“What do you do for a living? Are you a student?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’m a baker.”
“Baker?” Raised eyebrow again. “And where’s your bakery?”
I hesitated. He waited, pen raised over the notepad. “Toronto.” My mind raced. Did Dick call the police? Will they find out about the money?
“Where’s your family? In Toronto?”
I looked down at my hands. I hated that question.
“Are they back in India?”
“No.” I paused. “I don’t have...my parents died when I was twelve.”
“Do you have any other family?” His voice had softened.
How do I tell him Aunty Shilpa died of her sickness, Grandma died from heartbreak, and Preeti’s now stuck in a deranged marriage, all because of me?
“I have a cousin. Her name is Preeti. She’s in Goa.”
“Is anyone paying you to go on this trip?”
I looked at him in surprise. “No.”
“Is anyone forcing you to make this trip?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head vigorously.
“Is anyone waiting for you at the airport in Delhi?”
“No.” Where’s he going with all this?
“Why is your friend, this Katy McGregor, going to India?”
“She’s coming with me because, because...” I hesitated. Why is Katy coming with me? It was because she had nowhere else to go. I was the only family she had now. Though we were worlds apart by bloodline, it felt like we were not just BFFs, but sisters. “She’s my best friend and wants to come with me,” I said, in a lame voice.
“Do you have any pictures of this friend of yours?”
I scrambled to open my bag, pulled out my phone and turned it on. I felt a slight sense of relief like we were going somewhere serious now. I shook the phone, silently urging the screen to wake up quickly.
The agent scraped back his chair to get up. “Find those pictures and wait for me here, okay?” He scooped the papers off the table and marched out.
It took me a few seconds to realize he’d dropped something. My airline ticket, my boarding pass, and the immigration document were all gone. My smaller and heavier passport booklet had dropped back onto the table. I stared at it motionless for half a minute. With shaking hands, I reached out and pulled it toward me. After a quick glance at the door, I slipped it inside my jacket pocket.
I sat back in my chair, my heart pounding. The door was fully open. Outside, a photocopy machine was whirring. I pushed my chair back quietly, tiptoed to the door and strained to listen. I could hear mumbling of voices nearby. I peeked out. About twenty-five feet away was a door to a large office. In the doorway was the agent, talking to someone. From where I was I could hear snatches of their conversation.
“Unauthorized entry...,” said a man’s voice from inside the office. From his sonorous tone and the way the agent was standing, I gathered this was the boss.
“...a song and dance about a kidnapping, sir,” the agent replied. I froze. He doesn’t believe me?
“...always have a good story, don’t they?”
“...not a threat....”
More mumbling.
“Captain needs to approve....”
“...hold her....”
“Cell four is available....”
Cell four?
I stood shocked for a second.
There was no way I was going to get locked up. Not with Katy in danger too. I bent down, removed my heels and thrust them in my bag as quietly as I could. Then, in my bare feet and my bag on my back, I stepped out of the room. The agent was still standing inside the office, his back to me.
With my heart in my mouth, I tiptoed along the wall.
No one was in sight. Ten steps from the interrogation room were two corridors. The one on the left would take me to the main terminal, which was tempting. But if I took the one on the right, I’d go deeper into a labyrinth of offices, a place they’d never expect me to go. With a pounding heart and trembling legs, I stepped into the corridor on the right.
I moved fast, turning from corridor to corridor until I became hopelessly lost. Other than a man in construction overalls who rushed by, and three cleaners walking along the corridor with their wash buckets in hand, I didn’t bump into anyone else. One of the cleaning women noticed my bare feet and gave me a dirty look. I ignored her and kept walking.
I had no idea where I was, but if I kept going, I’d come to an end, I was sure. And I did. At the far end of one corridor, I noticed a red “Exit” sign. I dashed toward it.
The sign on the exit door said “Restricted. Employees only.” Is it alarmed? I wondered as I shakily reached for the handle. Just as I did, the door banged open, and a man stepped inside, right on my foot, crushing my toes.
“Ow!”
“Sorry ’bout that! Stepped right on you there, didn’t I?”
I scrunched my face in pain.
It was a pudgy man who stood in front of me. He wore a white shirt with a silver name badge that said “Airport Lost & Found,” and he reeked of cigarette smoke.
“Here.” He flung the door wide open. “Next time I’ll check before I barrel in like that, luv.”
I looked at him and then at the opened door.
He gave a friendly smile. “Righto now. Sorry again.”
Before he could ask any questions, I stepped through the door and into a pile of warm cigarette butts.
Click.
I turned around and grabbed the handle. The door had locked behind me.
Chapter Six
It was chilly. I zipped up my jacket.
My toes were still throbbing, but it felt so much better to be outside. I was standing next to the concrete wall of the airport building. In front of me was a twelve-foot steel fence with a gate that led to a sparse parking lot.
The parking lot was also fenced in, reinforced with barbed wire on top, and at the far end was a security gate and a guard shed. No one was in sight. Except for three large transportation trucks parked in a corner of the lot, the area looked deserted.
What do I do now?
