The Mister

by James, E L

“Of course you did.”

  And I have to touch her, so that she knows I’m on her side. Folding both her hands in one of mine, I squeeze gently. The temptation to haul her into my lap and just hold her is overwhelming, but I resist. She needs to talk. She gives me a hesitant look, and I let go. “I went in a small bus to Shkodër, and there we move into the big truck. Dante and Ylli are there with five other girls. One of them has…I mean—is only seventeen years.”

  I gasp. Shocked. So young.

  “Her name is Bleriana. On the truck. We talked. A lot. She lives in the north of Albania, too. In Fierza. We became friends. We made plans to find work together.” She stops—lost in the horror of her story, or maybe she’s wondering what became of her friend.

  “And they take everything from us. Except the clothes we are wearing and our shoes. There is only one bucket in the back….You know.” Her voice fades.

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yes. The smell.” She shudders. “And all we have is a bottle of water. One bottle for each of us.” Her leg starts jiggling, and her face pales—I’m reminded of how she looked when I first met her.

  “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you. I want to know.”

  She turns dark, devastated eyes to me. “Do you?”

  “Yes. But only if you want to tell me.”

  Her eyes move over my face, scrutinizing me. Exposing me, like that first time in my hallway.

  Why do I want to know?

  Because I love her.

  Because she’s the sum of all her experiences, and this, sadly, is one of them.

  She takes a deep breath and continues, “We were in the truck for three, four days maybe. I don’t know how long. We stopped before the truck went on a—what is the word?—ferry. For carrying cars and trucks. We were given bread. And black plastic bags. We had to put them over our heads.”

  “What?”

  “It is to do with the immigration. They measure the, um…dioksidin e karbonit?” She flounders for the words.

  “Carbon dioxide?”

  “Yes. That is it.”

  “In the cab?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know, but if there is too much, the authorities know there are people in the truck. They measure it. Somehow.

  “We drove onto the ferry. The noise was loud. Too loud. The engines. The other trucks…and we were in the dark. My head in the plastic bag. And then the truck stopped. The engine was off, and all we could hear was the creaking and groaning of the metal and the tires. The sea was rough. So rough. We were all lying down.” Her fingers move to the little cross at her neck, and she starts to fiddle with it. “It was hard to breathe. I thought I was going to die.”

  A lump forms in my throat. My voice is hoarse. “No wonder you don’t like the dark. That must have been terrifying.”

  “One of the girls was sick. The smell.” She stops and gags.

  “Alessia…”

  But she continues. She seems compelled. “Before we went on the ferry, when we are eating the bread, I heard Dante say in English—he did not know that I understood the language—he said that we would be earning our money on our backs. And I knew our fate.”

  My fury is swift, burning through my blood. I wish I’d killed the fucker when I had the chance and dumped his body the way Jenkins suggested. I have never felt as inadequate as I do in this moment. Alessia drops her head, and I lift her chin gently with my fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

  She turns to face me, and there’s a fire in her eyes. It’s not sorrow reflected back at me, or self-pity—she’s angry. Really angry. “I heard rumors, before. Girls missing from our town and from neighboring villages. And from Kosovo. It was in the back of my mind when I boarded the bus—but you always hope.” She swallows, and beneath her anger I see the anguish in her eyes. She feels like a fool.

  “Alessia, you are not to blame, and neither is your mother. She acted in good faith.”

  “She did. And I had to get away.”

  “I understand.”

  “I told the girls what Dante said. And three of them believed me. Bleriana, she believed me. And when we had the chance to escape, we did. We ran. I don’t know if the others succeeded. I don’t know if Bleriana got away.” There’s a trace of guilt in her voice. “I had Magda’s address on a piece of paper. People here were celebrating Christmas. I walked for days….I think it was six or seven days. I don’t know. Until I reached her house. And she looked after me.”

  “Thank God for Magda.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you sleep while you were walking?”

  “I didn’t sleep. Not really. It was too cold. I found a shop, and I stole a map.” She lowers her gaze.

  “I can’t begin to imagine this horror that you’ve been through, and I’m sorry.”

  “You do not have to be sorry.” She gives me a slight smile. “This was before I met you. Now you know. Everything.”

  “Thank you for telling me.” I lean over and kiss her forehead. “You brave, brave woman.”

  “Thank you for listening.”

  “I’ll always listen, Alessia. Always. Shall we go home now?”

  Seemingly relieved, she gives me a nod, and I restart the engine and reverse out of the space. I head for the slip road back to the motorway.

  “There’s one thing I want to know,” I add, reflecting on the horrid tale she’s just shared.

  “What?”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Who?”

  “Your…betrothed.” I spit the word out. I loathe him.

  She shakes her head. “I never say his name.”

  “Like Voldemort,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Harry Potter?”

  “You know Harry Potter?”

  “Oh, yes. My grandmother—”

  “Don’t tell me, she smuggled the books into Albania?”

  Alessia laughs. “No. She had them sent to her. By Magda. My mother read them to me as a child. In English.”

  “Ah, another reason you speak such good English. Is she fluent as well?”

