Katerina turned her head, attempting to work out if he was accusing her of fabricating her act. ‘It’s no trick, I assure you.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that and certainly didn’t intend to imply offence. I mean, maybe one day I won’t be quick enough when needed. Maybe things will, you know, go bad.’ Ferry bundled the paper noisily into a fist. ‘I’m not young you know. I wouldn’t want anybody here to come to harm. The amount she sneaks off at night … it’s just not safe. I can’t be everywhere.’
‘Why, Ferry, if I didn’t know better I would say that you’ve grown fond of us.’ Katerina chuckled, quite charmed at the revelation. His appearance of an off-putting grump did little to make him approachable to the others. He relinquished a smile beneath his beard.
‘Don’t tell the others. I wouldn’t want my reputation to be tarnished,’ he hurriedly amended, ‘and make sure Misu doesn’t find out neither. I would never hear the end of it.’
Chapter 8
Red run route
Misu stood quite thoughtfully in her private carriage staring at a double wardrobe. While this may be unusual behaviour to most, or to a casual observer she may simply be deciding what to wear, she was instead indulging in deep thought. Seconds beforehand, she had checked the end carriage door was locked, twice in fact, and had thrown its key onto a nearby writing desk with a clatter.
Nervously, retrieving a new key from beneath one of her gleaming satin pillows, she unlocked the full-length wardrobe, hauling back each door in turn. Pinned to the inside of the left door was a map of the region, pitted and ripped through wear, fixed to the surface with heavy nails. Then, with a ruler and red pencil in hand, she began her work. Paths were plotted. Routes assessed over and over.
After numerous traces of her red pencil, following each variation with calculations beside them, she ringed a two-digit number multiple times before underlying it for good measure. Checking the route again, she stared at the number fifteen, driven into the map, just on its edge and with a surprising degree of urgency.
Fifteen …
Misu paced the floor once again. The numbers came up correct after the third successive check. They were right, but not agreeable. She had fifteen days in total – fifteen days to make the drops demanded of her, over miles and miles of desert wasteland fraught with danger. Sure, there was some leeway but even still, this was going to be tighter than she would wish. The red strikes curved across the map, crossing their venture through canyon, past mountain range and dotted settlement. Passing some of the surrounding territories was perilous. A few were almost totally bandit controlled. This was nothing short of a desperate race.
Misu finally noticed that she had rolled the pencil between her teeth, nipping into the wood until it had become pitted beyond recognition. Only one thing swallowed her thoughts completely: a single, desperate question.
The whereabouts of Franco Del Monaire.
* * *
The table was laid out impeccably, situated before a private booth for the exclusive use of a private man. He sat there, making his way through a four-course meal, chubby fingers carving and scraping at his meal. Occasionally he sipped from a wine glass, filled with something quite exotic and out of the reach of common people, just because he could. He placed the glass upon its coaster and dabbed his lips with a napkin upon witnessing an approaching interruption.
‘I got told you wanted to see me,’ she said.
Wilheim had watched the woman saunter over. She was clearly in no mood to be summoned by him, a moot point considering there was not one person he couldn’t demand the presence of. Everybody complied as they were fully aware of the consequences if they did not.
‘Misu. If you would join me.’ He indicated the chair opposite.
‘I don’t exactly have time for lunch, Wilheim. I have plenty to do.’ She slanted her hips in annoyance.
‘Nonsense. I dictate how much time you have and I say you have plenty enough to join me. Sit. I insist.’
Misu took to the chair, looking over the fine meal. Everything was positioned so perfectly that it could have resembled a painting. From the glass half full of port, to the shimmering silverware laid out for the course that followed. Even the medium-rare steak he cut seemed to restrain the amount of red that oozed upon the plate to keep things picture-perfect. The silver knife slid once more through seared meat, almost unchallenged.
‘Would you like anything?’ he offered.
‘An excuse to leave?’
