Say You Never Met Me

by Martin Yallop

  Still in a state of nervous agitation, he presented his passport at the immigration desk. The official looked at the page with the photograph and glanced up at George’s face. Something in George’s expression must have triggered a twinge of suspicion because the immigration officer changed her mind at the last second and, instead of handing the passport straight back, she flicked through the pages showing entry and exit stamps before raising her eyes again to look impassively at George. He thought he was going to be sick but he grimaced in what he hoped was an innocent smile and forced himself to say nothing. The official held his eyes for a long half second and handed back the passport. George almost grabbed it and moved away from the desk, fiercely crushing the impulse to hurry. His bag was almost the last on the carousel and by the time it popped up the conveyor, he had all but convinced himself that it had been identified by some invisible security process and that he was to be held at the airport. He almost ran through the customs hall but there was nobody there to see him and he headed straight for the train to London finally arriving in Croydon in the afternoon, still in a state of anxiety. Deborah handed him his couriered package and told him he would have to sleep on the sofa. If there was any ambiguity in his reception he was unaware of it.

  Chapter 44

  Mostly he felt tired. That had been another, really stupid journey, exhausting and unnecessary. He could just have flown to London instead of taking on that tortuous, tortured journey. Another tortured journey swam into his memory. He had not liked Stuart. He was the sort of bloke who had coated teeth, his money in a purse and an intermittent, elusive, faecal odour, so, of course, he and George had been paired off for the advanced hike. The task was something like ‘walk thirty five miles across country in two days making sketch maps of every road-path-track used and drawings of every tree-stile-church-farm-cow encountered and spend the night under canvas after cooking a three course dinner and eating a full English breakfast before you move off and you’d better not leave any signs of camp fires or sleep-flattened grass to show you were there’. God knows why he had agreed to do it and God knows why he had not cancelled the stupid event when he went down with the worst cold of his life two days before it started. But he had gone and he had had to put up with bloody Stuart.

  They had parked Stuart’s moped and his own dark blue scooter (chrome bubbles forbidden by his mother in case he got into fights with rockers) in a police station car park. Unbelievable as it sounds, rural policemen would let boy scouts do that in those days. Then the agony had commenced. George already felt like death because of his cold. Tent, blanket, groundsheets, cooking utensils, collapsible washbasin, food, tin mug, water, spare clothes, first aid kit, toilet paper, folding spade, hand axe and a hundred other essentials for the self-reliant camper are all lighter than feathers when packed into a rucksack in a bedroom. They only reveal their true weight when they have been carried half a mile. The stile had not been shown on the map so he decided there was no need to draw it. He did however, have to climb over it and slipping on the wet, wooden step on the other side he twisted his knee. At first he hardly noticed but after another couple of miles, his knee began to throb and, feeling it through his jeans, he was sure it was swollen. He had had to feel it through his jeans because his drainpipe jeans were too tight to roll up. Anyway, they were tucked into socks rolled down over boots and he had what felt like a hundredweight pack on his back and could not face taking it off, taking down his jeans, looking at his knee and then reversing the procedure. Stuart, meanwhile, was already a field ahead of him and striding on oblivious to George’s discomfort until he got to the next hedge where he stopped to look back with barely concealed impatience. ‘Yes, I know’, George had thought, ‘I know there is another thirty miles to cover so you can get your fucking badge or whatever, never mind that I’ve sprained my knee or something and I feel like shit anyway’. But he said nothing and just plodded on. He drew a tree. He drew a church. He made some cursory notes so he could draw other things later. Sacrilegiously, he drew a faint, pencil trace on the Ordnance Survey map so he could produce his own map when he felt better. He was limping badly when they decided to camp for the night. Stuart said he would put up the tent while George limped to the farmhouse, its roof just visible across a humped field, to get some water and ask permission to camp. Carrying a canvas bucket full of water uphill across a tussocky field with a sprained knee is character building and by the time he got back to the tent site, George’s character was fully formed and his career mapped out. He had decided to be a murderer and Stuart would be his first victim. They ate their corned-beef, instant mashed potatoes and dried peas as three separate courses. They were awoken by the sound of someone playing a powerful jet from a hose on the door of their tent. Unfastening it, they noticed that the water had been hot. Then they noticed the cow looking at them over its shoulder. Stuart refused to carry the malodorous tent so, after a full English breakfast of Mother’s Pride and jam, George rolled it in its bag and tied it on top of his rucksack. Overnight, George’s knee had stiffened so, naturally, he was the one to fetch water from the farm and thank the farmer for his hospitality. That day’s journey had been a nightmare but it had eventually come to an end and he had thankfully reclaimed his scooter and ridden home. He had written up the logbook, complete with maps and sketches and, as far as he could remember, had got his award or badge or whatever it had been. Only one lesson stayed with him into later business life: if there is someone who has the ability to make your life unpleasant, get him or her on your team. It is better to have them inside the tent, pissing out than outside, pissing in.