  “Mama? Yes. My father…he does not like it when we speak to each other in English.”

  “I bet.” The more I hear about her father, the more I dislike him, too. But I keep that to myself. “Why don’t you find another song?”

  She scrolls through the screen, and her eyes light up when she finds RY X. “We danced to this song.”

  “Our first dance.” I smile at the memory. It seems like a lifetime ago.

  We settle into a comfortable silence, both of us listening to the music. She seems preoccupied by the rhythm, swaying gently to and fro. And I’m happy to see that she’s recovered her equilibrium after telling her harrowing story.

  While she chooses another song, I brood. This man, this fucker who harmed her, her betrothed, I want to know everything about him if I am to protect her from him. I need to sort out Alessia’s legal status, urgently—but I have no idea how. Marrying her would help, but I think she needs to be here legally for me to do that. I resolve to call Rajah as soon as possible.

  I smirk as we pass the junction for Maidenhead, and shake my head, amused by my own idiocy. I’m embracing my inner twelve-year-old boy. I glance at Alessia, but she hasn’t noticed. She’s deep in thought, tapping her finger against her lips.

  “His name is Anatoli. Anatoli Thaçi,” she says.

  What? “He who must not be named?”

  “Yes.”

  Mentally I file the arsehole’s name away. “You decided to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he has more power without a name.”

  “Like Voldemort?”

  She nods.

  “What does he do?”

  “I am not sure. My f
ather owes him a big debt, something to do with his business, I think. But I don’t know what. Anatoli is a powerful man. Rich.”

  “Really?” My voice is dry. I hope to God that my bank balance is bigger than his.

  “I don’t think his business is…um…legal. Yes?”

  “Yep. That’s how we’d say it. He’s a crook.”

  “A gangster.”

  “What is it with you and gangsters?” I scowl. She chuckles, and it’s the most disarming and unexpected sound. “What’s so funny?”

  “Your face.”

  “Ah.” I grin. “That’s reason enough.”

  “I love your face.”

  “I’m rather attached to it as well.”

  She laughs once more and then sobers. “You are right. He is not funny.”

  “He’s not. But he’s far away. He can’t hurt you here. We’ll be home soon. Can we listen to the Rachmaninoff again?”

  “Sure,” she says, scrolling through the screen once more.

  * * *

  I pull the F-Type up outside the office, and Oliver comes out to greet me and hand over new keys for my flat.

  “This is my girlfriend, Alessia Demachi.” I lean back, and Oliver reaches through the car window to shake Alessia’s hand.

  “How do you do,” he says. “I’m sorry we’re not meeting under better circumstances.” He gives her a warm smile.

  Her answering smile is dazzling.

  “I hope you’ve recovered from your ordeal.”

  Alessia nods.

  “Thanks for sorting all this out,” I say. “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.” He gives me a wave, and I ease the Jag into the traffic.

  * * *

  Maxim carries the bags from the car to the elevator. It’s odd to be back here, knowing that she’ll now be staying. The doors open, and they step in, and Maxim drops her bag and pulls her into his arms. “Welcome home,” he whispers, and her heart skips a beat. She strains upward to kiss him. And his lips find hers, kissing her hard and long until she forgets her name.

  When the doors open, they are both breathless.

  An old lady is standing at the entrance to the elevator. She’s wearing large dark sunglasses, a garish red hat, with earrings and coat to match, and she’s clutching a diminutive hairball of a dog. Maxim releases Alessia. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Beckstrom.”

  “Oh, Maxim. How lovely to see you,” she replies in a high-pitched voice. “Or should I address you by your title now?”

  “Maxim is fine, Mrs. B.” He maneuvers Alessia out of the elevator and holds the door back for the old lady. “This is my girlfriend, Alessia Demachi.”

  “How do you do?” Mrs. Beckstrom beams at Alessia but continues talking before Alessia can reply. “I see you’ve had the front door repaired. I hope you didn’t lose much during the burglary.”

  “Nothing that can’t be replaced.”

  “I hope they don’t come back.”

  “I think the police have them already.”

  “Good. I hope they hang them.”

  Hang? They hang people here?

  “I’m off to walk Heracles, now it’s finally stopped raining.”

  “Enjoy your walk.”

  “I’ll do just that. You, too!” And she looks sideways at Alessia, who cannot help but blush. The doors close, and Mrs. Beckstrom disappears.

  “She’s been my neighbor forever. She’s about a thousand years old, and she’s batty.”

  “Batty?”

  “Crazy,” he explains. “And don’t be fooled by that dog. He’s a vicious little bastard.”

  Alessia smiles. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Since I was nineteen.”

  “I don’t know how old you are.”

  He laughs. “Old enough to know better.”

  She frowns while Maxim unlocks the front door.

  “I’m twenty-eight.”

  Alessia grins. “You are an old man!”

  “Old. I’ll give you old!” He bends suddenly, surprising her, and scoops her up over his shoulder, avoiding her bruised side. She squeals and laughs as he waltzes into the apartment.

