A Foreign Office spokesman said…’
There was a picture of Susanna, her hair uncombed and her hastily donned cardigan cross-buttoned. She looked distraught and dishevelled; it was dreadful. She was brought back to reality by a firm request to please move to one side from a nurse wheeling a trolley of medication. Susanna had bought the paper at the friends’ of the hospital shop just inside the hospital entrance and begun reading the front page as she walked, with slowing steps and growing disbelief towards her mother’s ward. Apparently she had eventually come to a complete halt, half blocking the highly polished, aseptic corridor. Jumping Jesus! This will be everywhere! Everyone will see this! Christ, George! Holy cow! Mother! She gathered her thoughts and hurried on.
The first thing she saw as she almost ran into the ward was a huge bunch of flowers half obscuring her mother’s bed. It was the sort of bunch that had trimmed and splayed stalks, that stood upright on its own like a sheaf of cut wheat, the sort of bunch that cost… well, much more than she could usually afford, from vendors outside Fenchurch Street station. Most of the flowers looked as though they had been specially flown in from Africa in a chilled aircraft; huge blooms interspaced with curly, corkscrew, twiggy things. Her first thought was of George and her heart melted a little at his thoughtfulness.
“Hello, dear,” called her mother, with a cheerful wave. “Aren’t they lovely? Such a nice young lady and you’ve only just missed her. You would have liked her. So thoughtful and kind and she wanted to know all about my operation and all about you too. She left me these newspapers to read but she’s only just gone and I haven’t even had time to open them yet.”
“Oh! How… nice! Who was she? Let’s see what she’s left. Oops!” The pile of multi-part newspapers slithered off the bed and landed with a heavy splash on the tiled floor. As Susanna bent to retrieve them she slid the offending headline and picture under the foot of the bed and put her bag next to it. “Sorry, mum. Gosh! This will keep you in reading material for a week!”
“I know but to be truthful, I usually only look at the headlines and the colour supplements. (Thought so!) She said she was researching or something for a special feature on holiday airports, delays and all that sort of thing, so I suppose she was a writer or journalist. What I couldn’t understand, though, was why she came to see me. I mean, I haven’t been anywhere for years and I’m not planning any trips.”
“Oh, I know,” Susanna interrupted. “You remember I was held up… delayed, I mean, on the way here? Well I gave my name and your address to someone doing some sort of survey. She’s probably following up on that. I wondered what the survey was for but I was in a hurry so I didn’t think any more of it. In fact I’m sure that’s what it was about. Now I think of it, one of the questions was about reason for travel and I would have said something about your being ill and maybe having to go into hospital. Yes, that’s it. So, mum, what did she ask you about?”
“Well, that all makes sense because she asked mostly about you. She wanted to know what you did, whether you were married, where you lived, that sort of thing.”
“You didn’t tell her did you?”
“Yes, dear. Of course. There’s nothing to hide after all, is there? But I forgot my address book. It must be in my bedside table, so I couldn’t give her your proper address or telephone number. I just remembered the name of the island. I always think of stuffing for the Christmas turkey when I need to remember it. Apparently she knows it. She’s been there on holiday. Isn’t that a co-incidence? I said I’d ring her with the address and number when I get home. Look, she left me her card.”
Susanna took the pale cream business card. It read ‘Helen Knight’ above the name of a well-known newspaper-publishing group and a mobile telephone number. “I’ll ring her for you, Mum. You don’t want to worry about it.”
Chapter 14
The ferry skipper gave George a broad wink and nodded sideways at Deborah. George had picked her up outside the taverna in time to catch the early ferry and had been slightly surprised and very impressed to see her standing in the cool, early morning light dressed in a well-cut suit and carrying a briefcase. She looked like a lawyer – a rather sexy lawyer, he thought, before pushing the thought away. He knew what the ferryman meant but he had to keep a clear head this morning.
He had spent most of the previous day at what he and Susanna had christened ‘Crab Beach’ and his shoulders felt a little tight and sore from over-exposure to the sun. They had once found two small, dead crabs there, locked together in a final embrace. Susanna hoped they had died at the climax of some frantic, crab copulation. George fancied they were both males, rivals for some female and each had stubbornly died rather than surrender the prize to the other, but he had kept that opinion to himself. He had pretty much decided that he would have to go to the UK, partly to effect a satisfactory reconciliation with Susanna, partly because he had said he would go if Valerie was really ill and partly, he had to admit to himself, because he was lonely. However he felt the need to think and prepare carefully, prepare himself too, for the trip. Although he liked the romantic notion that he would be watched for at every port of entry, he felt almost sure that he was very unlikely to be on any sort of ‘stop list’. As far as he knew, the bank had not ever started any sort of proceedings against him, and now several months had passed presumably they would not do so. Unless they thought he was flaunting his victory or celebrating having got away with it. They would not like that and he could expect unpleasantness. And, thanks to Jill’s garrulousness, Sir Alec had tracked down Susanna so he would need to be careful. Then there was Susan, too. If he went to the UK he could not really put off dealing with her and all that mess. He could hardly just go and stay with Susanna at Valerie’s house, especially as Valerie would presumably be home and convalescing in a few days. He didn’t think he could deal with all that female emotion on top of everything else, especially as it would exclude him. An hotel would be nearly as lonely as staying where he was, and anyway, that would be a silly waste of money in the long run. Could he get away with a visit of just a few days? Did he want to? ‘No’ was the answer to both questions.