He briefly smiled, his jowls shifting upward momentarily before returning to their usual, resigned, position. ‘Very amusing. Yes, very amusing indeed – I do enjoy your candour but you are in danger of having it grate. How goes our latest batch?’ he queried, taking the steak to his mouth.
‘Batch.’ Misu leant back in her chair, repeating his callous description of the women. ‘They’re people, Wilheim. Just girls mostly. If you’re going to shuffle them around like cattle at least have the decency to call them what they actually are.’
‘You’re not gaining a conscience, surely?’
‘Please. You’re engaging in literal slavery. I would just prefer it if you had the grace to refer to them as people. Not stock.’
Misu looked to the waiter, who stood ready to spring to attention at the word of their mutual boss. He stared straight ahead, quite used to disregarding all conversation or events that transpired at the table. He was there to serve Wilheim: as were they all. Despite Misu surveying every part of him, his eyes never moved from their fixed position. Misu withdrew a cigarette and set it aflame via the glass-surrounded candle in the table’s centre.
‘In answer to your question there’s very little – what you would call – quality among them. You should talk to the suppliers: it seems to decline each time. I put it down to those acquiring the women as being needlessly rough.’
‘That’s never been a concern before.’
‘Yes, but we’ve been through this. If you want a quicker turnaround with the girls you drag on through these doors, I either need more time or more help. Either one would be golden.’
‘I heard that you were having difficulties. People are talking about a couple of the girls being, well, unruly. I don’t appreciate discord among the ranks. I appreciate it being public knowledge even less.’
She tapped the cigarette against the glass candle holder to relinquish its ash. ‘Whoever you’ve been listening to is –’
He cut her off mid-sentence. ‘Do you know why I decided to bring you into my employ?’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘You impressed me. You are a resourceful woman Misu. Whenever you are challenged there are limitless lengths that you pursue to achieve your goals. Or – and let me be more specific about this – to please me.’ Wilheim patiently chewed upon a cube of steak. When he finished his mouthful he eased the knife back into the slab of meat almost surgically. ‘You consider me callous, but I put this to you: what I offer is a service. Downtrodden women are brought to me with the opportunity of a new life. A better life. Do you know what would happen to these women you accommodate if I didn’t welcome them with open arms?’
Misu shook her head tenderly. He took another piece and savoured it.
‘They would die. By violence, by poverty, by the workhouses, vices possibly, various ways no doubt, the details numerous and heartbreaking but perish they surely would. I give them a second chance at a decent life. I’m providing them mercy. Now, sure, after you’re done with them they may still meet their deaths afterwards post sale, but a second chance is a second chance. It’s far from my concern if they squander it.’
Misu cautiously took a draw, snorting the smoke through her nostrils. The cigarette twirled in her fingers in agitation. ‘How does this relate to me?’
He answered through the haze. ‘Because this resourcefulness keeps you in my favour. I know that whatever hurdles you need to cross with our new stock, you’ll find the means to overcome them. Though, as my generosity knows no bounds, u
se this to corral the more troublesome individuals into compliance.’ He took a small paper packet from his breast pocket and placed it between them. Misu raised an eyebrow in scepticism.
‘What is this exactly?’
‘A solution.’
She fingered open the envelope and snapped it shut immediately. ‘Solution, nothing. You want me to drug them. Care to clarify exactly why you wish me to resort to this?’
‘I expect you to do what I pay you to do: control the girls. Make them suitable for sale. If one is getting out of line, use that to rectify their behaviour. That there is just a means to an end. I trust you’re not getting squeamish on me?’
‘Don’t insult me, Wilheim. You know me better than that.’
‘Insult, nothing. I’m just asking a genuine question. You wouldn’t be the first to get cold feet. Would you rather be one of the girls you look after? It’s not too late to go back.’ Wilheim’s plate squeaked as his knife met the crockery. ‘You’ve been elevated past your station, Misu. Don’t fall now.’
Misu took the packet, puffing her cigarette to a stump. She eyed it suspiciously, opening its edge to peer at the contents.