As I surveyed the scene, I heard an engine start.
I slipped through the gate and walked toward the vehicles, my bare feet not even feeling the cold concrete pavement. Exhaust smoke was coming out of one of the tailpipes. I glanced behind quickly to make sure an army of border agents weren’t storming out with guns in their hands and walked toward the truck.
A man appeared from behind and walked toward the driver’s door. I stood and watched him silently. He was a short, brawny, Indian-looking man, sporting a full beard, and a faded, cut-out T-shirt. It was one of those tops the always impeccably dressed Jose back in Toronto called “a wife-beater shirt.”
The man was at the driver’s door when he noticed me. He gave a surprised start. And stared.
I stared back.
“Hi,” I said, finally finding my voice. “I need a ride.”
He glared. It wasn’t encouraging, but I wasn’t going to back down now.
“I need a ride to town.”
“Take bus,” he said.
“It’s an emergency.”
“Always emergency.” He gave me a mocking look and opened the door.
“I can pay.”
That stopped him.
He turned and squinted at me while I shifted from foot to foot. His eyes traveled down to my feet, and I wished I’d put my shoes on before coming out.
“Ahmed’s girl?” he asked, looking interested now.
I nodded quickly and crossed my fingers. I was surprised the border guards hadn’t already come out, but they may have thought I’d disappeared into the main terminal.
“Hindu?” the man said.
I shook my head.
“Nepali?”
I shook my head again.
“Filipino?”
I desperately glanced behind me. I don’t have time for this.
“Sure,” I said.
“Aah.” His
eyes cleared. He nodded. “You talk like American.” He jerked his thumb toward the front of the truck. “Go inside.”
I ran to the other side, opened the door and jumped in. Without a word, the man got in and revved the engine. He’d just changed gears when I heard the yelling.
“Oi!”
I instantly crouched in my seat. The driver gave me a curious look.
“Check behind the shed!”
“To your right!”
The voices were coming from behind us.
“Nothing here!”
“Over there!”
The commotion was getting closer. I dropped further in my seat and felt sweat streaming down my back.
The driver grunted.
“Go there,” he said, pointing to the backseat. I didn’t wait to be asked twice. I crawled into the footwell in the back. Without any warning, he threw a heavy burlap sack that smelled of diesel fuel on me. I balled up tightly underneath it and tried not to breathe.
To my surprise, the driver chuckled softly to himself up front. I heard a click of the radio and Bollywood music flooded the truck.
“Ahoy there!”
My heart jumped.
“Good afternoon, sar,” the truck driver said, turning down the volume.
“May I see your papers?” It was a crisp British accent.
“Yes sar, I have clearance sar.” I heard paper being rustled. Then silence.
“All good,” said the other man. “Have you seen a young woman come this way a few minutes ago?”
Every nerve in my body trembled.
“No, sar. No girls, sar.”
“Petite, Indian origin.” The voice was close, very close. I could imagine an agent in blue, sticking his head through the window to survey inside.
“No, sar. I’m sorry sar.”
“Would you open the back for us please?”
“Yes, sar.” The trucker shut the engine off and got out. I heard the back of the truck being rolled open. Someone jumped in and walked around. I stayed hunkered down, not daring to move. After several seconds, the person jumped out and the door was rolled shut.
“If you see her, you must report to us immediately.”
“Absolutely, will do, sar.”
“Okay, you may leave now.”
And with that, the driver got back in, shut the door and the truck started to move. I stayed where I was. We had not moved even fifty feet when I heard someone call out again.
“Stop!”
Oh no.
The truck stopped, but the engine remained on.
Someone spoke in a language I didn’t understand, but I guessed it as an Indian dialect. The truck driver replied in the same language. They talked for a while, interrupting each other, laughing. It was like two friends chatting at a coffee shop. Their conversation lasted not more than two minutes, but under that diesel-soaked sack, it felt like an eternity.
To my relief, the truck began to move again. I stayed in the footwell for ten minutes at least, trying to think above the music blaring from the speakers.
Suddenly, the driver dialed down the music and called out, “You! Come here.”
Is he talking to me?
“You come here. They all go now.”
I pulled the sack off my back and unscrunched myself.
“Come.” The man patted the front seat.
I peeked out the window. We were on a highway somewhere. I crawled to the front seat and fished my shoes out of my bag. As I was putting them on, I felt the driver look my way.
“I protect you, you know.”
“Thank you.”
“You owe me.”
I kept quiet. I didn’t like the sound of that, but there was nothing I could do now.
“Coke?” he said.
“No, thank you.”
The man threw his head back and laughed. “No, you have drug? Coke?”
“No!” I shook my head.
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed.
“You work for Ahmed?”
I had no clue who that was, but he was giving me a ride on that pretense. I looked straight ahead, my mind racing. What do I say?
“You not have to lie. I know operation well,” he said, with a wide grin.
I cleared my throat. “I...er...I’m looking for my friend.”
“Your friend? She pretty like you?”
I ignored that. “Someone took her,” I said quietly.
“Took her, eh?” He sounded less surprised than the agent.
