  Erica raised her eyebrows suspiciously. ‘This card of yours says you live in Amersham?’

  I nearly kicked myself for being so stupid. ‘I do,’ I said. ‘I’m originally from Liverpool, though. I vent to Merseyside to visit ma’ ailin’ motha and I’m just vack from there now.’ I shifted my weight again and planted a hand over my stomach. ‘If you don’ mind?’

  Erica snorted. ‘Don’t embarrass yourself further, lady. Over there.’

  She pointed to the double doors on her left.

  I walked past those doors and across the long linoleum corridor before stopping outside the door to the room where I had seen those mystifying shadows during my last visit. I knocked gently. There was no response. I turned the doorknob. It was locked. Was it locked from within or from the outside? Remembering a little trick I had once seen in a Hollywood movie, I whipped out a debit card from my wallet, then hesitated momentarily. I might be on a wild goose chase and I wasn’t sure if I would be prosecuted for breaking into a room. Reminding myself of the trouble I had taken to get here, I wiggled my card through the vertical crack between the door and its frame. Tilting my card towards the doorknob, I threw all my weight against the door and bent the card the other way, hoping to force the lock backwards. The door popped open.

  ‘Ow!’ I yowled when I tripped over myself and tumbled in.

  I looked around me quickly. A single cot with a rumpled white duvet. Translucent maroon curtains gathered to one side of a pelmet halfway across the room. A wooden desk that held a half-eaten bowl of soup on a food tray. A few stuffed toys peering out from a tuck box in a corner. Open shelves bursting with wads of unfolded clothing. A wheelchair folded up in the space between the shelves and a set of white cabinets.

  ‘Hi!’ A high-pitched childlike voice greeted me from the bedside. A tiny wan face poked out from the duvet. Mostly Caucasian features. I fixed my gaze on the mildly depressed nasal bridge between her wide-set brown eyes. I was startled at how young she looked. Not more than eighteen, I surmised. There was no sign of the baby I had seen her breastfeed – if it had indeed been her – a few days ago. ‘Hello …’ I said softly.

  The girl twirled the edge of her pink smock, looked at me intently and giggled. Her behaviour confirmed my suspicions. This woman was mentally challenged.

  ‘I’m sorry to barge in on you. What’s your name?’

  The girl cocked her head and began picking her nose.

  ‘Nila,’ she said finally. I detected a faint British overlay to an accent that could have otherwise been East European.

  ‘I’m Sandy,’ I said, extending my hand for a shake. ‘I’m here to help you, Nila.’

  The girl stared at me. Then she looked outside the window and began picking her nose again. I laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. Nila turned back to face me. I made a cradle with my arms and rocked back and forth. ‘Baby?’ I mouthed. ‘Is that your baby?’ I pointed a finger towards her to gesticulate what I was saying.

  Nila stared perplexedly. My cradling action seemed to have jolted her in some way. She placed a palm upon her breast and bawled at the top of her lungs. ‘My baby, my baby!’

  Something about the intensity of the pain and bewilderment in her screams made me believe that the baby was indeed really hers. Flashbacks of my conversation with the children in the playroom, during my visit on Monday, raided my senses. Many had claimed their mothers were in the care home although they didn’t work there. I had to get to that playroom next. And fast. Just as I turned to leave, I noticed a few nasty bruises on Nila’s arm. They looked fresh.

  ‘How did you get hurt?’ I inquired gently, pointing to the contusions on her arm.

  Nila continued wailing. I heard a patter of footsteps approaching the door.

  ‘That kid is howlin’ her lungs out!’ A voice grumbled from a distance.

  ‘Perhaps that whore is in there …’ another voice replied back, sounding much closer now. ‘Maya Farmer. A nurse who wants a job – indeed!’

  A sardonic bark of laughter followed. ‘She’s spyin’ on us!’

  My heart flip-flopped. They were already after me.

  ‘Didn’t you lock that bloody door then?’ the first voice demanded. ‘How can anyone get the fok in when you locked the foking door?’

  ‘Sweet Jesus, I did!’ the second voice humphed in puzzlement.

  I leaped up to the bedside across Nila and raised the window ledge with considerable difficulty. As Nila stared at me, I hastily scrambled over and jumped out of the window. I landed on all fours on a patch of grass outside, just in time to hear two support workers barrel in.

  ‘A pathetic cretin, that one! Cryin’ for her sodden baby,’ the first worker commented.

