Say You Never Met Me

by Martin Yallop

  Chapter 5

  “Has George got a job out there?” They were sitting in the waiting room of the doctor’s surgery.

  “No, Mum. It doesn’t work like that. He’d have to speak Greek, and anyway, there aren’t any jobs in his line of work on the island.”

  “But what do you do all day, then?”

  “Well, we listen to music, cook, eat, read. It’s all very relaxing.” Susanna glanced around her at the other waiting patients. Nobody seemed to be taking much notice of their conversation or to have guessed how they spent much of their time. “Actually we have thought about starting a little business; more a hobby, really. There must be delicatessens and specialist shops in the UK that would sell things like olives, honey and goats’ cheese that had a sort of home grown, locally packed and quality-controlled sort of brand. I may try to call on some businesses while I’m here.” Susanna was not being exactly truthful. It was a half formed plan in her mind that she had mentioned to George half-jokingly and he had received without any noticeable enthusiasm but it avoided seeming completely at a loss about the future and gave their waiting room companions something to relate in the bus queue. “Anyway, we don’t really need much money. We live quite simply. George has enough from his investments – I told you, didn’t I, that he inherited some money a year or two ago – and I have my savings and the money dad left me.” The dog-eared copies of Woman’s Own and Cosmopolitan quivered slightly in front of their readers.

  “Are you happy?”

  “Well…” The number display over the door marked ‘surgery’ clattered and a buzzer sounded. “Ah! That’s us, Mum.”

  “Sit down. Sit down, Mrs. Parson. And this is…? Ah, yes, of course, your daughter, Susan.”

  “Susanna”, corrected Susanna. The doctor’s hand was soft and his handshake was limp. She decided he was creepy.

  “Yes, yes. Well, Mrs. Parson, I have the results of your tests. I am afraid we are not out of the woods quite yet. To come straight to the point, it looks as if the lump in your breast is very probably malignant so it should be removed. Probably the surgeon will carry out a mastectomy – to remove your breast – but he will decide that after he has examined you and seen your results. Do you understand?”

  “Are you sure? Isn’t there any other way?” The doctor was already writing notes on a card. “We could do some more tests but as the condition is quite well advanced the only way to be certain we can stop it spreading is to operate. It is a fairly simple operation – a few nights in hospital and I think… my opinion is that all will be well, but, of course, we must make sure, Mrs. Parson, so there will be regular checks afterwards.”

  Susanna glanced sideways at her mother. “It doesn’t look as if you have any choice, Mum. When should mother have the operation? How soon does it have to be, Doctor?” Susanna wanted George to be with her when her mother went into hospital. “Could we talk this over and ring you later?”

  “Of course, but we should do this without delay, you understand.”

  “Anyway, they’re going to remove it – probably next week. We’ve got to talk to the hospital about dates.” Susanna had ignored her fatigue to ring George. “I’m trying to persuade Mum to go private. She has kept up the cover that dad arranged but she doesn’t want to use it.”

  “Why on earth not? Surely this is serious enough to use it now? And which breast is it, by the way?”

  “Left. She says that she wants to keep the cover for emergencies and she doesn’t like the idea of queue jumping or something. I can’t seem to get through to her on this. But look, I can’t talk for long.”

  George pushed aside the thought of Valerie’s left breast. He forced away the shocking thought that breast cancer might be inherited and changed the subject. “Is she with you now?”

  “No. That’s why I’m ringing. Mum has gone to Iceland.”

  “What! As in the North Atlantic?”

  Susana joined in the joke. “No, you idiot. As in the High Street. Something about giving me my favourite tea; fish fingers probably.”

  “Knowing your mum, it’ll probably be ‘Fishythauraus’ and spaghetti hoops. She still thinks you’re eleven.”

  “Look, George. This is her phone bill so I’d better not chatter. Come to that I’m bloody tired. I only got a couple of hours’ sleep last night, on the plane. And I only just got here in time for lunch and we’ve had the doctor’s since then.”

  “Why? Was the flight delayed? The guy at the ferry said something was happening at the airport.”

  “Well, actually George, I missed the flight.”

  “Why? You had stacks of time.”

  “I know but there was a sort of hostage incident.” She took a deep breath. “And you had better hear this from me; I was the hostage.” Susanna overrode George’s spluttering and expostulations, touched by his alarm and concern, to summarise the events of the previous afternoon. “Anyway, it was all over in a couple of hours and nobody was hurt except Stanislav. I’m just very tired. And, look, I’m not going to tell mum about any of this so don’t you say anything to her. That’s why I waited for her to go out before ringing you.”

  “I wondered why I hadn’t heard from you,” said George, his concern subsiding to be replaced by a sense of guilt at having been in the taverna eying up a waitress while Susanna was being held at gunpoint.

  “Actually I did try to ring last night but there was no reply.”

  “I didn’t fancy facing the empty house so I stopped at the taverna for a beer. I had an omelette,” he added unnecessarily.

  “George. I want you to do something for me.”

  “Of course. What?”

