Pretty Little Packages

by Andrew Crofts

  ‘What about this Joe guy?’ Max was obviously fighting to keep a grip on reality. Whatever chemicals he had filled himself with were gradually seeping into his brain, making logical thought harder to grasp.

  ‘Leave him to me,’ Maisie said. ‘I have an address. And you pull yourself together bloody quick or shit will hit everywhere. Understand?’

  Max let out another guttural sound which suggested to Maisie it would be an hour or two before he started making sense again. She hung up angrily.

  ‘How come you’re such a little creep then?’ the fat boy asked, and his two sidekicks sniggered.

  ‘Get lost,’ Hugo replied, concentrating on trying to make his football bootlaces join in some semblance of a bow. He was anxious to escape from the changing room as fast as possible. He was always getting into trouble for being the last to get anywhere, and the rest of the team had disappeared some time ago. The fat boy and his friends were now the only other people in the changing room and they were in no hurry. They were off games.

  The more Hugo struggled with the laces, the more stubborn they became. He would have liked to have gone out with them trailing in the mud, but he had been in trouble for that several times as well. He couldn’t understand how everyone else found it so easy to get changed in the allotted time. It seemed an impossibility to him.

  ‘I think Creepy Tye-Dye needs a little help with his boots,’ the fat boy sneered.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Hugo responded, adamantly.

  ‘Don’t argue with me, Tye-Dye!’ The fat boy showered him with indignant spittle. ‘Hold his arms while I “help” the little baby who can’t do up his own laces.’

  The other boys grabbed Hugo’s arms and gripped him painfully. Hugo kicked as hard and as fast as he could, as if pedalling an imaginary bicycle. He caught the fat boy in the stomach and between his legs, knocking the wind out of him and making him squawk.

  ‘You gay little bastard!’ the red-faced bully screamed, frantically snatching at the flailing legs and ripping both badly laced boots off his feet.

  ‘Let’s go!’ he shouted to his companions and the three of them ran out of the room, bearing their trophies with them.

  Hugo sat for a moment in the silent changing room, catching his breath and staring at his bootless feet. His socks had unravelled down around his ankles. He wondered if he should borrow someone else’s boots, just in order to get himself out onto the pitch and to avoid further trouble with the teachers. He decided that would be stealing.

  After a few moments, when his heart had stopped thumping, he stood up and wearily changed back into his school uniform. He rummaged through his pockets to check how much money he had left from what his mother had given him before he left London. It seemed like enough. Opening his locker he pulled out a kitbag and checked that it contained his maps and train timetables. Satisfied, he snapped the locker door shut and slung the bag over his shoulder.

  He made his way out of the changing room and crossed the playground outside quickly, diving into the woods which surrounded the grounds. Once out of sight of the school he hummed cheerfully to himself.

  As Joe, Rod and Angus sped down the motorway towards Brighton in Rod’s car, Hugo was sitting on a train going in the opposite direction. He had bought himself an Internet magazine and was deeply absorbed in his reading as the countryside sped by outside the window.

  The three men in the car were equally absorbed in their own silent thoughts. They were relieved to have got out of the flat in Gloucester Place, where they had been all morning, helping to clear up. They had done as much of the heavy work as they could, and had then started to get on the women’s nerves.

  ‘For God’s sake, you three,’ Cordelia had exploded eventually. ‘If you can’t do anything useful then go and find the girls in Brighton.’

  ‘I think we should be here with you,’ Joe said, doubtfully. ‘What if the heavies turn up again?’

  ‘We can look after ourselves,’ Cordelia assured him. ‘Can’t we ladies?’

  The others had agreed with loud bravado, although they looked a little more half-hearted than Cordelia. Two new Filipino girls had already arrived, after urgent calls from Doris, and more were expected to turn up through the morning and afternoon.