  Chapter 45

  Natasha was gone. She had gone that morning in the back of the dark blue BMW that had called for her and waited, double parked with its engine running, while she hugged her sister, pecked the others on the cheek and loaded her suitcase into the boot. Deborah touched the spot where Natasha’s kiss had lingered on the corner of her mouth. The driver had not got out. Natasha had not looked back even though they watched the car until it turned the corner of the street. The household was numb with silent mourning. Marianna was inconsolable. Deborah was in turmoil. George had arrived in the middle of all that but in his own agitated state it had taken him an hour or so to notice the tension in the house.

  “Nobody seems very pleased to see me. What have I done to deserve this?” On the verge of tears, Deborah told him about Natasha’s decision to work at the heart of the sex business to try to get intelligence about the traffickers. “What! She’s started work as a prostitute? Do you know how dangerous that will be for her; not to mention the problems for the bank, me and everyone else if this comes out? Why didn’t you stop her? Don’t you care what happens to her?”

  “Of course I tried to stop her! We all did. Irma’s her sister for God’s sake! And she means a lot more to me than you can ever understand!” The nature of Deborah’s feelings began to dawn on George.

  “What do you mean she means a lot to you? Was there something going on between the two of you?”

  “If I have a weakness, it’s none of your business!”

  “Do you mean there is something between you and Natasha. Were you having an affaire with her?”

  “No!”

  “But you’d have liked to, wouldn’t you?”

  “No! I don’t know. Why can’t I love who I want to love in times like these?”

  “And what about Natasha? How does she feel? And if she knows you’re in love with her, why has she decided to be a hooker?”

  “She’s got issues of her own… anyway, I’m not in love.”

  “And where am I supposed to fit into all this? Sleeping on the sofa, I suppose!”

  “You!! You’re just back from a Mediterranean holiday! Meanwhile I’ve been working every day in that bloody club and on top of that I’ve been trying to find Irma and Anna somewhere to live and getting your pointless phone calls and silly packages, not to mention trying to deal with Natasha and meeting Helen and coping wit
h bloody Jill! You could do something to help! Why don’t you get a job?“

  “Holiday! I’ve been working! And I’ve been threatened, had my car blown up and nearly got killed in Nice. Some holiday! And when this is all over, will you still care for me? No! No! I don’t fucking think so!!”

  “And presumably all that has followed you back here! Great! But of course you don’t need to get a job; with all your money and contacts!”

  “Well, you know better than most people that money can’t buy you love, Deborah!”

  “If you’re such a big-shot target for criminals, why don’t you do something about Natasha, mister tough guy?”

  “If you think that I’m strong, then you’re wrong. You don’t realise how upset I am by all this.”

  “You’re not the only one, George. Everybody hurts over all this!”

  “So you do want Natasha more than me?”

  “I don’t know what I want…”

  “Well, I don’t need a weather forecast to know which way the wind is blowing! I’m going to the pub!”

  In the White Hart George tried to calm himself. By the time he had finished his first pint, his adrenalin level had fallen, his pulse rate was normal and he was beginning to feel guilty. He had been very quick to run away from all the problems that Deborah had been wrestling with and if he had felt threatened and frightened a couple of times, she must feel like that every time she went to work and faced yet another disgruntled punter or rubbed shoulders with vicious and brutal criminals who would almost certainly kill her if they knew her true motivation. And who was he to object if she preferred Natasha to him? It was none of his business. His reaction had been to finding that he was no longer and maybe never had been the centre of her attention. He was feeling selfish and contrite as well a guilty. Ordering his second pint at the bar he noticed the poster behind the bar advertising forthcoming gigs. For the next three Tuesdays and Fridays the pub would host a list of bands he had never heard of but, as there was an entry charge for the band playing on the following Friday, they presumably had some local following.

  “Who are they?” George asked the barmaid, nodding towards the poster as he pocketed his change.

  “They’re bands.”

  “Yes, I know that.” George tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. “What sort of music do they do?”

  “Rock. Metal. These do some rap and hip hop.” She tapped a name with a finger. “Why? You interested? In the business, or something?” George was used to the assumption that anyone over twenty five who expressed any interest in rock music probably worked in publishing or production.

  “I’m always interested in new bands.” He almost dropped his drink as a thought struck him. Beer slopped down his trousers and on to the dreadful navy and silver trainers. “Shit! Sorry. I’ve just remembered something.” He shook the drops of beer from his hand, picked up his beer and took a long draught. Lance’s demo tape; he had forgotten Lance’s tape. The least he should do was listen to it. He finished his beer in one more swallow and left, heading back towards the anonymous, terraced house. The tape would be in the pocket of his suit jacket that was in the suitcase under the bed in the room now occupied by Irma and Anna. The two girls were watching television in the living room.

  “Can I get something out of the case under your bed?” he asked. Deborah answered for them.

  “Sure. Of course. Look, George…” but George had left the room without waiting for an answer. He reappeared a couple of minutes later.