  “Natasha and the other girls who were being smuggled need help. They are the victims in this but I’m afraid they will be the ones who suffer. Would you try to find them and see if you can help?”

  “I don’t know what I could do. I probably couldn’t even get to see them, even if they are still being held on Corfu.”

  “I know, George but will you try? Please. For me. Oh! Mum’s back. Please, George.”

  “Okay. No promises but I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you. I knew you would. Talk to you soon. Love you. Bye.”

  Chapter 6

  If he needed confirmation that he had put on a bit of weight, struggling into a city suit provided it. George had not worn the full, regulation outfit – suit, double-cuff shirt, silk tie and black brogues – since he had left the bank so hurriedly several months earlier but he had decided that if be was to bluff his way to seeing the four girls his best chance was to act like some sort of European official concerned about trafficking or illegal entry into the EU and he had better look the part. ‘I’ll just play this by ear. Probably can’t do much except make sympathetic noises,’ he thought, putting his passport into his oversized briefcase where it occupied a fraction of the space once filled by bulging files. He added a pad of paper, a couple of domestic files and half a dozen envelopes to make it seem less empty. Even the lightest of his suits was intolerably hot despite the air conditioning in the car and the sea breeze on the ferry was even less cooling; he found himself wishing for the moment when he could get back into a tee shirt and shorts or less.

  Leaning against the rail of the ferry, he remembered his first sea trip. He had been driven by his father to Harwich where he was to take the ferry to the Hook of Holland, he had joined two other graduate trainees who had been chosen to visit the bank’s Dutch and German offices for a fortnight. It had been a reward for something or other; he could not remember what - being sycophantic to the chairman, probably. Out by sea and rail and back by air was the plan. As this was his first real sea voyage (he did not count the Isle of Wight or Woolwich ferries) he had taken a seasickness pill. It had made him feel dry-mouthed, light-headed and slightly nauseous. Despite that, he had spent most of the crossing on deck watching the waves, admiring the white, foaming wake, luxuriating in the vastness of the sea and the distant gentle
curve of the horizon and envying the escorting gulls for their effortless soaring, thankful that none of them showed any inclination to land near him; he didn’t like birds. The subsequent train journey held no memories but he could still see the tiny room in the Dutch hotel, more a boarding house, run by a plump and kindly woman, where he had spent his first few nights. Several evenings after his arrival and for several subsequent evenings after that, someone had taken him to a British army camp near the German border – or was it over it - and plied him with large tumblers of duty free Remy Martin cognac. The hangovers had lasted for most of the trip and were memorable, even by the standard of earlier years’ student binges.

  The policeman at the front counter spoke next to no English and George’s Greek was inadequate for the complexities of the situation but he managed to get across that he wanted to visit the four girls rescued from the traffickers two days earlier. The officer had seemed suitably impressed by George’s formal appearance, relaxed authoritative manner and assumption that he would get what he asked for. George thought it better to use all his qualifications when he introduced himself and that had been enough to send the man to fetch his superior officer. The sergeant was more communicative and already half-convinced of George’s bona fides by his subordinate’s description of the visitor. The girls were still being held in the police cells awaiting the arrival of a senior officer specialising in trafficking and immigration. That officer would be coming from Athens in the next few days. They had appeared before a judge who had ruled that they should be held for a week. The Albanian police were also sending someone to interview the girls. It was expected that they could give valuable information about an Albanian people-smuggling ring. The sergeant did not know what would happen to them after they had been interviewed. They could be charged with entering the country illegally but most likely they would simply be repatriated to Albania.

  “I think Anna is from Macedonia,” said George. The policeman snorted and gave a little shrug to show that such details did not matter.

  “You are English, I think?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I was asked to look into this. The European Commission is very concerned about the increasing level of trafficking into the EU Area, especially through the southern member states.” The policeman winced slightly.

  “They have already been questioned by us and the immigration authorities will investigate further. Why do you not apply for a copy of the report?”

  “Well, sergeant, I am sure that report will be very helpful and thorough from the immigration point of view but my job is to seek some slightly different data. You will be interested in the criminal aspects of the matter but I am concerned with the social and economic background and causes of this activity.” George had a flash of inspiration. “I work for the Social Affairs Directorate and I am sure you know that the present Commissioner is Greek. She takes a very close, personal interest in trafficking and related abuse of women. I’m sure you understand.” The policeman did. He could imagine the questions from his superiors if he failed to co-operate fully with the representative of Greece’s European Commissioner who was working on an area that interested her closely.

  “So, Doctor George, you wish to question the girls now?” The sergeant was already half way through the door behind the counter.

  “Yes please, I’d just like to talk to them, for now, one at a time and in private if that is possible.” The last comment was addressed to the policeman’s back as he disappeared through the door.

  “Of course, of course. A few moments, please.” To his delight, George found himself beckoned through the lifted flap of the counter and ushered into a room with a small, high window, a bare table and two white, plastic chairs. A couple of moments later, the door opened and the sergeant showed in a young woman with a mousy blonde ponytail.

