He creaks back down the stairs. The bedroom door is still closed. He uses the bathroom, splashes his face, rinses his mouth, the Listerine reacting so aggressively with the taste of Scotch it makes him retch. He listens at the boys’ doors, silence from both, thank God. Did they hear Vivienne shouting?
Downstairs he puts on his coat, waits in the hall, keys in hand. Marta follows a few moments later, a fat carrier bag in her hand. He hands her her red jacket and watches as she pushes her bare feet into a pair of trainers, tiny like kids’ shoes. He remembers Vivienne and Marta coming back from their shopping trip, the girl so thrilled with the pink and white plastic shoes, taking them out of their box as if they were treasure as Vivienne glowed with beneficence.
He opens the front door and she steps out first. It’s a cold, clear night; the air smells fresh and raw. In silence they walk down the road and get into the car. Before they speak he starts the engine. As they pass the house, he peers up to see the corner of the bedroom curtain lift, the silhouette of Vivienne’s head. She will think, oh Jesus knows; let her think what she will think. Later he will sort it out. He drives for only five minutes, finds a space and parks.
‘So,’ he begins, but it takes him a moment to continue. Magnolia blossoms reach over a garden wall towards them like cupped hands, glowing waxy white.
‘So?’ she says.
‘I’m taking you to the police.’
‘No!’ She begins to scrabble with the door; he leans across and catches her hand. He presses her back into the seat. She shrinks away from him, eyes huge in a shaft of street light, gives a little moan of fear.
‘Marta!’ He’s shocked. Surely she isn’t afraid of him? ‘Will you listen?’
She contracts further down into the seat; the plastic jacket shines as if it’s wet. He can’t see her face, only the massy hair. He can smell apples from the shampoo Vivienne uses on the boys.
‘British police are not like Romanian police. They will help.’ As he speaks he cringes at the sound of himself.
‘But—’
‘Shhh. I’m going to take you near the police station and leave you there. You walk in and say you were held prisoner by Mr Chapman and you ran away.’
‘But my family!’ Her voice is shrill with panic. ‘If I go to the police they’ll be in danger.’
‘Trust me, Marta, they’ll be OK. Do you believe me?’
No answer.
‘Do you know the name of the man in Romania?’
A tiny nod.
‘Of course, it may not be his real name,’ Mats says, ‘but it might help. You must tell the police everything. About everyone who is involved. Nobody will hurt you or your family. I promise,’ he adds.
She peeks sideways at him; he hears the scrabble of her teeth on her fingernails. ‘How you, how do you know?’
They sit in silence. A couple lurch by, arm in arm, she’s laughing up into his face, a bright bag swinging at her hip. Of course, he doesn’t know for sure, but at least Chapman is no longer a danger.
‘Think of the other girls,’ he says, and is startled by a thin animal whimper. He puts out a hand to comfort her, but she recoils from it. ‘Be brave,’ he says.
She might nod, give a tiny sound of assent, he can’t be sure, but he starts the engine again and begins the drive into town. He parks a five-minute walk from the Police Station.
‘I do not like police,’ she says. ‘I am an illegal immigrant.’
‘Ask for a female officer,’ he says, wondering if it’s naïve of him, after all he knows of women, to think this might mean more sympathy, a gentler handling.
‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ he says. ‘Remember that.’
She puts her hand into her bag and brings out a piece of newspaper. She unfolds it and hands it to him. He has to click the interior light on to see. Sheriff Resigns after Judicial Leniency Questioned reads the headline.
‘What?’ he says.
‘This man.’ She points at a photo. ‘This man, I think he is a bad man who knows . . .’ She stops and he can hear the gritting of her teeth. ‘I think he knew Ratman. I think he is the man who hurt me. Maybe he hurt my friend. Maybe even he killed her. I think so.’
Mats peers harder at the photo: an elderly bearded man in a suit. He looks harmless, but who ever can tell?
‘Are you sure?’
She shakes her head. ‘But I think it. Shall I show them this?’ She takes back the tatty scrap, folds it carefully and puts it in her pocket.