‘We’re done,’ Wilheim decided, gesturing with his fork for her to leave.
And so she did.
* * *
The Lavender Club, just one of the businesses in Wilheim’s considerable portfolio, thrived with normal day-to-day trade. The bar was heaving with regulars, where shady deals were made and unmade over drinks and whilst they also relished the thought of witnessing the entertainment, they were left wanting.
Misu walked up to the stage before the dance floor and to the dressing rooms behind. As soon as she entered, a group of women conversing in front of a wall-length mirror turned in unison. Some patted their faces and bodies with make-up to hide the most recent bruises. Some adjusted their costumes – skimpy, sequined affairs mostly. Some rebalanced a headdress. Not one among them spoke.
They observed with caution as Misu looked up and down the line of bodies. As usual, one was missing. As usual, the troublemaker had decided to forgo her responsibilities.
‘Where is she?’ Misu demanded, double-checking to ensure she wasn’t huddled behind a rack of props. Nobody spoke up so Misu raised her voice sharply. ‘I said –’
‘Out the back,’ one of the women offered meekly, leaning back into the line of bodies quickly to avoid any further interaction.
‘Where she usually is,’ someone else humbly replied before adding a pinch of spite, ‘where Donovan usually leaves her: tossed in the trash. Where we’ll all end up someday.’
Misu followed the sniffling down the cramped alleyway, cluttered with refuse bags, pallets, boxes, and anything else that warranted being thrown outside and forgotten. It all formed a makeshift jungle of wood and waste – impossible to traverse and even if one could, a ten-foot-high chain-link fence stopped any ambitions of escape.
At her feet lay a woman, still bruised by Donovan’s handling of her. That asshole couldn’t wait to hurt someone, like most of Wilheim’s muscle. He had no doubt been told to intervene when this little one stepped out of place. A disturbingly regular occurrence. Her final days would be deeply unpleasant at this rate, climaxing with being cut to ribbons or whatever twisted indulgence Donovan could find in the blackness of his soul.
Misu had intended to order her back to work. Drinks needed serving. Patrons needed entertaining. Duties needed to be fulfilled and no amount of crying was going to relieve her of that or anything else.
Misu recalled what it was like to feel so desperate. It wasn’t too long ago that this had been her. Alone. Distraught. Bawling at the bottom of a shower cubicle or huddled somewhere, her own secret place to scream and shout at this injustice. That was, until she made a decision to change all that. Before she refused to be a victim, she decided to stand tall and did so on upon the backs of others.
It’s why she had gestated a plan to escape.
It had taken months to work out the details, acquire the contacts and all of the little things involved that made up this daring proposal. As complete as the plan was, there was a need for something else, a position that Corinne could fill but it would have to be willingly.
‘Get up,’ Misu demanded along with a prod from her shoe.
The woman shuffled upon the bags of refuse, curling herself into a ball, a makeshift cocoon to weather everything else around her. Her skirt and blouse were dogged with patches of filth. More alarming were the angry red welts that dotted her arms and face. She whined in pain and frustration.
‘Leave me to bloody die here. I deserve a little kindness after what you’ve put me through.’
‘Corinne, get up. I mean it.’
‘No.’
‘You mistake what I said for a choice. It wasn’t.’
‘I can’t take this, do you understand? I don’t want to be a part of this circus of disgust! You’re evil – you’re all evil.’ She sobbed uncontrollably between her hands. ‘What you’re doing to us, it’s so wrong and you’re helping them? How can you … how can you even tolerate looking at yourself in the mirror?’
This prompted a response that was just as unexpected as it was explosive. Misu reached out and took two fistfuls of Corinne’s dirtied blouse, yanking her upward, hard.
‘On your feet. I said get up!’
Corinne winced as she was hauled to stand after a couple of clumsy attempts caused her legs to buckle.
