The Girl Who Made Them Pay

by Tikiri Herath

  I’d tried to call Katy but my phone kept giving me a “roaming not activated” message and a blinking red alert that said the battery was almost dead. So I slogged on, not knowing how close or how far I was. All I had was the name of a square and a general idea it was due south.

  Every little while, I’d stopped to ask for directions. Most people averted their eyes before I could even approach them. Others took a wide berth to avoid me. One woman pointed vaguely and rushed off.

  But I kept asking and I kept walking. Because if I stopped, that would mean I’d given up on Katy and that was one thing I wasn’t going to do. The image of her hanging limp in that man’s arms never left my mind. With every step, I prayed she was fine.

  The horrid incident with the truck driver felt like an ugly monsoon rain that had thundered in without warning, drenched me to the bone and vanished in seconds. I didn’t have time to digest what had just happened. I had scratches on my arms and a bruise on my thigh, but I didn’t want to think about that right now.

  It had taken half an hour to calm myself, to stop looking over my shoulder every few seconds, and to realize the trucker wouldn’t come after me in the middle of a busy street. So I put one foot in front of the other, on a road I’d never been on, in a city that seemed stranger every minute, in a country I wasn’t even supposed to be in.

  My anklet clinked with every step I took. I wondered how my cousin Preeti was doing. I was responsible for what had happened to her, my sweet, innocent cousin who’d been forced to marry the alcoholic in our village who’d been arranged to marry me. The image of that man’s red bulbous face flitted into my mind. The memory of him trying to force himself on me while I was still in my school uniform rushed in like a raging wildfire.

  I’d escaped that attack, but I still remembered the wave of unspeakable terror and nausea that had overcome me that day—much like I’d felt only a couple of hours earlier. Oh my god, what have I done to you, Preeti? Will you ever forgive me? I choked back my tears and kept moving.

  Hours later, when I wobbled into South Hill Square, I felt like I’d time-traveled three hundred years back.

  In one lonely corner of this cobblestone square stood a dilapidated clock tower. Next to it was a chipped brass fountain, which looked like it hadn’t worked for decades, maybe centuries. Remnants of trash and newspapers scattered in the wind.

  The perimeter was made of a row of two-story buildings, lopsided, decayed, and sad like they were watching a funeral in the middle of the square. At one point in time they must have been stately, but now, with their dusty windows, crooked doors, and twisted chimney tops, they made the square look like a Charles Dickens novel had come to life.

  I began by knocking on every door. My feet were sore and my back hurt but I walked into every shop, even those with neon lights in the shape of naked women. I had only one question to ask anyone who answered the door: “Did you see a redheaded girl come here today?”

  Most just shrugged or shook their heads and looked away before I could say anything more. One man kicked the door shut and another swore and told me to get out. One man said, “Sorry, luv, but I’d love to invite you inside ’ere wi’ me.” I quickly stepped away.

  In half an hour, I’d knocked on every door in the square, and all of them had opened except for one, even after I’d pummeled on it. I leaned against the crumbling brick wall of the clock tower to gather my thoughts, keeping one keen eye on the square.

  Katy has to be here, somewhere. Though the last person I could trust was the truck driver, something in my bones told me I was close to her.

  My head was spinning from exhaustion and hunger, and I no longer cared about border guards or police. If they came to take me, I’d have gone willingly. Part of me felt guilty for not having tried harder to convince them about Katy’s disappearance. Maybe, if I’d explained everything clearly and calmly, they’d have understood. Instead, I ran out like a criminal. But I am a criminal. Stealing money, even from crooks, is still a crime, isn’t it?

  Nearby, someone coughed. I turned around. A man in a grubby coat lay in the gutter, passed out, clenching a bottle wrapped in a filthy brown bag. Flies swarmed around his coat and a foul stench rose from him. He coughed again.

