Victims for Sale

by Nish Amarnath

  When I got within an arm’s length of the pliers on the desk, I reached out and made a grab for it. With a fresh burst of resolve, I sawed away the ropes clutching at my thighs and ankles. I nearly fell as I scrambled out of the chair. It took me a while to steady myself as I fought for balance, after more than an hour of being tied up and tortured. Ritchie was trying to slacken the knots of rope around his wrists. I stumbled over to him. ‘Hold on, Ritch. I’ve got it.’

  Ritchie held his wrists up. The rope stretched taut between his knuckles.

  Gritting my teeth, I squeezed the pliers with all my might, chipping away at the ropes until they fell off. Once Ritchie’s hands were free, he quickly hacked off the ropes binding his ankles.

  Gasping in unison, we collapsed briefly into each other’s arms. Then Ritchie dashed over to the pantry, tripping over himself in haste and disorientation.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ I called out weakly as he yanked open all the cupboard doors.

  ‘You need first-aid at once! And it won’t be long before they’re back,’ Ritchie informed.

  I peered into my vest. My breasts were no more than shattered, bloody pulps now. And I was aching all over from the punishing position I had been forced into.

  ‘This looks like Benzoin,’ Ritchie muttered, hobbling back to me with a small bottle and a big wad of cottton. He knelt down before me, applied some of the antiseptic onto large swabs of cotton and gently cupped my breasts. All I wanted right now was for them to be left alone. I recoiled instinctively, but the effort triggered a string of coughing fits and painful wheezing.

  ‘No, Sandy, you’re bleeding badly,’ Ritchie said firmly, dabbing at my welts and slashes. ‘Keep pumping your inhaler.’

  After a few moments, he stumbled over to the credenza and dug around swiftly in its alcoves. A box of teabags and a half-empty bottle of White Zinfandel crashed to the floor. Splinters of glass flew across the room and bubbling cataracts of blush wine splotched the zebra rug behind me.

  ‘Careful, Ritch!’ I shushed.

  ‘I’ll get us out of here,’ Ritchie croaked, retracing his steps with a roll of gauze.

  ‘They’ve disfigured me,’ I sobbed as he worked the gauze steadily on me.

  ‘At least the bleeding seems to have stopped,’ Ritchie assured me, moments later. ‘About what happened, it doesn’t matter, San. I love you. Your real beauty is in there.’ He pointed towards my heart and bent down to pick up my torn clothes from the floor. I gingerly slid my arms out of my slip. Ritchie clipped my bra on carefully. It would hurt too much to go without one.

  Shrugging out of his suit and shirt, he pulled off his vest and slid it gently over my head. A curl of comfort glided across my skin from the hosiery of his vest. Ritchie wrapped his shirt around me and put his suit back on. I buried my face in his chest.

  A jagged shard of glass flew past us from behind, followed by a piercing crash.

  I shrieked and spun around, colliding into Ritchie. Ritchie nearly toppled over, but managed to hold on to the desk next to him. He steadied me and hustled over to the awning window. When he pulled back the shades, a stocky man in a peppercorn-black top hat and a navy trench coat shot an outstretched arm through the window he had just smashed. A scalloped axe swung from his other hand. The man at the window raised his axe and slammed it against the pane again. Larger fragments of glass cracked and fell through.

  Gathering my wits, I pushed Ritchie behind me and stood protectively in front of him.

  ‘San, he’s here to help us!’ Ritch cried, retrieving my duffle coat from the couch.

  A growing cacophony of voices floated towards the door as Ritchie helped me into my coat.

  ‘Get here … fast,’ the man at the window snapped. ‘The assholes are on their way in.’

  Ritchie scooped me up. The man in the trench coat grabbed me through the craggy crests of broken glass that shot out from the window frames.

  A barrage of footsteps descended on us, stippled with rabid yells. Mez’s voice: ‘They’re making a run for it!’

  Rixon was screaming, ‘Get to the window and nab ’em, you idiot!’

  Carlos darted across the room. Ritchie was halfway through the window. I heard a gun cocking. The man in the trench coat began running through a wizened lawn towards a neighbouring building at the far end of the complex, cradling me firmly in his arms.

  ‘Ritch!’ I screamed.

  ‘I’m here, Sandy!’ Ritchie panted, catching up with us from behind. ‘Thanks, Aaron,’ he added to the trench-coat man.