  The alarm bleeps, and Maxim turns around until Alessia is facing the alarm panel. Breathless, she enters the new code that he gives her, and when the beeping stops, Maxim slides her down his front so that she’s once more in his arms.

  “I’m glad you’re here with me,” he says.

  “I am glad, too.”

  From his pocket he draws the keys that Oliver gave him earlier. “For you.”

  Alessia takes them. They’re on a key chain with a blue leather fob that reads ANGWIN HOUSE.

  “The keys to the kingdom,” she says.

  Maxim grins. “Welcome home.” He bends to kiss her, his lips coaxing hers. She groans as she responds, and they lose themselves in each other.

  * * *

  Alessia screams as she climaxes. It’s a cock-hardening sound. Her fingers are clenched around the sheets. Her head tossed back. Her mouth open. I kiss her clitoris as she writhes beneath me, then her belly, her navel, her stomach, and her sternum as she mewls, and taking her cries into my mouth, I ease into her.

  * * *

  My phone buzzes. And without looking at the caller ID, I know it’s Caroline. I’d promised to see her. Ignoring the phone, I gaze down at Alessia, who is dozing beside me. She’s becoming quite demanding in bed—and I like it. Leaning down, I kiss her shoulder, and she stirs.

  “I have to go out,” I murmur.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to see my sister-in-law.”

  “Oh.”

  “I haven’t seen her for days, and I need to talk some things through with her. I won’t be long.”

  Alessia sits up. “Okay.” She glances out the window. It’s dark.

  “It’s six P.M.,” I tell her.

  “Shall I make something for us to eat?”

  “If you can find something. Please.”

  She smiles. “I’ll do that.”

  “If you can’t find anything, we’ll go out. I’ll be about an hour.” Reluctantly I throw the quilt aside, get out of bed, and start to dress under Alessia’s appreciative gaze.

  I don’t tell her that I’m dreading this meeting.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Good evening, my lord,” Blake says as he opens the front door to Trevelyan House.

  “Hello, Blake.” I don’t correct him. After all, as much as it pains me, I am the earl. “Is Lady Trevethick at home?”

  “I believe she’s in the morning room.”

  “Great. I’ll see myself up. Oh, and thank Mrs. Blake for clearing up after the burglary. She’s done a great job.”

  “Will do, my lord. Very unfortunate business. May I take your overcoat?”

  “Thanks.” I slip out of my coat, and he folds it over his arm.

  “Something to drink?”

  “No. I’m good. Thanks, Blake.”

  I vault up the stairs, turn left, take a deep, steadying breath, and open the morning room door.

  * * *

  Alessia examines the chaos that is the walk-in closet off Maxim’s bedroom. The drawers, the racks—they are all bursting with his clothes, leaving no room to store hers. She takes her duffel bag through to the spare room and proceeds to unpack, hanging her new clothes in the small armoire.

  Placing her bag of toiletries on the bed, she wanders through the apartment. Everything is achingly familiar, but now she’s viewing the place from a new perspective. She’d always thought of Maxim’s home as a place of work. She had never dared to imagine that one day she might be living here with him. She’d never aspired to live in a place as grand as this. She does a twirl in the doorway of the kitchen, feeling giddy and grateful—and happy. It’s
a precious and rare feeling. She still has so much to figure out in her life, but for the first time in a long time she’s hopeful. With Maxim at her side, she feels that no obstacle is insurmountable. She wonders if he’ll only be an hour….She’s missing him.

  She runs her fingers along the wall of the hallway. The photographs that had been hanging there have disappeared. Maybe they were stolen during the burglary.

  The piano!

  She races into the living room. It’s still there, unscathed. Breathing a sigh of relief, she switches on the lights. The room looks fresh and clean, his record collection in place. But the desk is bare—the computer and the sound gear gone. Here, too, the photographs that used to hang on the walls are missing. She walks with trepidation toward the piano, scrutinizing all its parts. Under the glow of the chandelier, it’s glossy and gleaming—newly polished, she thinks. Placing her hand on the ebony, she walks around it, stroking its sweeping curves. When she gets to the business end, she notices that his compositions are gone. Perhaps they’ve been tidied away. She lifts the lid and presses middle C: it’s a golden sound that rings through the empty room, seducing her, calming her…centering her. She sits down on the stool, shakes off her feelings of solitude, and begins to play Bach’s Prelude no. 23 in B Major.

  * * *

  Caroline is sitting by the fire, staring into the flames, huddled in a tartan throw. She doesn’t look around when I walk in.

  “Hi.” My subdued greeting competes with the crackle of the fire. Caroline angles her head toward me, her expression forlorn, her mouth turned down in sorrow.

  “Oh, it’s you.” she says.

  “Who were you expecting?” She hasn’t risen to greet me and I’m beginning to feel a little unwelcome.

  She sighs. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about what Kit would be doing now if he were here.” From nowhere my grief emerges and smothers me like an itchy woolen blanket. I shrug it off, swallowing the lump that’s sticking in my throat. When I get closer to her, I see she’s been crying.

  “Oh, Caro…” I murmur, and squat beside her chair.