  Something buzzed over my head, and I looked up. One by one, the cast-iron light posts along the square were flickering on. Blobs of yellow light appeared from the windows of the homes and shops. I watched as the evening scene unfolded around me, wondering, worrying, still uncertain of what to do next. The place was deserted now. It was getting cool and the sky was getting dark.

  What do I do now?

  A chilly breeze rustled my hair. I shivered. I hadn’t slept or eaten much in the last twenty-four hours. I was beginning to feel weak, too weary to think. I slipped to the ground and leaned against my bag, hugging myself to stay warm.

  Is it Dick who got Katy kidnapped? How did he know we’re in London? Or was it Jose? He’s the big shot with cars, cash, and connections. Maybe his reach is bigger than we thought. But why did they take only Katy? She’s the sweetest person in the world, the one who gave Jose everything he asked for. She had her moments, and she knew how to fight back, but I was the rebel. All this couldn’t have been just a coincidence, could it?

  I’d been sure Dick and Jose would never come after us here but I hadn’t bargained for them having connections here.

  It was getting dark now and almost impossible to see. I hugged myself tighter.

  I’d come thousands of miles across the Atlantic with only one idea in mind: to get on that flight to India. But now, I’d gone and lost my best friend in a foreign country to horrors I didn’t even want to even think about. What surprised me was why Katy hadn’t struggled. She had a fire in her belly as red as her hair, and I’d seen what happened when someone crossed her.

  I put my head in my hands. I didn’t know if Katy was safe or hurt. I didn’t know if I’d end up in jail. I didn’t know if I’d ever get back to Goa and see Preeti again. I felt more lost and alone than I’d ever been in my life.

  A loud cough from the drunk man in the gutter interrupted my worries. My bum felt numb from sitting on the cold, hard pavement and my limbs had gone to sleep.

  Maybe it’s time to call the police.

  As far as I knew, there were no charges to dial 911 and it worked all the time, at least in Toronto. I wondered if it would be the same in London. Does 911 work here too?

  Chapter Eight

  I jumped.

  Something had woken me up.

  Bang!

  I swiveled my head around to see a wooden door swing on its hinges. Boisterous male laughter erupted through the open doorway, the noise spilling onto the quiet street.

  A man in a pair of dirty corduroy pants and a construction hat stood at the top of the steps and lit a cigarette. He stepped down to the pavement and flicked the match in my direction. I flinched as the burning stick fell two inches from my feet. He didn’t even notice me.

  I rubbed my eyes. Where am I? A light breeze was blowing and the air was cool. Up above me, the sky was a pale gray.

  My head felt heavy and swollen like it was filled with water. My face was rubbery and my legs were stiff. I still held my phone tightly in one hand.

  I looked around me. I was sitting cross-legged on the corner of a cobblestone street, in an unkempt square lined with run-down buildings. A clock tower pealed its bell above me, making me jump again.

  I counted seven chimes.

  Someone coughed. It took a minute to clear the haze in my brain. I was still in South Hill Square. I’d fallen asleep on the pavement next to the drunk, homeless man. He was still there, smellier than before, snoring into his grimy jacket.

  I looked up at the door that had just banged open. There were no neon signs of nude girls here. The sign was so inconspicuous I had to squint to find it. Above the handle, in small letters, were the words “Night Day Café.”

  After staring at it for a minute, I decided to get up. I stretche
d my legs painfully, my bones cracking like they were a hundred years old. I dusted my skirt, picked up my bag, and heaved it back on my shoulders.

  I made my way up the steps slowly and peeked through the door. It was hard to see. I inched the door open and a haze of smoke welcomed me.

  Inside, a TV was tuned to a football match. A dozen men sat in front of it drinking coffee, all eyes glued to the game. In one corner, an old man lay on a rug with cushions, smoking a hookah pipe. A poster with curly Arabic lettering on a green background hung on the wall behind him. Except for the oversized flat television screen, I felt like I’d walked into a scene from the One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.