  When the BMW reached the outskirts of Brighton, Joe started to give instructions for Ditchling Avenue. Rod parked the car a few doors away from number forty-two and they sat for a minute, watching the street. An elderly woman came past, walking her dog. A group of young people appeared at the far end of the street and strolled towards number forty-two. They looked around furtively and then sauntered up the steps. One of them rang the bell and knocked, while the others darted looks up and down the street.

  ‘Seems like they aren’t open for business,’ Rod said.

  ‘Maybe they’ve already cleared out,’ Joe suggested.

  ‘Or maybe Max is already tracking down the Dorises,’ Angus added.

  They watched as the youths continued trying to attract someone’s attention in the house. Eventually they shrugged at one another and wandered off. The street was now completely empty of people.

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ Rod suggested.

  He and Joe climbed out of the car and Angus struggled to clamber through from the back seat, tripping over the front seat-belt as he went and sprawling onto the pavement.

  ‘That’s inconspicuous,’ Rod commented as Angus stood up, dusted himself off and joined them for the short walk to the front door. Rod led them past the steps to the gate at the side of the house. He opened it. It was unlocked, and they simply sauntered through. The alleyway at the side of house was green with moss. Water ran down the walls from leaking gutters and overflow pipes. There was a high fence between them and the alley for the next house. As they reached the corner of the building they paused.

  The small garden behind was a jungle of weeds and junk. A bicycle, which someone seemed to have been trying to dismantle, lay next to a discarded bathroom suite. There were boxes of old newspapers which had become sodden and turned to solid grey lumps. Rod had his back to the wall of the house – just like in all the police television programmes, Angus thought. Rod edged round the corner to peer in at the window. The kitchen was empty. The patio doors leading out onto the garden were cheap replacements. Rod produced a screwdriver from his inside pocket, inserted it into the crack of the door and levered it sharply. Whatever lock he had found gave way without resistance and he slid the ill-fitting door open. They silently made their way in.

  The table on which Joe had seen various of the inhabitants sitting during his last visit, was covered with discarded wrappers from fast-food outlets. There were saucers piled high with ash and cigarette ends, next to clusters of unwashed mugs. A stale odour hung over everything.

  Joe took the lead and made his way cautiously up the grubby stairs to the first floor. The house appeared to be empty. As they tiptoed across the hall, the silent air was shattered by an explosion of ringing and banging on the front door. It seemed there were more customers in search of Max. The three men froze where they were and waited. They could hear voices outside. There was more ringing and banging and then the voices faded.

  Joe moved on, peering cautiously into the first room which was full of mattresses. It was a few seconds before he saw Max, since the man was sitting so still amongst the tangle of blankets, sleeping bags and rubbish. He was naked but his assortment of tattoos had made him merge into the background.

  His eyes were open and he was rocking back and forth very slowly, playing with a huge erection. Joe froze, waiting for Max to say something or make the first move. The ugly eyes were fixed on him, but didn’t seem to be able to see anything.

  Rod and Angus were standing beside him now, all three of them staring at the scene.

  ‘This is the man?’ Rod asked.

  ‘That’s him,’ Joe confirmed.

  ‘Jesus. Looks like he’s having an interesting time.’

  ‘Maximilian?’ Angus stepped in front
of them. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Maximilian?’ Rod repeated. ‘You know this guy?’

  ‘I used to,’ Angus said. ‘Intimately. In fact, if you turn him over and look at his buttock, I believe you’ll find my name there, on a four-leaf clover.’

  ‘I think I’m happy to take your word for that,’ Rod said.

  ‘I used to come to Brighton a lot when I was younger,’ Angus said, as if that explained everything.

  ‘Kinda rough trade isn’t he?’ Joe suggested.

  Angus didn’t reply.

  ‘He’s not going to be bothering anyone for a few hours,’ Rod said. ‘Let’s check the rest of the house.’

  They made their way systematically through the house, searching each room as they went. There was no one else there.

  ‘This was Doris’ room,’ Joe said as they reached the top. ‘The one she escaped from.’

  ‘Let’s have a look, then,’ Rod said, pulling back the bolt on the red door.

