Deception!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  On my fifteenth birthday, my mother had a surprise for me. She’d saved some money out of her scant housekeeping and bought me a penknife. Well, it was more than just an ordinary penknife; it was a lock knife with a studded wooden handle. All day, I kept pulling it out of my pocket, flicking it open and pretending to slice through something. My father watched me and didn’t say anything. Then he stomped off to the pub. And for once, I was still there when he returned.

  ‘Oh look,’ he sneered as soon as he came through the door, ‘it’s the bleedin’ birthday boy. Still playing around with that toy knife of yours, are you?’ I ignored him, which seemed to make him even madder.

  ‘Hey, I’m talking to you, boy,’ he growled.

  My mother cleared her throat nervously.

  ‘Answer your father, Michael,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, answer your father, Michael,’ he parroted in a high pitched voice, ‘or you’ll feel the back of my hand across that smug face of yours.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m as big as you now—and I’ve got all my limbs too!’ I don’t know what got into me. I’d never argued back at him before, but that day, it all got too much for me.

  For an injured man on crutches, he could move a lot faster than I realised. With a roar of anger, he launched himself across the room and cannoned into me, knocking me down into an armchair. Leaning against the back, he raised one of his crutches and brought it down across my left arm which was stretched out trying to stop my fall. It didn’t hurt too much, but the next one did—and the next—and the next. I heard my mother scream and beg him to stop, but he wasn’t going to listen to her, now was he?

  I curled into a ball on the chair and wrapped my left arm, numb as it was, around my head to protect myself. With my other hand, I pulled my knife out of my pocket and flicked it open. Then rolling to the edge of the seat, I dropped to the floor and slashed upwards, catching him on his good leg, just behind the knee. He went down like a rock face after an explosion and lay wailing on the floor beside me. My mother screamed again.

  Jumping to my feet, I ran for the door, grabbing my coat from the hook on my way past. I was out of the house within seconds. It was the last time I clapped eyes on either of my parents. I had no idea how much damage I’d done with my knife—and I didn’t care.

  I spent that first night hiding under a hedge near the pit. I had friends I knew would be willing to take me in—but I also knew my father, or even the police, would look there first. In the morning, I crept into the back garden of the pit manager’s cottage. The milkman had been earlier, leaving two pint bottles on the doorstep. I grabbed one and drank it straight down. There was an apple tree leaning against the back fence with a good crop of early fruit. It was tart, not really ready for eating, but my belly was so empty, I just gobbled one down, then reached up for a couple more to put in my pocket.

  ‘Hey, get out of there, you little tyke,’ came a shout from the upstairs window. The manager was just getting up ready for the early shift and by bad luck had been looking out of the window at the wrong moment. I jumped over the back fence and headed down the road before he had time to come downstairs and catch me.

  I walked for the next week, sleeping in barns or bus shelters, stealing food where I could and foraging for fruit and vegetables the rest of the time. Seven days into my sixteenth year, I smelled salt in the air and from the top of a hill, looked down on the sea for the first time. I had reached Liverpool.

  Like many waifs and strays, I headed for the waterfront. I wasn’t the only child living rough in the city and I teamed up with a group of kids down by the docks. They showed me how to keep warm by wrapping myself in newspaper at night. They told me about the Seamen’s Mercy Mission on Hanover Street, set up to help all sailors fallen on hard times, but also willing to help anyone in trouble. And they introduced me to Father Pat, a young clergyman in a tough seafront parish, who could always be relied upon to provide a penny for a cup of tea and a piece of toast, no questions asked.

  ‘What are you going to do with your life?’ he asked me one day as we sat on a bench on the docks, looking out at the seagulls squawking on the breeze. ‘You’re a smart lad; you don’t belong out here on the streets.’

  ‘God knows!’ I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  ‘Yes, son, I know He does,’ was the gentle reply, ‘but He’s not going to make any moves for you. You’re going to have to sort things out for yourself.’

  I took my knife out of my pocket and started flipping it open and closed. It was the only thing I’d brought with me from my old life.

  ‘Have you thought about emigrating?’ he asked. ‘Going off to another country, where there’s more opportunities for a young lad like yourself.’

  I stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Are you mad? How can I do that? I have no papers, no passport, and no money.’

  But he just laughed.

  ‘Oh, I think we can get around that problem,’ he said. ‘Where do you fancy? How about America. The land of the free? Milkshakes, Frank Sinatra, Hollywood, motherhood and apple pie.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. But how would I get there?

  ‘Don’t worry about that, son; I’ll sort it out,’ he said. And I believed him. Why wouldn’t I?

  Father Pat took me to meet a friend of his; a grizzled old captain with a wall eye and breath that stank of fish and stale tobacco. He looked me up and down, then sniffed, cleared his throat and spat on the pavement.