  Bullets whizzed past us in all directions. The frenzy of voices behind us rose to a crescendo, as we careened around a corner of the building ahead. Then we dashed to a side facing a partitioning wall and flew back towards Building Number 5.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ritchie cried breathlessly.

  ‘Just follow me! I know this place better than either of you,’ Aaron barked.

  Aaron eventually lurched to a standstill and placed me on a dry patch of ground between the side of the building and the partitioning wall. ‘Get in!’ he ordered, stepping on a piston to his right. The ground moved to reveal a sliding trapdoor, which gave way to a retractable winding stairwell. Ritchie and I scrambled in.

  ‘Thank God for the Redstone circuitry,’ Aaron muttered, pushing another button on a wall once we were all inside. The door slid shut above us.

  Holding onto the wall with one hand, Ritchie guided me down the block of stairs. The steps opened out to a compact stone-floored hall insulated with a gabled ceiling and redwood beadboards. French oakwood barrels lined the floor, and stanchions of wooden racks and slats were carved into the walnut-veneer walls.

  ‘A wine cellar!’ Aaron muttered. He unbuttoned his trench coat and wriggled out of a craggy brown pullover he wore over a faded sweatshirt.

  He handed the pullover to Ritchie. ‘Something to wear under that suit,’ he commiserated.

  ‘Thanks.’ Ritchie slipped the turtleneck over his head.

  I studied Aaron. Hooded grey eyes and upturned lips sandwiched a hawk-like nose in a fleshy pockmarked face. Surprising agility for a portly middle-aged oaf who resembled a retired Tube operator. Nudging Ritchie gently, I directed my eyes to Aaron as a silent question and returned my gaze to Ritchie with a raised brow.

  ‘Aaron Curtis is a licensed private detective,’ Ritchie said. ‘I hired him to ensure your safety.’

  I stared at the duo, baffled. ‘When? How?’

  ‘Aaron is a neighbour to one of my clients. I met him last Friday, the morning after you got shot,’ Ritchie revealed.

  ‘Good heavens! Why didn’t you ever tell me?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘I didn’t want you to freak out,’ Ritchie admitted. ‘I told Aaron everything he needed to know, I showed him your photos, which I downloaded from your Facebook profile. Since then, he’s been trailing after you in an Astra.’

  That explained the silver Vauxhall Astra I had seen outside the BBC last Friday and on the road when I was on my way here.

  ‘I followed you more than half the way this morning until I lost you somewhere near Watford,’ Aaron said as we strode down a winding pathway. ‘Seemed like you were being driven towards Hillingdon or Amersham. The GPS guided me towards the M25, where I found your sedan again in all that traffic. I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t spotted you there. There’s no phone reception here, whatsoever. So, I stepped out on to the streets and called Ritchie. Ritchie was dead worried that he couldn’t reach you on the phone. So, I gave him directions to where I was headed, then guided him the rest of the way when I pulled into this complex.’

  ‘So, you were here even before Ritchie arrived?’ I asked Aaron incredulously.

  ‘I was staking out the area. Studying entrances, exits, corners, escape routes …’ Aaron trailed off. ‘The doors were locked and the windows heavily shaded. Of course, I had no idea what was happening to you inside. I wanted to be sure I knew the layout of this place before I barged in. I peered through a window
and spotted those two charlatans on a speakerphone in a cabin. I’d figured out this place by then. I heard Ritchie’s voice from another set of windows that I knew belonged to an adjacent cabin inside. So, I took a chance and crashed in.’

  ‘Thanks, Aaron, we’d have been dead if not for you,’ I conceded.

  ‘This must have cost you a fortune!’ I whispered, leaning towards Ritchie.

  ‘You mean the world to me, San,’ Ritchie murmured.

  ‘We need to move faster,’ Aaron said firmly. ‘I’m guessing this corridor leads to an exit through a similar trapdoor opening out the other side. I spotted a piston near the bushes at the other end while landscaping the area. If my analysis is correct, that exit should lead directly to the main road where I’ve parked. C’mon. We don’t have much time.’

  Needles of fresh pain ravaged my breasts. I slouched against a wall and doubled over in anguish. I felt Ritchie’s warm hands on my chest, kneading away the pain. ‘Aaron, it’s an ambush! Let’s catch our breaths for a while here,’ he called out.