  There was hardly any light inside the room, the broken skylight having been blocked up with a piece of wood which had already grown sodden from rain. There was a rat-like scuffle of movement and the three men drew back quickly. No one jumped out at them and the room fell silent once more. Rod cautiously pushed the door further open and the light from the passage fell onto a huddled group of bruised and frightened faces.

  Joe guessed they were the same three girls he had seen coming through Heathrow a few days before. But they were no longer the jaunty, giggling little adventuresses. Now they looked more like refugees crushed into the back of some boat or lorry.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘We’ve come to get you out.’

  One of the girls started to cry. Without their strutting bravado they looked more like children than women. As they emerged into the light it was easy to see that they were still carrying Chris Rose’s packages inside them, their kilo-sized breasts hanging uncomfortably from their skinny little frames. The T-shirts they had worn so proudly at Manila Airport were stained, and their skirts torn.

  The extent of their bruises became more obvious in the light. One of them must have been punched in the mouth because her lips were swollen in a grotesque parody of a pout. Another had a vicious slash of dried blood down the side of her face, as if she had been cut by a knife or razor. They looked at the men with wide, frightened eyes, as if expecting to be hit again.

  ‘Come on,’ Rod said. ‘Let’s get out of here before Angus’ chum comes down from whatever planet he’s visiting, or some of his troops arrive.’

  With the girls in tow, he led the way back down the stairs, pausing at each corner to check there wasn’t anyone waiting to ambush them. When they reached the hall they made a dash for the front door and the girls started to scream. Max was stumbling out of the room where he had been crouched earlier. His eyes seemed to be spinning in his head.

  Rod tore open the front door and the girls ran out. A group of white youths, all sporting matted dreadlocks, were making their way up the steps. Max lurched towards the door, his erection swinging in front of him. The youths looked shocked and then started to laugh as Rod, Joe and Angus followed the girls down the steps.

  ‘This way,’ Joe shouted and they headed to the car. Angus climbed into the back seat and the three girls crawled in on top of him. Joe managed to get into the front passenger seat, with the door still hanging open as Rod hit the accelerator and they sped off down the street. The boys had let themselves into the house and closed the door behind them.

  Once the men had left for Brighton, Cordelia, Annie and the growing band of Filipinos had set about the flat in Gloucester Place like an army of invading charladies. They had stopped off at the supermarket on the way over and armed themselves with every possible brand of cleaning liquid, mops, brushes, buckets, scourers and a dozen pairs of rubber gloves.

  As the others set to work in the foul-smelling rooms, Doris had got out the fluorescent green, fur-covered book in which she kept all her telephone numbers, and continued calling the girls she hadn’t already reached. She was feeling increasingly agitated about all the girls who she knew Max could hunt down if he wanted to. She knew that none of them would have found such a supportive group of friends as she had. They would all be out there on their own.

  Throughout the afternoon more and more girls appeared at the door to the flat as the dirt and chaos yielded to their ferocious attack. At three o’clock Rod, Joe and Angus arrived back from Brighton with their girls.

  Joe’s phone rang just as Cordelia was explaining to Rod and Angus what she wanted them to do next.

  It was Adele on the line. ‘Sunday International want you to go down to their offices and make the call to Martin this afternoon,’ she said.

  ‘Okay,’ he replied. ‘Tell them I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  When Hugo arrived at Victoria Station he pulled out his A to Z and opened it on the page he had marked. Squinting up at the street names, he located where he was on the map. Hitching his bag back onto his shoulder, he set off to follow the route he had worked out for himself on the train. He had a look of extreme determination on his small face.

  The walk to Earls Court took him the best part of an hour. He was feeling both hungry and thirsty by the time he reached the block of flats in Bramham Gardens, but he didn’t have any money left to buy anything. He began to imagine how his father would greet him. He knew Joe would be cross to start with. But then he would soften up and ask Hugo if he had eaten anything. Hugo began to picture himself with a Big Mac, large fries and an even larger Coke, munching happily as his father told him once again how unwise it was to be wandering around London on his own.