  ‘Ah well, he’s a bit scrawny, but I guess he’ll do all right!’ he said. ‘Tomorrow night, dock 9, eight o’clock.’ And turning on his heel he stomped away down the lane towards the nearest pub. I felt a shiver of excitement and fear, mixed with cold, but that faded as Father Pat clapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘I think he likes you! Now make sure you’re not late tomorrow. The good captain doesn’t tolerate poor timekeeping—and you don’t get chances like this every day!’

  I spent the last day with my little gang of mates down by the docks, chucking stones over the sea wall and watching the crowds embarking on the big ocean-going liner that was due to leave in the evening. One of the kids asked if this was the ship I was going to be on.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘Mine’s on dock 9, over on the cargo side, not here among the passenger ships. But we’re all going to the same place, so who knows? I may bump into some of these fine folks when I get to America.’

  At first sight, the Prince Albert wasn’t much to look at—and she didn’t get any better on second look either. She was much smaller than the liner; originally red and white but now so covered in rust that it was more orange and grey. Her deck was full of crates and odd shaped packages covered in rope netting. The captain was standing on deck chatting to a couple of scruffy looking sailors, who spoke with a strange accent, which I took to be American. They talked so fast, I could barely follow half of what they said.

  ‘Welcome on board, young man,’ said the captain, giving me what I recognised, even in my innocence, as a mocking bow. The sailors grinned evilly at me and I decided I would keep out of their way as much as possible on the voyage.

  Within a short while, the ropes were released, the anchor lifted and we pulled away from the jetty. I stood on deck until the lights of the harbour were just pinpricks in the distance. Then I turned away, wondering if I would ever see England again. Although at that point, I don’t think I really cared.

  The captain was standing at the hatchway leading down to the crew quarters and engine room. I gave him a grin as I walked towards him.

  ‘How long will it take, Captain?’ I asked, ‘to get to America? When are we going to arrive?’

  He stared at me, then gave one of his trademark spits.

  ‘A bloody long time, boy. We’re not going to America. Who told you that?’ I looked around wildly, but the lights of the shore had finally disappeared and all I could see was the stars and a trace of moonlight on the wake of the
boat behind us. ‘We’re headed for the Dark Continent, boy! Didn’t your precious Father Pat tell you?’

  ‘But I don’t understand...’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t make no matter with me! We’re bound for Cape Town. Got a few stops along the way, so we should be there in about six weeks. I told Father Pat I needed a strong lad to run errands, help in the kitchen and who knows what else—and he brought you to me.’ I stared at him in disbelief. Then I started to tremble; with fear, with rage, with cold, or maybe a mix of all three. He reached across and grabbed me by my shoulders and gave me a shake. ‘Snap out of it, boy, and get below. Cook needs help getting supper ready.’

  That was one of the longest six weeks of my life. The captain was tough but fair; but the seven members of his crew were vile and took every opportunity to make my life a misery. If I did anything too slowly, I got a cuff around the head. If they thought I was being smart or cheeky, I got the back of their hands across my face. When we were in port, they locked me in one of the storage lockers. They made me eat last, and often there was very little food left.

  And at night, I lay on my bunk in the darkness, waiting for the inevitable scrape of boot on metal and rough hands under the bedclothes as one or other of them forced themselves on me, quickly, brutally, silently. Many times I thought of twisting around and plunging my knife into one loathsome belly or another, or fantasised about slicing through their balls, so they could never do this to anyone else. But I was trapped on a small boat with a harsh crew and no-one else knew I was there, or cared. If I hurt one of them, I knew the others would have no compunction in throwing me overboard. And no-one would ever know the difference.

  Then one morning, we reached land. I’d struggled up from sleep and forced myself on deck, wondering just how many more nights I could take. And in front of me at last was the sight I’d prayed so long for. A harbour, a growing township, and behind, a flat mountain, looking like some giant had sliced the top off with his knife. And as I stood looking out over the water and felt the African sun on my back for the very first time, I swore no-one would take advantage of me, ever again. My parents, Father Pat, the captain and crew of the Prince Albert. I was done with all of them. And I was going to be the strong one from then on.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘Attention span of a grasshopper, our Nigel,’ Megan whispered, creeping up on Suzanne as she was processing the scene she’d just observed and wondering just what the elderly man had done to upset Atkinson. ‘Come on, let’s get you some food.’

  Suzanne was momentarily irritated, as she’d planned to slip quietly away, back to the hotel. But in the event, she decided to relax and let the following week take care of itself. Megan was good company; funny, scathing and totally lacking in respect for anyone. At least that’s what she was like when she was off-duty.

  When Suzanne phoned Sunshine Supplements first thing the following morning, Megan was back in professional mode, telling her Nigel Atkinson had cleared his diary for the day and was expecting her at ten-thirty am. She jumped in a taxi and just made it in time, to be met by a smiling Megan at the door of the huge glass building in the industrial municipality of Diadema, south-east of the city centre and some fifteen kilometres from her hotel.