Crab Beach was tiny, isolated and, as usual, had been deserted except for a tide-mark necklace with a broken plastic chair and empty plastic water-bottles in various stages of disintegration, all left there in some high tide weeks or months ago. The beach was unknown to tourists and too small to attract locals who generally preferred to visit the beach in large, noisy, extended-family groups and to spend the day – sometimes several days – camping out with the women cooking over charcoal or driftwood while the children splashed about in the water and the men pretended to fish or played with the children. George had scrambled down the steep, stony, cliff-path with more care than usual. He was alone and nobody knew where he was so this would not be a good time to slip and break an ankle. Slithering into the thorns and thistles lining the path would be painful enough. He had unpacked his beach-bag in the poor shade of a thin, gnarled bush growing out of the face of the low cliff and sitting with his back against a rock, had stared out to sea and turned over the issues of his travel and accommodation in his mind. Seen from this level the sea was blue-grey but he knew that from the top of the cliff it would be deep, deep blue shading almost to black at the horizon. Squinting against the glare, he could see a ship, hull down and almost invisible, creeping imperceptibly between ports. Perhaps ancient Greeks had sat on this beach looking out to sea to see galleys and caiques furrowing these wine-dark seas. Maybe Homer sat here himself. Or maybe he was just getting fanciful with advancing years. He had been surprised how little weight the local islanders gave to their heritage unless they were dealing with tourists. Andreas had been unaware of or possibly, unimpressed by the legend when George had told him that his taverna might be on the very spot where Anthony and Cleopatra had dined together on the night before the battle of Actium. A roar had made him look upwards. A passenger jet from Corfu was cruising overhead, promptin
g thoughts of Susanna that combined with the heat of the sun and the warmth of the stones he sat on to kindle arousal and reminded him how much and in how many ways he missed Susanna. The omens were clear. He had to go to England.
Deborah was in holiday mood and took George’s arm companionably as they leaned against the rail of the ferry, enjoying the cool of the early morning and the freshness of the breeze off the sea.
“Is this not lovely?” she asked. “It is for lovers, it’s champagne weather. You can nearly taste the sparkle in the air. Do we not live in a beautiful world?”
George was not so sure. He was worried that Deborah’s innocent intimacy would be added to the pile of rumour that he would somehow have to surmount. And he still had not come to a decision about how to get to the UK except for a vague idea that he should fly to somewhere in mainland Europe and then make an entry by an inconspicuous route - possibly by train. He would go to one of the travel agents near the airport later today. He had not yet mentioned that to Deborah. Nor had he mentioned that Susanna’s story might be in at least one British newspaper and he would need to go to the airport and try to find it. He pretended to be moving along the deck for a better view in order to excuse disengaging his arm from Deborah’s.
Apparently he was now a sufficiently familiar figure at the police station not to have to be asked his name or business but the sergeant raised his eyebrows in a silent question when he looked at Deborah.
“She’s under training, under my supervision. She’s getting experience between university and going on to professional training for employment with the Bulgarian European liaison office. You know of course that Bulgaria is a candidate for EU membership?” The policeman seemed unconvinced but apparently had a more pressing concern.
“If you did not come I was going to send for you. The Albanians are sending a police escort today. They will take these sex workers back today or tomorrow at the latest. You must finish your researches today and I need you to write to confirm that we have assisted you and you are satisfied with our co-operation. I have prepared a letter, a certificate for you to sign. It is in Greek, of course but I want you to sign.”
“They are not sex workers – not yet, anyway. And Anna is from Macedonia, not Albania.”
The policeman ‘tutted’ impatiently. “I know, I know. She can travel from Tirana. The letter, I get the letter,” and he waved George and Deborah towards the interview room. As before, Natasha was the first to be shown in. She seemed to be accepted by everybody as some sort of group leader. She stopped as soon as she entered.
“Who is she?”
“This is Deborah, Natasha. She is a friend and don’t look at me like that. Not that sort of friend. Sit down, please. Remember I’m meant to be asking you questions about your family, social background and how you came to be trafficked. I’ve got to sign a certificate or something. Now, Deborah has somewhere for you to go when you leave here so you don’t have to stay in Albania. Do you know you are leaving today or tomorrow?”
“I thought so. They are suddenly being much better to us but there have not been any problems apart from the sort of looks and comments you get from all men. We are okay. We will be glad to leave here.” She glanced mistrustfully at Deborah.
“And I’m a lawyer – or at least I soon will be – not a pretend-Commission representative. I want to help you. My father and mother in Sofia will look after you. They have room in their house. You can stay there until you can travel to England. I think you want… you need to leave Albania and Macedonia within one or two days? Don’t trust the police. I will give you the address and telephone number of my parents. Get to Sophia and telephone them. I have spoken to them on the telephone; they will expect to hear from you. And try all of you to stay together; it is safer. I’ll tell everyone the same thing. Now it is better you seem to answer George’s questions in case there is a secret camera, you understand. And ask Natasha something, George so she can answer you.”