  ‘What she needs is a good whack is all. And we need to spruce her up in time for Mr Pedal Pushers,’ the other clucked. Her colleague laughed.

  ‘We got to keep her quiet when he gets ’is leg over with ’er. 100 mg of chlorpromazine,’ the first worker barked.

  A few seconds elapsed before I heard Nila scream again. This time, her wispy childlike voice sounded inhumanly feral with anger and pain. I shuddered on the ground below. Was it some kind of a tranquiliser? Was it even recommended for her? And I didn’t quite understand the slang, ‘when he gets his leg over her’. Or maybe … I did. I stood rooted to my spot until I heard a squawk from above.

  ‘That window is open! Reckon that ’ore jumped out through it! Get on ’ere, fast!’

  I took off, darting madly through clumps of wild bush ahead of me. I scampered down a crooked cobblestoned pathway that led away from the side door. The pathway opened out to the flower garden where I spotted the playroom-shed a few yards ahead. Hoping it wasn’t locked, I dashed towards the shed and thrust open the door, careful, this time, of the malfunctioning springs. I shut the door behind me and exhaled.

  There seemed to be fewer children in the playroom than there had been on Monday. The baby girl I had seen on the potty chair last time was still on it now, gurgling and playing with her long, golden hair. I recognised the faces of a few other children I had seen or spoken to on Monday. I walked up to Jason, who was fiddling with his Abacus in a corner.

  ‘Hey!’ I greeted. ‘I’m back to see you. Do you remember me?’

  ‘Hi!’ Jason jumped up and wound his skinny arms around my waist.

  ‘She’s here!’ I recognised the excited squeal as the voice of the petite British girl who had declared she didn’t like it here.

  Several kids gathered around me as I knelt down, ferreted in my tote-bag and handed them all the little knickknacks I had bought – a few dolls, a Pictionary game set, some stuffed toys, a new colouring book, a pack of crayons, a box of chocolates, a set of fresh chalk pieces, a duster for the blackboard, and a couple of fairytale books.

  ‘You must share these among yourselves,’ I told them. If only I could have afforded to get more.

  ‘That’s more than we’ve got in two years!’ a pale red-haired boy exclaimed delightedly.

  I cleared my throat. ‘All right. I would like to see your mamas.’

  It broke my heart to be so cut and dry with them
. But time was limited and I had to record their words on the spy cam clipped carefully to my Jeans pocket and concealed by my overalls.

  ‘We already told you!’ Jason cried in unison with the Hungarian girl I remembered from my last visit. ‘Mama is in that place over there. That home,’ Jason pointed once again to the care home.

  The Hungarian girl wailed, ‘My Mama’s dead!’

  I went up to her. ‘What’s your name, love?’

  ‘Sandra.’

  ‘What happened to your Mama?’

  Sandra hiccupped and began sobbing. A boy, who looked to be about five, slung his arm around Sandra’s shoulders and spoke on her behalf. ‘They killed her.’

  In spite of myself, my blood froze. ‘Who killed her Mama?’

  ‘Some big, bad men,’ Sandra said tearfully.

  ‘How do you know?’ I probed.

  ‘I saw!’ Sandra cried. ‘Winny and I saw.’

  ‘Winny?’

  ‘That’s me,’ the boy next to her said. ‘I’m Winston.’

  I turned to him. ‘What did you see, Winny?’

  Winston blinked at me, mortified. I ruffled his hair and gave him a light peck on his cheek. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said kindly. ‘I’m here to help all of you.’

  ‘They put a knife in her pee thing, them bad men,’ Sandra said in a broken voice. ‘They kept on doing it. And there was blood and more blood, but they were laffing. And they kept on doing it.’

  ‘They were on top of ’er,’ Winston said.

  I tried to make sense of what they were saying. ‘Pee thing?’ I said finally.

  ‘This.’ Sandra placed a hand on her crotch.

  A fresh jolt of shock ran through my system.

  Don’t throw up now. Be strong for these kids, San, don’t mess this up, I warned myself.

  Swallowing my revulsion, I gently lifted Sandra’s hand away from her crotch and held it in mine. ‘Where did you see them doing this?’ I choked out.

  ‘There.’ Sandra pointed somewhere towards the wild clump of bushes near the pathway I had just passed to get here. ‘Winny and I went outside to play … and we saw.’

 

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