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Marta, I really don’t know.’
He listens to her breath, shallow and fast. ‘I’m scared,’ she says. He turns away from her, tightens his hands round the steering wheel to prevent himself from taking her in his arms.
‘Be brave,’ he says, ‘for other girls. For your little sister,’ he adds, feeling a tug of unworthiness. He senses her stiffen. She was only telling them about her sister the other day; a girl who can sing and dance, turn one-handed cartwheels.
‘OK,’ she whispers.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good girl.’ So condescending, some women would slap him, yet she flicks him a quick look, pleased, fearful. ‘Marta,’ he says. ‘I have no right to ask this, but I’d be so,’ he swallows hard, ‘so incredibly grateful if you didn’t mention me.’
She shakes her head. Does that mean yes or no?
‘It’s just with the kids and—’
‘Of course I will not mention you.’ Her voice has firmed up. ‘You are sure my family will be safe?’ she says. ‘You promise?’
‘As sure as I can be. Safer if they catch the man that brought you here, don’t you think?’
She regards him with her head on one side. ‘OK,’ she decides. She unclicks her seatbelt and reaches to the door.
‘Straight up the main road.’ He points towards the building.
She gets out and slams the door. He watches her walk along, a tiny figure with a bulky carrier bag, hair like choppy waves. There she goes. Of course, she might reveal his name. And if so, it will all unravel, the messy tangle his life’s become; it will unravel and he’ll lose everything. Maybe go down for murder.
He watches her small figure approach the police station, watches her swallowed by the light.
Marta
Marta pushes open the door. The light is flat and white and there’s a sour smell of old coffee and smoke.
‘Can I help you, love?’ A policewoman speaks from behind a desk.
There’s a biro mark on her cheek and smudges of mascara under both eyes. When she smiles her face crinkles tiredly.
Marta swallows, looks over her shoulder at the door. Could she still run?
‘What can I do for you?’ The policewoman tilts her head. ‘Are you OK, love. You look a bit—’
Marta forces a breath in. ‘I am illegal immigrant,’ she says, too loudly. ‘An illegal immigrant and I have been forced to be prostitute and I know the girl who is dead.’
‘Whoa!’ The policewoman’s mouth has fallen open but she gathers herself quickly. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘You’ll need to see the duty officer. She pushes a list of names and a pen towards Marta. ‘Put your name here and I’ll take you through.’
With a sweaty hand, Marta signs her name, her own full name, with a pen tied to a string, a pen that has nearly run out and writes in blots.
‘This way.’ The woman leads her into a small room with red plastic chairs. ‘You sit your wee self down.’
Obediently, Marta sits. The chair is sticky; she moves to another. On the walls are posters about drugs and numbers to ring for help. The grey floor tiles are swirled like marble but are not marble; some of them are broken with dirt seamed in-between. Marta bites her thumb till it hurts.
The room has a window down one side looking out onto a corridor with doors. A couple of poli
cemen walk past, hats under their arms; they glance in without interest.
One of the doors opens and man steps out, no uniform, a man she . . . She snatches her thumb from her mouth as their eyes meet and electricity shoots through her. Her heart is sudden thunder.
It’s Mr Smith. Is it?
He closes his door. The policewoman puts her head in. ‘Sorry for the wait,’ she says. ‘ Shouldn’t be long. Cup of tea?’
Marta shakes her head. Through the glass she watches the man’s door open again. He steps out, walks along the corridor and comes into the room behind her. Marta stands, chair scraping the floor.
‘What have we here?’ he says. ‘I’ll see to this Tina.’
‘But I was going to get Steve—’
‘No problem. Come with me Miss . . .’ Mr Smith beckons and Marta stands. He leads her back along the corridor to his office. On the door it says Chief Inspector Malcolm Rollinson. As he ushers her into his room, she hears him say, ‘Don’t worry, I know this poor unfortunate lassie, she’s a bit . . .’ and maybe he mouths something or makes a gesture. Marta can’t see.