  I stood at the doorway trying to figure out what to do. The smell of coffee and food made my stomach rumble. I hadn’t eaten for days now.

  “Oui?”

  I looked up to see a tall, thin waiter with short, curly black hair and a sliver of a mustache, wearing a long apron. His face clearly said he disapproved of this apparition in front of him.

  “Good morning,” I said and cleared my throat.

  He drew back slightly and looked me over. “Americaine?”

  I could see I’d risen a bit in his eyes.

  “Canadian,” I said.

  I’d spent my formative years in international schools in Africa where people came from all over the world, then went to a public school in India for three years, so my accent was as fusion as the cakes I baked. But having spent the past three years in Canada meant I’d added a distinctly North American drawl to the mix.

  The man merely shrugged. “How might I help?” he asked.

  “I’d like to use a phone, please.”

  “Use of phone is only for customers,” he said in a tart voice, his mouth curling in disapproval again.

  “Okay, then I’d like a coffee and a bun, please.”

  With a slight turn of his head, he indicated a table at the back of the shop, next to a sign that said “Toilets.” I stepped in and walked toward it. There was already a dirty cup on it. Next to my table sat four Middle Eastern looking men deep in discussion. I looked back at the waiter but he’d disappeared as silently as he’d appeared.

  I pushed the dirty cup away and sat down.

  With shaking hands, I put my phone on the table and turned the on-and-off switch five times. Nothing. I held it high and shook it in the air to catch a magic-battery-charging wave or something, but the screen remained silent. Not even a flicker of life. It hadn’t worked the night before and it wasn’t going to work today. I stared at it, thinking I’d do anything to hear Katy’s voice again.

  From where I sat, I could see part of the square outside. Is she out there somewhere? Does she know I’m looking for her? Is she okay?

  A bony hand slid an espresso and a brioche on my table.

  “Two quid.”

  The waiter stood beside my table but was pointedly looking at the TV. I fished out two one-pound coins from my purse, thankful I’d exchanged my dollars at the airport to buy lunch. I looked at them wistfully before handing them over. After paying for my air ticket, my purse was empty. These were my last coins.

  “Excuse me.” I looked up at the waiter. “I’m looking for someone. Can you help me?”

  He gave me a look that was something in between a sneer and a leer. He snatched the money from my hand and took off without a word, leaving me staring at his back as he vanished through the kitchen door.

  The men at the next table seemed to have taken an interest now.

  One of them leaned toward me. “American?”

  “Yes.” It was getting easier to lie.

  “What you doing here?” another asked.

  I looked at my phone and back at the men. “I’m looking for a friend.”

  “Me too,” one of them said, and this time there was no doubt it was a leer.

  I ignored him. “My friend came to this square in a black taxi yesterday.”

  They stared at me, blankly.

  “She’s tall, about five foot seven, in a red skirt. She was with a man in a black suit. Did you see someone like that?”

  Silence. One by one, they turned their eyes back to their coffee cups.

  “Did any of you see anything?” I asked louder and slower, thinking I’d spoken too fast or they hadn’t heard me over the TV.

  “We not see anything,” one of them said, not looking up.

  “Yeah, we see nothing every time,” said another man with a smirk to his tablemates.

  Someone chuckled. “No black girls here.”

  “She’s not black,” I said, shaking my head. “She’s a redhead, Irish Canadian.”

  “Check the bedrooms then.”

  Those words hit me like a punch to the stomach. I stared at him.

  “White girls go to the bedroom,” he said giving me an ugly smile. “Dark girls go to kitchen.”

  Someone guffawed.

  Another slapped him on his back.

  With a scowl, I scraped my chair back and got up. It was time to find the waiter and ask for the phone. I’d paid for my coffee and was a customer now.

  Just as I picked up my bag, a deafening howl filled the room. I fell back on my chair, my heart pumping wildly.

  Chapter Nine

  The men craned their necks to look outside.