  “Is your radio-cassette player in the kitchen? Come and listen to this.” Deborah followed him into the kitchen. “Look, Deborah, I’m sorry. I’ve got no right…”

  “No. Well, yes. Thank you, George but it was my fault. I’m really uptight about Natasha. I know you took some serious risks while you were away.”

  “Well, not as serious as you take. I’m just worried about Natasha; and about you, too. Why don’t you pack it in? Sooner or later you’ll get found out.”

  “I’m okay, George. And the money’s good; better than I could ever earn as a trainee lawyer, even in the States.”

  “Yes, well. Don’t get hooked, eh?”

  “I know, I know. Don’t start trying to run my life again.”

  “Sorry, sorry. Let’s listen to this.” George turned on the tape. ‘Asylum’ wasn’t bad. In fact they were quite good, if not very different from dozens of other bands. “I promised Lance I’d listen to this. He was supposed to give me a list of gigs… Ah! Perhaps this is it.” Lance’s voice, speaking quietly, could be heard as the second track faded.

  “Hello, George. This is Lance. I hope you enjoyed that. You said something about writing a book about people smuggling and all that and, well… you were pretty decent to me, what with the money and everything, so anyway… I thought this stuff might be useful.” There was a short silence. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. It’s a couple of girls we met. They’re from Russia or somewhere… Ukraine, yeah, that’s it. Ukraine. Anyway, they paid to get smuggled into England last year and then had to work as hookers to pay back the blokes what got them here. They sort of ran away and they’re living in a girls’ hostel down the road in Brixton. They’re probably being deported later but they’ve applied for asylum… that’s how we got the name for the band, see. Anyway, hope this helps. See ya.”

  George and Deborah stood, spellbound as first one then another female voice related the familiar story of pretty girls from a poor background tempted by the promise of well-paid work in the West but trapped into sex by debt and threats. The voices were measured and almost clinical, as if they were reading statements to a court. They gave the name and address of the man who had first approached them – he lived in their own town. They gave details of whom they had paid and how much. They gave the number of the lorry that had transported them on a ferry across the Channel, the first name of the driver and the name of the transport company painted on the side. They gave the address of the house in North London where they had been held, raped and terrorised by threats of worse to come. They gave the names and descriptions of the men who had done it. They told about the men who had paid to have sex with them and the registration numbers of cars, secretly noted, that they had seen parked below the window of their bedroom-prison. They described in harrowing detail the two failed attempts at escape and the beatings they had received as a result. They told how they had finally got out of a broken window and been found, half naked and hysterical and taken to a police station and how the abuse and deportation they had been told the police would inflict had in fact turned out to be professional kindness and understanding. They told how desperate they were to contact their families but that, most of all, how desperate they were to stay in England. The tape ended and George pressed the rewind button.

  “My God!” said George. “Those girls have got some balls!”

  “This is what we need, George. Do you see? With all the background from Natasha and the others, from Jill plus what I have already given to Helen and all the information in your notes. If we put it all together, we can see the whole chain, almost.”

  “If they know we have all this, they’ll just melt away. We need to use this quickly. I’ll ring Helen.” They stopped and looked at each other in sudden recollection. “Natasha! We should get her out before anything happens to her.”

  “I’ll go and find her.”

  “No, not you, Deborah. They know you and they know she lived here. I’ll go. I’ll think of somewhere to take her; but tomorrow; not today. She’ll be okay for one night and I need to think of something to get her away without giving the game away. You go to work as if nothing has happened; you and the other two. Don’t let’s blow it now, after everything we’ve done. We’ve only got one shot at this.”

  Chapter 46

  “How is Marianna?” asked Helen, as George handed her the file and tape. Deborah answered for him.

  “Better but still sleeping badly. She won’t sleep alone – there’s no room
anyway – and she is sleeping with me. I think she’s looking forward to seeing Conrad and Lydia again. They’ll be back soon and that’ll cheer her up, I hope.” George did not notice the searching little glance Helen shot at Deborah.

  George and Deborah sat quietly watching while Helen read the dossier of information from Dora, Anita and Eva and listened to Lance’s tape. When she had read everything and listened to everything she read everything and listened to everything again. Then she looked from Deborah to George and back again.

  “We’ve… you’ve done it. I think we’ve got pretty nearly all the pieces of the jigsaw. This stuff,” she held up George’s notes, “this stuff fills in a lot of the overseas gaps and the two girls on Lance’s tape give the hard information we need about what happens here. Deborah, we can get the police to close your clip joint and take Mario and his thugs off the streets but what’s more important is that they can break up this trafficking gang and maybe get leads into others. Well done. Now we can do something. I’m going to write this all up. The book can wait but I’ll talk to my editor today. I think we can do a feature on Sunday. Put together with what we already had, this is ‘hold the front page’ stuff. I don’t know how to thank you both, and the other girls but I expect there’ll be a fee and maybe a contribution towards your expenses, George.”