  After signing her in, Megan took Suzanne to her boss’s office for coffee and an introductory talk. Suzanne and Charlie had spent time the previous week working on the role she would adopt; and she slipped into it cautiously, holding out her hand to shake his.

  ‘Mr Atkinson, it’s so good of you to see me. I know you must be really busy, what with the new product and all.’

  ‘Nigel, please!’ he replied, ‘You’re not in stuffy old London town now, young lady. This is Latin America.’ And waving aside her outstretched hand, he took hold of her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘And we don’t shake hands over here either.’

  Megan poured three cups of coffee and then joined them on easy chairs in a corner of the sumptuous room the CEO of Sunshine Supplements used as an office. The three of them chatted inconsequentially about the weekend race meeting and then Atkinson checked his Rolex and cleared his throat.

  ‘Right, let’s get started. How do you want to play this?’

  ‘Well, I thought we’d start with some general questions about you, get to know the man behind Sunshine Supplements and then talk about the company and the products,’ said Suzanne. ‘Although,’ and she gave a self-deprecating little laugh, ‘you’ll have to go easy on the scientific terms. I was never keen on chemistry at school.’

  ‘Nigel, why don’t you give Suzanne the factory tour first?’ said Megan. ‘That way, she’ll have a better idea of what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Great suggestion.’ He drained his coffee cup and jumped up. ‘Are you going to join us, Megan?’

  But she was already heading back to her desk.

  ‘I’ve got a ton of work to catch up on after last week. I’ll leave you to it and see you at lunchtime. I’ve booked us a table for two o’clock.’

  From the street, the Sunshine Supplements building looked modern and state of the art. The glass-fronted building, although owned by Nigel Atkinson, housed not only his offices, but also a number of tenants, mostly medical professionals, judging by the list of names in the foyer. Atkinson told her that despite its industrial roots, Diadema was building quite a reputation for itself in the service sector, especially in the field of healthcare. The factory was an older, two-storey structure at the rear of the site, the two buildings connected by a covered walkway.

  There was a suit of white factory clothing waiting for each of them in the visitors’ changing room. Suzanne watched with interest as Atkinson donned the coat, buttoned it up carefully and put on the disposable hat. She copied his actions, all the time pretending this was completely new to her.

  The supplement was a variation on the popular herbal tea drunk by so many people across the continent and was provisionally called Super Fit, although Megan had told her they were exploring the possibility of changing it to Super Maté. As a tea, it was classified as a foodstuff rather than a pharmaceutical. Suzanne had confirmed this through ANVISA, the Brazilian regulatory agency, before leaving the UK. So she was very interested to see it was being made in cleanroom conditions, just as one would make a tablet or a capsule. From other food factories she’d visited over the years, she knew this was highly unusual. Normally, producers went for the most basic facilities they could get away with. This was apparently not the case in Sunshine Supplements. She made a note to herself to explore this question at some point, but without alerting Atkinson to her knowledge of this technology.

  Super Fit was in the form of dried leaves mixed with powdered granules, filled into gauze packets which were then sealed in paper and packed into boxes of ten.

  ‘Oh, they look just like ordinary tea bags,’ Suzanne said when they stood in the corridor looking into the packing hall. She had already ‘ooh’d’ and ‘aah’d’ her way around the manufacturing rooms, hoping to convince Atkinson she was seeing this sort of facility for the first time.

  ‘Yes, I suppose they do to a lay person,’ he said, smiling at her in the way she remembered teachers smiling when she’d given the right answer in class. ‘But they pack much more of a punch than that. Well, you saw that yesterday, didn’t you? Some of ‘our’ runners did really well in the marathon.’

  They continued walking and then entered an open area two storeys high, with racking reaching to the roof.

  ‘I guess this would be the warehouse,’ Suzanne said.

  ‘Smart girl.’

  Atkinson was obviously very proud of this part of the factory, and Suzanne could understand why. It was pretty much state of the art, with robotic controls and transport systems. He began spouting all sorts of statistics and Suzanne pretended to write them all down. But really, she was taking note of the chemicals she could see stored on the shelves. There were some standard ones she expected to find, like lactose and starch
, both of which would have been used to make the granules. But there were others she was very surprised to see. I need to go away and think about all this and do some research, she thought. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Atkinson.’ He raised an eyebrow at her and she amended it. ‘I mean, Nigel, did you have much difficulty with the authorities?’

  ‘In what way?’ he said, looking confused.

  ‘Well, with health and safety. People are much more cagey about how this sort of product is made, aren’t they?’

  ‘No, no,’ he waved his hand dismissively, ‘this is a foodstuff, my dear, not a medicine. It’s not subject to the same rules and regulations as other powders and potions produced for athletes and others.’ He nodded his head and smiled at her. ‘So everything went very well with the authorities, I’m pleased to say.’

  Suzanne wasn’t at all convinced by his performance, but decided this was the time to stop asking questions. She didn’t want to raise his suspicions.