He shuts the door, asks her to sit. Drawing up a chair, he settles in front of the desk, so close to her that their knees are almost touching. Big solid knees under thick navy-blue cloth. His hands are rough and bony; his wedding band shines.
‘Mr Smith,’ she mutters.
‘Sorry?’ He cups his hand against his ear as if he hasn’t heard.
‘Mr Smith,’ she says again.
‘Ha!’ He sounds amused. ‘Mr Smith?’
She looks up into his face. His mouth is like a pencil line drawn on wood. His chin is square. His eyes are narrow and the colour of mud. On his nose are shiny red dents where glasses have been. Now she’s staring right at him she isn’t so sure.
‘So what’s the problem?’ he says. ‘What brings you here?’
Her mouth opens dryly.
‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Haven’t got all night.’
Is it him? He always wore a hat and shades before. His chin is the same, his mouth. She never heard his voice.
Watching his face, she speaks slowly, telling him everything, finding her English slipping under his scrutiny. She doesn’t mention Mats. And she doesn’t mention the man called Mr Smith. And she doesn’t cry when she talks about Alis. As he listens his expression betrays nothing. She brings out the newspaper scrap with the picture of the sheriff to show him. By the time she’s finished the cuticle on her thumb is bleeding where she’s been picking and picking.
He goes to the window and stands with his back to her. Stares out at she can’t see what for a long time. Then he pulls a string to close the blinds and turns. ‘I expect you’d like a cup of tea after all that?’
Her mouth is so dry now, that yes, she does need a drink.
He leaves the room to give the order she supposes, and returns to sit behind his desk, steepling his hands under his chin and gazing at her in a way that makes her sweat. The mouth is surely the same? The chin? The more she looks, the more uncertain she becomes.
The policewoman brings in a tray with two red mugs. The tea is grey. ‘Sugar?’ she asks Marta. Marta nods and watches her spoon one in, three please, she wants to say, but doesn’t.
‘Sure you don’t want me to call Steve, er DC Brennan?’ the policewoman says. She seems surprised that the man’s prepared to talk to Marta himself.
‘I’ve got this.’ Mr Smith or Chief Inspector Rollinson gives her a look that combines exasperation and amusement, a look that drops away as soon as she’s gone.
‘Drink your tea,’ he says. He’s silent for several moments before he clears his throat. ‘Now listen,’ he says. ‘This can go in one of two ways.’ He picks up his own mug, looks at it, puts it down.
Marta’s hand shakes so that tea slops onto her jeans. When she sips it tastes of sweet metal. She puts it down and waits.
He clears his throat. ‘Option one: you make a formal statement, recording all that you’ve told me. I must warn you, this might put you in danger. If you repeat these allegations – which sound like hysterical tosh to me – we’ll be obliged to investigate. You realize that you’re accusing a sheriff of – ha! – almost everything in the book including murder.’ He gives a mirthless laugh and shakes his head. ‘That, my dear, is enormous and enormously dangerous. To you personally.’ He’s not even looking at her as he speaks, but at somewhere beyond her shoulder. ‘Let me see that.’ He holds out his hand for the newspaper clipping, takes it, has a closer look, snorts, screws it into a ball and tosses it into a bin.
‘Apart from all that,’ he continues after a moment’s thought, ‘the trial could take months, even years. You’d be called upon to give evidence in court. If the court finds against you, you’ll be in for some serious grief and debt. And of course,’ he adds, ‘we haven’t even addressed the question of your illegal citizenship.’
Marta’s heart thuds coldly between his words.
‘Or the second option.’ Now he does look at her. ‘You forget this whole silly nonsense and I can have you home in a few days.’
‘Home?’ she says, though the word comes out silently.
He nods.
‘I apologise for the tea.’ He gives a sudden smile, thin brown lips stretched tight. ‘Institutional gnats’ piss.’ He stands and comes round his desk, leans himself back against it, legs stretched out and crossed. He’s too close to her, the thick trouser material too near her face. ‘So, which is it to be?’
She thinks of Mats, of his trust in the British police, and a laugh the size, the colour, the bitterness, of a lemon grows in her chest and lodges there, unlaughed.