  The street door to the block was standing ajar, the spring not strong enough to push itself the final inch to lock, so he didn’t have to buzz himself up on the intercom. He pushed his way in and let the door close under its own steam again as he went to the lift. Once again it didn’t quite have the strength to click shut.

  When the lift deposited him on the top floor he pressed the front door bell to the flat.

  The accountant who occupied the other room had come home early from work. Unusually for him, he had taken the afternoon off. Finding himself the only person in the flat for once, he decided to take a long, leisurely bath. He had a date that night and he wanted to look his best. He had just lowered himself into the bath and picked up his book when he heard the bell. As he wasn’t expecting anyone, he decided to ignore it. Everyone else in the flat always seemed to have such active social lives. He was fed up with taking messages and answering the door for them when he had just got home from a hard day’s work. As far as he could see they all just lounged around the flat all day anyway. He continued to read his book.

  Hugo pressed the bell again and then sat down on the floor to wait. He was disappointed. He wasn’t just hungry and thirsty, he was also tired and feeling just a little in need of a hug from his father.

  He heard the lift clicking into life and descending to pick someone up. There was a clanking of doors from one of the lower floors and then the mechanism started to haul the lift back up towards the top floor once more. Hugo’s hopes lifted. Perhaps this was his father coming home. Or, if not, he hoped it would be Cordelia or Annie or Angus. He thought about standing up to greet whoever it was, but his legs were too tired.

  The lift gates were pushed open and two slender legs in neat high heels clicked out in front of him. He looked up beyond the short skirt and expensive silk blouse and found himself gazing directly into Maisie’s expressionless eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ she said after a moment’s pause.

  ‘Hello,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think anyone’s in. Have you come to see my Dad?’

  She held out her hand and smiled. ‘My name’s Maisie.’

  ‘How do you do.’ Hugo solemnly shook the hand which wasn’t much bigger than his own. ‘I’m Hugo Tye.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maisie lied without a blink. ‘I know.’

  ‘How do y
ou know?’ Hugo asked, interestedly.

  ‘Your father sent me to come and find you.’

  ‘How did he know I would be here?’ Hugo was amazed. Maisie hesitated for a second. ‘Did the school ring him already?’

  ‘I guess,’ she said. ‘He asked me to look after you until he’s free.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ Hugo said. ‘I’m quite hungry actually.’

  ‘What do you want to eat?’ Maisie asked, her usual snappy manner beginning to return.

  ‘McDonalds?’ Hugo enquired hopefully.

  ‘Sure. Let’s go.’

  Hugo was pleased to see she seemed to be in as much of a hurry as he was to get to some food. Outside the block she walked briskly to a yellow Mercedes SLK with a personalised number plate, MM 2.

  ‘My husband has MM 1,’ Maisie explained as she saw Hugo’s eyes resting on the plate.

  ‘Cool car,’ Hugo said with genuine admiration.

  ‘Sure,’ Maisie shrugged and flicked open the locks to let him in. She was anxious to put some distance between them and Earls Court, while she thought how to make use of this unexpected windfall.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘Mr Martin?’ Joe was startled to get through to the man himself so easily. The editor, who was sitting beside him with headphones on, had said this number was direct, but Joe had still imagined he would have to go through a secretary or some other screening process.

  ‘Who’s speaking?’ Martin’s voice was patrician without being educated. He sounded like a man who was used to being listened to.

  ‘My name’s John Weston. I’m a writer and I’m doing a piece on the international movement of labour in the modern world.’

  ‘Are you sure you have the right number, Mr Weston?’ Martin growled.

  ‘Well,’ Joe continued, determined not to be intimidated, ‘I’ve been looking into the popularity of Filipino maids worldwide, trying to explain the phenomenon.’

  ‘I don’t think you have the right number, Mr Weston.’