  ‘It really isn’t much farther now,’ Aaron coaxed.

  ‘That looks like an entrance to a room or closet,’ Ritchie said suddenly, pointing towards the contours of a slight projection from a slant in the wall ahead. ‘Can you get us some help? We’ll just hide in there and rest.’

  Sure enough, the protrusion seemed to be a wooden storm door that camouflaged with the wall.

  Aaron retraced his steps to Ritchie. ‘I don’t think it’s safe …’

  Ritchie laid an arm on Aaron’s shoulder. ‘My girlfriend is in no position to move any further, and neither am I, in fact. I think we’ll be safe. We’ll just stay put here until you fetch help.’

  Ritchie clumped towards the door, stood on his toes and tugged at a rusted latch above.

  Aaron frowned in consternation, but stepped forward to help Ritchie.

  The latch rattled down with a screech. The door clanked inward, disgorging an intense half-circle of yellow light, which danced on the cold, stone floor like a hungry lioness evaluating the contents of her supper. ‘Once outside, I’ll call triple nine and drive to the nearest police precinct. Stay safe. I’ll be back soon,’ Aaron promised. Then he marched into a cloud of smoky nothingness.

  ‘He’s really good at this,’ Ritchie told me. ‘He’ll be back with a battalion in a jiffy. C’mon now.’ He tenderly brought his lips to mine. I wanted to kiss Ritchie back, but an acid reflux rode up my esophagus. ‘I c-can’t breathe,’ I moaned. The last thing I felt before blacking out was Ritchie’s laboured breathing and the tightening orbit of his arms around my waist.

  I came to in a long shaft with Hickory-wood walls on all sides. The room was spartan, except for an in-built rack and two ivory club chairs. Random items nestled in the rack. Flashlight. Gas mask. Crescent wrench. A tatty old blanket. Ritchie pumped my inhaler for me and caressed my hair.

  ‘Where are we?’ I croaked into his sweater.

  ‘Looks like a panic room or reading room. I don’t see a phone or transceiver here though. Maybe there’s a cordless phone in there,’ Ritchie mused, walking towards the rack.

  There was a sudden thud around the walls. ‘Ritch, did you feel that?’

  Ritchie pulled out of the rack and leaned against it with a worried expression.

  A sharp upward pull followed the thud. I swayed on my feet.

  ‘The room is moving,’ Ritchie moaned, dazed.

  A moving room?

  I didn’t rule out the possibility of an earthquake, but my instincts told me otherwise. I spotted a line of cushioned buttons on the wall by the door.

  Oh fuck!

  ‘This isn’t a room,’ I said quietly. ‘I think it’s an industrial elevator!’ A luxury one at that. Most likely, eclipse-style – with a normal door that opened inward as if leading you into a room.

  Ritchie jammed all the buttons, but to no avail. ‘Gosh, San. It’s my fault for getting you in here. Stay behind me. I’ll handle this.’

  ‘No,’ I protested, trying to push him behind me. ‘I can’t have you …’

  The elevator came to a halt. The room door doubled up as a sliding hatch as it swished open to one side. My gaze froze on the floor. A pair of shiny black Hawthorne leather boots glided into my line of vision. Raven black leather trim-will trouser cuffs swirled around the polished vamps of those boots. A familiar voice trilled into my ears. ‘Lo and behold! What do we have here?’

  I felt Ritchie’s protective arms on my shoulders. I raised my face slowly. From the brim of a licorice-coloured wool-felt Ferdora hat, a pair of gold-flecked amber eyes flashed at me through crystal-framed spectacle lenses. Lord Melvin Bradshaw.

  17

  The Betrayed One

  A cloudburst of emotions exploded in my head. Withering anger. Homicidal embitterment. Vitriolic hate. A simmer of hope – and meandering through these variant excitabilities, an incandescent strand of awe. Whatever fucked-up state Bradshaw was in, the man never did leave behind his unflappable charisma. I found myself tongue-tied.

  ‘Looks like you two are having a rough day,’ Bradshaw commented. ‘Hungry?’

  Ritchie played along. ‘We have reservations at the Savoy and we’re getting late.’