Chief Inspector Rollinson or Mr Smith folds his arms, gazes down at her with murky eyes.
‘How about a night in a cell to make up your mind?’
She thinks of Alis. She thinks of the other girls she could maybe save. Be brave, Mats said. But he’s not brave.
And she’s so tired. And the longing inside her is far too strong.
‘Home,’ she says and she hears him breathe out long and slow.
17 Arcola St, London E8 6FE
June 28th ’92
Hi Rita,
Thanks for your card. Toronto looks amazing, will definitely come and visit. How’s it going with Eddie? Hope it works out. Would ring but Mats has gone weird about money, can’t wait to be earning my own again.
Anyway, big news!!! Notice the address? We’ve moved to London (your card just got forwarded, sorry for delay in replying.) You’re not the only one who can suddenly up sticks! It’s only a rented flat till we find something more permanent. Love being down south again, more at home with the voices and everything and hope to track down some old mates. Plus it’s warmer!!!
After you left we had a really weird time. You will not believe it but Mats suddenly waltzed in with a Romanian girl, an illegal immigrant, just like she ws a stray cat.
I wish you were here because I want to ask you this. Do you think Mats would ever go to a prostitute? Nobody said she was one, they said she was a cleaner, but I’m not stupid. I saw a Panorama about sex trafficking. There’s been loads of it from Eastern Europe since communism went tits up. Mats watched it too and he never moved a muscle just sat there with his whisky in his hand and a kind of weird glare on his face.
Oh and another thing, don’t know if you get British news there? We had some murders in Tollcross about the same time: a girl and man. So close. To think a murderer was walking about so close to me, the kids. We might have passed him in the street. Makes you shiver to think it.
Having Marta - that’s her name - around was OK, actually quite nice, like having a teenage daughter, but it still felt odd. Then one night Mats and me had a massive row. See, if Marta had been trafficked I thought he . . . But can you imagine Mats with a sex slave????!!!!! We had such a humongous row, I actually thought it
was over between us. He went off with her, but then he came back. He’d taken her to the police. I don’t know where she is now. Romania or what. Don’t dare ask.
I actually miss her. I thought she might send a card or something. But no. And Artie is pining for her. And for you.
Anyway, straight after that Mats comes home and says his job has moved to London. Just like that. So we pack a few things and leave. All the rest of our stuff’s in storage till we have our own place.
I’m applying for jobs, can’t wait to get back to normal life.
Must go, trying to sort out Artie’s new school.
Write soon, a longer letter this time!
Love Viv xxxx
P.S. Meant to say before you went, I hope you’ll be happy.
P.P.S. Also thank you for . . . well helping out and everything. I know I was a bit of a pain for a while there. xxxx
P.P.P.S. Maybe any man would secretly like a sex slave? What about your Eddie?
P.P.P.S But Mats? No. Don’t believe it.
17 Arcola St, London E8 6FE
July 20th ’92
Dear Rita,
Thanks for your letter. Wow and congratulations! Were you trying or was it a slip up? So quick! But I guess the clock was ticking. Wish you were here so we could do baby stuff together. I’m putting off job hunting till September now. Started Legs, Bums and Tums to get in shape for it.
All fine here. I found a school for Artie. Tommy’s running around like mad now and says car and juice. Mats is a bit down though, the doctor’s put him on pills. He’s not like his old self and every time you look at him he’s got a new grey hair. But he’s OK really.
We went to Oslo for a long weekend. The Brunsborgs spoiled the kids rotten and were nice enough to me. At least they’d taken down the picture of Mats and his ex, replaced it with one of Tommy. At one point Mats’ mum beckoned me into the kitchen and asked if Mats was OK. I said he was fine, just a bit stressed out by work and the move and everything. I mean that is all it is, I think.
Oh but get this, on the Sunday morning Nina (Mats ex) comes over with her new husband, Lars, who is gorgeous like a movie star (and actually is an Olympic ski champion) for drinks. Not very awkward! So anyway, we’re having a drink and then Nina suddenly announces she’s pregnant.
The Squeeze Page 19