  It took me two seconds to realize the sound I’d heard was a siren, a police siren, coming from the square.

  I got up and walked toward the main door.

  Three police vans came screeching to a halt outside, their sirens still blaring. Half a dozen officers with batons in hands spilled out of the vehicles. They lined up in front of the house directly across from the coffee shop. Then at the sound of an ear-piercing whistle, they charged inside, crashing down the door, hollering, “Police!”

  The café had fallen silent.

  The waiter was standing by his cash register, scowling. Someone had switched off the television. All eyes were on the scene unfolding outside.

  The house under siege was one I’d walked into last night, the one with the sign that said “Live Nude Girls,” where the sleazy man had invited me in. Right now, a scuffle was breaking out in front of it.

  Police yelled. People shouted.

  A group of men bolted out of the house and scuttled all over the square like crabs at a beach. One tried to put on his shirt as he ran out, and another stopped to put on a shoe and was promptly apprehended. I watched, my heart beating crazily, with an uneasy feeling this had something to do with Katy’s disappearance.

  Out came a burly officer pushing a well-dressed man in front of him. It was a man in a black suit with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

  I did a double take. My mouth went dry. Feeling like I was moving through molasses, I stepped out of the café and onto the steps. The man in the suit was pushing and pulling like a steer at a rodeo, trying to break the officer’s grip. He thrashed around until a second officer ran up to help the first. Between the two, they pinned him against the van and put him in handcuffs.

  Is this the man who took Katy?

  I took an unsteady step down. Is it him? That was when I noticed the stubble on his chin and his graying hair. This man was older, paunchier and shorter than the man I’d seen at the airport. He could have shaved, but he couldn’t have gone gray and shrunk overnight. No, it wasn’t him, but the resemblance was eerie.

  A thought struck me. I hadn’t seen the man who took Katy that clearly. He’d looked taller, but it had all been a blur.

  I stood on the steps of the café, unsure if I was making a mistake, unsure how to approach the police even if I knew he was the right man. Before I could do anything, the officers shoved him in the back of the vehicle, already crammed to the hilt with the other men, and slammed the doors shut. Within seconds, the van tore out of the square, tires screeching on the cobblestones.

  A cry made me spin the other way.

  A stream of girls was now pouring out of the house. I watched as they shuffled out, heads hung low, tryi
ng to hide their faces, faces so pale they looked like they hadn’t seen sunlight in a long time. They weren’t handcuffed but they all looked shell-shocked. Most were teens, others much younger.

  Feeling numb and with my heart in my mouth, I scrutinized every one of them. Is Katy here?

  One young girl, a skinny blonde wearing only her panties, was clearly in distress. She sobbed loudly as she walked out, her arms hugging her naked chest. Seeing her broke my heart. I looked on with a lump in my throat as an officer threw a blanket over her shoulders and helped her into the van.

  “That’s the lot,” another officer yelled. “We’re done.”

  Wait. Where’s Katy?

  I was just about to dash toward the van when from across the square I saw someone I recognized.

  In those two seconds I stood gaping, the police got into their vans, shut the doors, and took off, lights blazing and sirens blaring.

  The square fell suddenly silent, a deathly silence like everything had frozen in place.

  A burst of harsh laughter broke the spell. I swiveled around to see the men inside chuckle among themselves. Some picked up the hookah pipes they’d mislaid during the excitement, others signaled the waiter for more coffee, and another grabbed the remote to turn the soccer game on again.

  I turned around and looked back at the square.

  There. She was still there. Walking away from me.

  I jumped down the steps and ran.

  “Katy!” I yelled.

  Chapter Ten

  “Katy!”

  She didn’t look back. But it had to be her. A redhead in a short skirt, walking toward the other end of the square. I was so busy looking at her, I barely noticed the ghostly figure next to her.

  I dashed across the square, waving frantically.

  “Katy!”

  I was getting closer now. It looked like either Katy had grown a tad taller or her skirt had shrunk.