Looking at Natasha’s half smile and half-raised eyebrow, George bit back the first question that sprang into his mind like a mischievous puppy and hastily substituted the banal enquiries about housing, education, family occupations and earnings that he supposed an examining official might ask in the circumstances. He hoped Susanna would approve.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the fingernails of the girl in the travel agency. They were pearlised pale pink, long and each marked with two turquoise chevrons, the points of which were accentuated with a tiny diamonds… well, obviously not diamonds, George realised. Probably they were chips of glass or something. The girl herself was not especially attractive but there was a certain smoothness of skin and something enticing in the way she tapped various options into the screen in front of her, scowling slightly when something did not work and looking up encouragingly at him when it did. Meanwhile, Deborah sat on the brown, plastic-covered sofa in front of the window, partially and inadequately shaded by posters advertising weekend break destinations including Cairo, Athens and Brindisi. Unfamiliar with the subtleties of the manicurist’s art, George wondered how long it had taken the travel girl to create these miraculous fingernails. Less time probably than it took him to decide on and pay for an itinerary that took him via Paris to Boulogne, Dover and London, and for Deborah to browse through at least four, substantial travel brochures. As he was making the booking he was already regretting allowing his paranoia to drive him to such a convoluted journey. He knew it would be awful.
He dropped Deborah back at the taverna, thanked her for her and her father’s help and dodged the proffered peck on the cheek with a tight smile and the hope that she would be able to avoid Andreas’ advances.
Chapter 15
He did not know why he had bought the silver and navy trainers but he did know that they did not suit him. They had been a distress purchase, something to kill the time between transport links. He looked down at them morosely as his train meandered through the Kent countryside – the place that would have been the cause of the Reverend Spooner’s downfall, he told himself with secret grin. His fellow passengers depressed him. He was sure that the young couple did not belong in first class but the ticket collector had ignored their dingy, cheap clothes and barely glanced at their tickets. He had been depressed too, beaten down by the endless, pointless fight against fare dodgers, as foul-mouthed as they were inarticulate; the only pleasure in their grey, aimless lives the constant, resentful rebellion against every form of authority they came into contact with. George sighed, drawing a hostile stare from the girl, and addressed his attention to the slowly passing fields and woods, limp and exhausted in this dying stage of summer. He still had not managed to make contact with Susanna but had left two messages on her mother’s answering machine to say that he was travelling to join her. He had tried to be bright and encouraging but embarrassed, he found himself unable to say anything sufficiently affectionate in case Valerie or someone else should hear his message so both one-sided exchanges had left him uncertain of his reception. Susanna had not returned his calls but, as he had been travelling for the last two days, she had not had much opportunity to do so. Uncertainty joined fatigue to fuel his depression and, sighing, he concentrated on the countryside rolling past the grubby window.
George’s first, summer rock-concert had been a life-changing experience: his epiphany. He had expected loud music, that was why he and his friends were there. He had expected discomfort and a too-small tent and a day of rain that turned the campsite into a quagmire had been accepted at part of the experience. He had expected crowds, even if he had sometimes been a little anxious when he found himself crushed in the midst of tens of thousands of youngsters, and sometimes not so youngsters, heaving in excitement in front of a distant stage. What had surprised him – changed his life – were the people. George’s parents, especially his mother, had been at pains to shield him, their only child, from what they thought of as the unpleasantnesses of life; they meant the common herd. Private – primary and gr
ammar schools – had not prepared him well for the real world of real people and his mother had encouraged him to mix with the right sort of friends and firmly discouraged the wrong sort. He had been so well sheltered that he remembered his surprise when he discovered that three ‘A’ levels and a university education was what only a minority of youngsters got. Rebelling between school and university, George had gone to the festival against his mother’s wishes, selfishly ignoring the anxiety he was causing. He had been conditioned to avoid the company of nasty rough boys and girls and so he was prepared to be ripped-off, abused as a middle-class git and possibly to suffer worse at the hands of the proles he would be rubbing shoulders with. But they were great. Everyone he bumped into, usually literally, had been generous, warm-hearted and inclusive. They shared tarpaulins, noodles and joints with each other and with him as if they had known him all their lives. On the whole, they didn’t give a damn whether he had just come from a public school (he hadn’t) or a public toilet. He was accepted, that was what mattered, accepted as himself with no pre-conditions except an assumption of a shared interest in the music. Over the weekend he shared jokes and beer with rough-sleepers, illiterates, socially-responsible, small-time drug dealers, scions of the nobility, festival veterans in their forties escaping from profession and career and first timers like himself. They were good people, and he never forgot, and it made him different; he grew up ten years in four days. There are some who think George is a snob but those who know him better, know that his apparent snobbery is superficial, more inherited than heart-felt. And it was rock music that freed him from his upbringing.
His fellow travellers did not know that so when he sighed again, it sparked a challenge.
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