  ‘Hush, young man. I’m talking to Sandy,’ Bradshaw responded, playing with the oval moonstone and diamond cluster ring on his index finger. ‘It isn’t what she thinks it is. A nice long chat is in order. Come along now. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  We followed the magnate down the corridor and stopped outside a large glass door bordered by a cedar wood frame. Bradshaw pressed a button on a pocket remote. The door swung open to reveal an opulent office with a coffered ceiling and arched windows, framed by fluted pilasters. Bradshaw waved us towards a caramel-coloured leather sofa across a large fireplace on the left. Then he strode towards an antique wood and glass curio to the right and disappeared into an adjacent Plexiglass door. ‘He’s the mastermind behind this racket,’ I whispered to Ritchie once I was sure Bradshaw was out of earshot.

  Bradshaw reappeared with a rimmed melamine food tray. Three cups and saucers circled a steaming pot of tea on the base of a serving stand that held plates of baked rhubarb scones, treacle tarts, mini-sandwiches, and a caddy of fresh strawberries. Bradshaw placed the tray on a revolving Lazy Susan turntable in front of the sofa and seated himself.

  ‘Nothing like a well-stocked larder,’ he chuckled, pouring tea from the pot into each cup.

  A faint dribble of pride ran through the turbulence of fury and resentment in my brain. The most powerful business tycoon in all of Europe was serving me personally – a small consolation for all that I had been through in the past year, and all those innocent lives this man had ruined.

  ‘I wonder if you believe in spirit guides.’ Bradshaw began as I squeezed out of my coat and nibbled on a scone.

  I stared at him.

  What in heaven’s name is he getting at?

  ‘Every soul arrives in this world with a purpose,’ Bradshaw said. ‘A purpose that determines the life lessons it will learn during the incarnation it has chosen … under the mentorship of its spirit guides from heaven. For instance, a soul that has opted to learn the values of love and compassion may choose those birth circumstances that aid its quest for fulfilling that life purpose. That’s why we have orphans, people who are born into abusive or poor families, children who have birth defects.’ He trailed off and sipped his tea.

  I was too flabbergasted to respond. Ritchie remained poker-faced.

  ‘Souls that choose to incarnate as individuals with mental disabilities are priceless to mankind,’ Bradshaw went on. ‘In their human frames, they may not be acquainted with their own existence. But they teach us to love unconditionally. They are souls that heal. They cure illness and disease with the beauty of their innocence and loyalty. We must offer our tribute by providing them a life that will give them all the happiness that would otherwise elude them.’

  I couldn’t hold my horses an
y longer. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because I had a mentally challenged sister. She gave me the inspiration to become who I am today,’ Bradshaw replied in an even-keel tone. ‘I’ve taken it upon myself to help women like her. The corporate backing of the Eric Gregersen Group has helped me reach out to many care centres more effectively than I might have been able to do individually. The organisations I’m mentoring have been extremely supportive of the stem cell research projects that EGG’s pharma division in Warsaw is working on. We’re on the verge of finding a cure for Ebola. We’re keeping all this under wraps until we are a hundred percent sure of the results.’

  I recalled Mez or Carlos saying something about stem cell research when they were torturing me – but hearing it from the horse’s mouth made me more shocked and confused.

  ‘Our scientists in Warsaw have been using cord blood stem cells to rectify neurological problems and find a cure for Ebola. When a woman gives birth, the blood in her umbilical cord contains hematopoietic stem cells. These cells are purified from blood or bone marrow. In the UK, we collect stem cells from care home residents who are new mothers. Since many of these women are mentally disabled, we financially support them, employ them in some of our facilities, whenever we can, and take care of their children. Thanks to these residents and support from their care homes, we’re awaiting results from a final set of tests for our Ebola cure project.’

  A sharp prickle of pain pulsated through my knuckles. When I looked down, I realised I had been sinking my nails in the leather couch all along – an involuntary reflex to the preposterous narrative I was hearing. ‘If women from these care homes are being impregnated for such a noble cause, why are they being sterilised?’ I demanded.

  The twitch in Bradshaw’s eyes was a dead giveaway that he had caught on to the note of sarcasm in my voice.

  ‘We cannot have the same woman get pregnant more than once. In many cases, another pregnancy would be life-threatening,’ he answered in a tone that reflected amusement at my lack of ability to understand what he thought was ridiculously obvious.