“I need to find her.”
“Only place they take girls is South Hill Square.”
“South Hill Square?”
“Sure as pudding. I take girls for Ahmed and Bob when they pay me extra. They always make me very happy.” He grinned.
“Can you take me there?”
“That is exactly what I am doing.” He gave me another creepy grin.
I inched closer to the door, my mind whirring. Can I trust him? How does he know where Katy was taken? Will the guards catch me? Will they put me in jail?
I felt the driver’s eyes running over my thighs. I moved my bag onto my lap so it covered my legs, then, as discreetly as I could, I pulled down my skirt as much as I could.
We drove in silence for about half an hour. We were going at a fairly steady speed, the music now blaring, and the driver humming and tapping the steering wheel. I sat as far away as I could, glad he wasn’t trying to take the conversation further.
I looked out of the window, seeing London for the first time, catching glimpses of the red Underground signs and the quintessential telephone booths I’d seen in Mrs. Rao’s travel magazines.
We drove by century-old brick buildings with beautiful stained-glass windows. Then, we’d turn a corner, and get thrust between towering glass skyscrapers that grazed the sky, making me feel like I was in Toronto again. When we’d take another corner, I’d glance at a quiet, green park with bronze fountains. If Goa had been a claustrophobe’s nightmare and Toronto a neophiliac’s dream, London was somewhere right in between.
The driver slowed down and turned onto a smaller road. I peered at the signs but they didn’t tell me anything. We could be anywhere in the city. From Mrs. Rao’s fancy magazines, I’d expected to see only steel bridges and high rises in London, so it was a surprise when we drove through this grungier part of town.
Here, graffiti decorated the walls, garbage littered the streets and potholes pitted the roads. Rows of run-down attached houses lined the street, with clotheslines hung out in front. Boys played on the streets while the girls and women with head veils sat on benches outside their homes with unsmiling looks on their faces.
“Is this South Hill?” I asked.
The truck driver merely grunted.
We kept winding through streets, sometimes so narrow we’d have been in trouble if a vehicle had come from the other direction. After several minutes of twisting and turning, we stopped at a work yard strewn with construction material. Lumber and metal rods lay haphazardly all over the place, and at the back was a small warehouse-like structure.
This doesn’t seem right. “Where are we?” I asked.
The driver didn’t say a word. He shut the engine off and stepped out, still humming to himself. My mind was on full alert. I clutched my bag close and watched him from the rearview mirror. I felt a shiver go through my spine as he walked to my side. What’s he doing? Before I could say anything, he yanked open the door and pulled me out of the truck.
I stumbled to the ground in shock, my bag tumbling down on me. I tried to get up but the man pinned me down by my shoulders.
“Hey! What are you doing?” I tried to jerk his arm off me. “Let me go!”
He curled his arm around my neck and pulled me to my feet.
“Stop!”
He tightened his grip around my neck, constricting my breathing. I thrashed madly, dug my heels into the ground, and hit whatever I could, trying not to get suffocated.
“You want South Hill Square, huh?”
he said. “You need to pay for that!” I heard him laugh, a coarse laugh. “You know how I take payment? You want to know?”
“Stop it!” I got enough air to yell out. I scratched the man’s arms and screamed, “Help!”
“Shut up, whore. What wrong with you? Other girls know how to behave. Ahmed not teach you anything?”
I pulled on his arms. “Help!” I croaked.
His grip tightened even further. I choked, half-coughing, half-spluttering.
“You shout and I will kill you.”
I felt his foul breath on my neck. He kept dragging me. I kept digging my heels in and didn’t stop struggling.
This was not the first time I’d had to fight my way out of a bad situation, and if there was one thing I knew, it was if I stopped fighting, I’d be dead. Only one thought went through my head: Keep on fighting. Keep on fighting. Keep on fighting.
We were at the warehouse doorway now. That was when I remembered something important from the self-defense class I took a long time ago in my international school.
I stopped struggling and slackened by body. He loosened his grip, thinking I’d given up the fight. I didn’t wait one second. I thrust my hands between my throat and the crook of his elbow, squeezed my chin and gasped for air. In the next second, I stomped on his foot with my right heel and let out a blood-curdling scream.
I ground my heel into his canvas shoe, right where his toes were.
The man let go, more in surprise than in hurt.
I didn’t hesitate.
I scrambled out and ran like mad.
Part TWO
Though you may see me holler,
And you may see me cry,
I’ll be dogged sweet baby,
If you’re gonna see me die.
Langston Hughes
Chapter Seven
I was in a red-light district somewhere in London.
Half-broken signs glowed on top of shops, buzzing on and off like insects caught in electric lights. The signs flashed: “Two for one,” “Nude Girls,” “Live Girls.” Live girls? Like animals at a zoo? I shuddered.
It had taken me two hours to walk to South Hill Square. I’d only stopped for half a second to grab my bag from near the truck before I’d raced out of the work yard. Now, my bag and my beautiful red shoes had become dirty, dusty, and a burden. I’d damaged my right heel so much it was close to coming off.
The Girl Who Made Them Pay Page 3