  “Please press that button on the wall when you are finished and I will bring you the other girls.”

  “Natasha?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I’m George. Susanna – you remember Susanna? - asked me to see if I can help you and the others.”

  “You are older than her. How did you get in here?”

  “They think I am a representative of the European Commissioner for Social Affairs looking into the background of people trafficking on her behalf.”

  “And are you?’

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well,” Natasha relaxed and smiled broadly, “I expect they are watching through the hole in the door so you had better ask me some questions.”

  “I said I just wanted to talk to you for now. I’ll say I need to come back to take formal statements so I can come again but I’d better take some notes or something.”

  “Oh. You had better write something down, then.”

  George opened his briefcase, remembering just in time to turn it so the lid hid the inside from the spy hole in the door.

  “Did you plan to smuggle me out in that?”

  “No, of course not,” George said, smiling “but I’m not sure what I can do to help.”

  “Get us to England, what else?”

  “Well, that’s not so easy. I mean, it isn’t just money. I might help with that a bit but surely you are going to be sent back to Albania in a week – yes, I know Anna is from somewhere near Skopje - and you could travel again from there.”

  “Are you crazy, George? Do you think we can just go back home as if nothing had happened? Suppose we tell the police nothing. That means we will be kept here because they will think we are part of the smuggling gang. But if we are sent home, the people, the smugglers will know we talked to the police. The police know we know who we paid; they know we know the house where we hid, the man who has the boat. How can we say we know nothing? So we have to say something, maybe everything, then we go home. Then we are in very big trouble. This is big business, George. They are not boy scouts. They could kill us. In England, probably not. There we could be safe if we are careful. And you forget I still have to earn money for my mother. If I go back, and I get killed she will die too without expensive treatment. You know nothing, George! All we can do is get to England or Germany or France but not Albania and not Macedonia!” She was almost in tears with a mixture of frustration, fear and anger at George’s naïveté. “I’m sorry. I speak too strongly. Thank you for coming, for trying to help but words do not help. We have to get away from here and away from Albania. Please, can you help us?”

  “I see,” said George, abashed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Look, I still don’t know if I can do anything but let me think about it. Maybe… I have some friends who owe me favours. Look, tell me about yourself - education and experience and that sort of thing. At least then I’ll have some information if I can think of anything.”

  Natasha smiled. “Thank you, George. Remember we rely on you.” Her smile broadened. “You’re not so old. Susanna is lucky. I think.”

  George was slightly surprised to find that Natasha was well educated and had worked in a government office as well as for an import agency. The other girls, in their halting English, also told stories that increased his sympathy for them. Two had degrees, all had specialist certificates, Marianna turned out to be a partly-qualified accountant but none of them had been able to find well-paid work or any real opportunities in their own countries. He didn’t blame them for wanting to make new lives in northern Europe.

  “Everything is okay?” asked the sergeant as he showed George out.

  “Yes, yes. Fine so far. But I’ll need to see them again when I have checked up on some of what they have told me,” he added hastily.

  On the ferry, George’s resolution hardened and he found himself making increasingly concrete plans to get Natasha, Irma, Marianna and Anna work permits for the UK. They had names and faces now and his sympathy and determination had both increased and strengthened. He pictured their delight – all giggly-girly-screamy - when he met them as they arrived in the airport, until he r
emembered, with a start, that not only was he not in the UK but he would be unwise to go there himself in the foreseeable future. He was something of a refugee himself.

  He liked meeting travellers; it made him feel useful. He remembered that, during one university vacation, he had blagged himself a job in the personnel department of a large contract-catering firm. They often brought in skilled, immigrant catering staff to work in and sometimes run company cafeterias around London, and, in his first week, he had been sent to meet a small group of foreign chefs. They might have been from Malta but he was not sure now. For some reason they had arrived at Waterloo station. Although it was long before the Channel Tunnel was built, at the time that didn’t strike him as an odd terminus for incoming foreigners. To George everywhere was equally strange. As this was his first job in central London, he had only just learned to find his way back to the office after lunch so he was probably the least qualified member of staff to meet the group and take them to their different sets of lodgings. Fortunately several of the incoming chefs and kitchen helpers had visited London before, and, with their help, he had managed the task at last, but it was getting late by the time he was able to try to make his own way home. There were few other travellers about as he made his way through a dim, echoing underground tunnel to get his tube. Might that have been at Bank? He would have had to change there. He was not sure at first that he had seen it but, unmistakably, a large, pink, erect, penis was being wagged at him from a side passage a short distance ahead. He had looked guiltily over his shoulder, perhaps to make sure that nobody had noticed his shock, perhaps in disbelief and the hope that it would be gone when he turned back, possibly seeking guidance about how more experienced travellers reacted, but he was alone in the tunnel and had to go on. Hurrying past the side passage he glanced nervously in but there was nobody to be seen… unless perhaps there was someone pressed against the wall in the shadows of a dim alcove. He hadn’t stopped to find out. Even now, more than twenty years later, he felt an indistinct mixture of guilt and violation. Surely such things only happened in books.