‘Listen to me. I’m the closest thing you have to a friend here. I know how bad things are. I am telling you, if you don’t soon fall into line, Wilheim will have you killed. Don’t think you’re special, don’t think you’re some gilded exception who can escape his wrath. He will straight-up take your life and go back to what he was doing without a care. You are as disposable as they come. You are as easy to toss away as bad food. Understand that.’
Corinne’s teeth rattled together, a line of mucus edging further and further from a nostril. Misu’s fingers relaxed around her blouse, letting it fall back into place.
‘But …’ Misu glanced around her to make sure they weren’t being watched. If there was any time when she was going to put her plan into motion it was there. There were plenty risks associated with it and should she be caught then the repercussions didn’t bear thinking of. Misu needed to get away. It was only a matter of time before Wilheim would turn on her and she would be damned if she was going to be found dead in a ditch, that is if she was found at all.
Yes, what this plan needed was something additional, a contingency. If she got caught, what she needed was a scapegoat. A patsy for the repercussions. Corinne fitted that role nicely. ‘But I can change that. I can … I can provide a solution. For you. For both of us.’
Corinne sniffed loudly, hanging on the words.
‘You have to listen to me and follow my exact words. None of this talking out of turn that you’re fond of. No instigating trouble. If you do that then I can make things better. A lot better. You’ll have to trust me even if what I say is crazy, even if it goes against your better judgement. I’ll be your conscience and in doing so, I can make all this go away.’
Corinne wheezed until her breath became steady once more. Misu checked around them again, patting the woman’s cheek to ensure she was her whole world at that exact moment.
‘Do you want it all to go away, Corinne? Because I tell you, I’ve been planning to get out of here since long before you turned up and it’s a sure thing. I can set you free. Don’t you want all these cruel things subjected upon your person to stop?’
She nodded energetically.
‘Then we’ll do this together. Can you trust me? Can you do that one little thing?’
Again she nodded. Misu blew the nerves from her cheeks, reaching inside her pocket. She withdrew a crumpled paper bag and offered it out. Corinne shakily reached inside, her fingers pinched around a sprig of plant, dried and rust red in colour.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
Mi
su spoke with utter resolve, knowing that there was no turning back now. Wheels had begun to turn for better or worse. She was through being a slave to Wilheim. This would be the perfect escape from his clutches.
‘Trust. Me,’ Misu repeated coldly.
From that moment on, Corinne did just that.
* * *
Reality snapped into focus as the carriage rocked sharply. With a dry breath she wiped her eyes to remove any hint of rogue emotion. Why spend time daydreaming? Nothing good could come from it. Push it all back down and lock it away for a time when such things could be indulged in. There was a job to do and all this was time wasting.
Six more stops. Six more.
With her plan made and job now done, Misu locked the wardrobe back up, concealing the secret map once more. Placing the key back beneath the pillow, she took to her writing desk and lingered momentarily in thought before her typewriter. Finally she reached into the drawer, nudging aside the packet of Red Root she had recovered, an envelope of hair, and took a piece of paper from the top of an identical stack in her possession.
It was fed into the typewriter slowly before her fingers worked the keys, each letter stamping its likeness upon the document in a noisy dance. When completed it was withdrawn with a turn of the carriage knob and blown to let the ink set. Next, a brass stamp was withdrawn along with an inkpad to deliver the finishing touches for authenticity. The Post Haste Communications seal was evenly eased upon the telegram’s face to ensure an equal covering. When this was set sufficiently, the telegram was folded into an inconspicuous envelope and stored upon her person.
Misu was content that these were secrets well kept, or at least they had been, until this very moment.
* * *
Through one of the locked carriage doors, an eye pressed to the keyhole. Elizabeth spied on her manager, witnessing every moment of this. It was not easy to do, with the carriage rocking and sand dusting the air, but enough for her suspicions to be confirmed. It was the evidence that she needed to prove that something was amiss. Every hunch that they had was correct. She had been right to be sceptical of things. Something important was being kept from them – all of them – and now Elizabeth had the evidence to prove it.
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