Chapter 9

*****

A figure watches from the shadows, the stage curtain pulled back just enough to see the man approaching her.

Beautifully dressed and made up, she smiles a welcome. The man is short and badly overweight. There is no possibility this man is a boyfriend or a husband, but his clothes are expensive. And when he snaps fingers at the barman, ordering champagne to be sent to the room, it is of the best, a fine vintage.

As the pair walk off in the direction of the elevator, Stephen leans back against the wall. He stares up, then slides down onto his haunches, dropping his face into his hands.

*****

David’s grim-faced brother glances up from where, with a pair of tweezers, he eases a metallic blue butterfly into position on a card. Still and dead though the insect is, its colours are brilliant. “Seen them safely off?”

“Yes. I made sure they had the tickets, the cash, their passports, and I saw them to passport control. The honeymoon’s all in their hands now.”

“Good.”

David casts an eye at his brother. “We need to talk.”

Stephen doesn’t look up. “About what?”

“You know what. Shelley.”

“What about her?”

“For God’s sake, Stephen. She’s our sister. She was still a kid when….”

“Yes, still a kid. And do you know what she’s been doing since? How she’s been earning a living?”

David stalls, looking uncertain. “No, I don’t. What….?”

His face red and angry, Stephen blares out the words. “Well, I do.”

David slow-blinks, then glances around the room. He sees the empty spot on the mantle. “Where’s her photograph?”

“Whose photograph?”

“You know perfectly well who. Where’s Shelley’s photograph? It should be over there. Our sister’s photograph should be where Dad put it.”

“She’s not my sister anymore. She’s not coming back and upsetting Dad and that’s the end of it. And I got rid of the photographs. There’s no point leaving reminders hanging around.”

“Photographs? Photographs? Plural?” David looks around, and this time really takes in the room. In the hearth, smoking ashes breathe their last, save for one image: a family group, taken years ago.

Snatching it from the hearth, he slaps the charring ruin against his thigh, beating away the remaining spark which glowers, eating at a curled brown edge. Their long-gone mother is half-gone, her face consumed. David and Stephen are teenagers. And Shelley is being held in their father’s arms. In the background is a table laid out with cake and candles.

“Give me that!” Stephen stands, roaring.

“No! You have no right to make decisions like this for other people.”

“Give it to me,” his brother demands, hand outstretched.

“Fuck off, Stephen. It’s not yours.”

“It is mine. It’s a family photo.”

“Yes! That’s the word. Family.”

David pushes the half-consumed photo in his pocket, banging the door as he exits. Snatching keys from the hall table, he heads for the car and screeches away.

After a few minutes, he pulls up in a quiet spot, then rubbing his forehead, takes the photo from his pocket, staring at it.

After a minute he turns it over.

…. ephen, David, Shelley

Al and Eve.

Shelley’s 5th birthday.

*****

Twenty-Six Years Ago - Klempner

“I think you’ll be pleased, sir. Would you like to inspect the first shipment?” Bech wears that expression of wax-faced smugness he’s so good at. “Or would you prefer to let me assign them?”

“I’ll take a look, Bech. Let’s see that we agree on the appropriate market for them.”

“This way.”

A group of a dozen or so men and women stands at the end of the room, guarded by a couple of Bech’s heavies. As I step through the door, one of them, a woman, breaks from the line, rushing up to me. She’s not bad looking, but she’s spoiled her face. Her eyes are swollen and red. Scrabbling at my chest, she whimpers….

Christ, you stink….

…. speaking with a heavy accent. “Please, sir, there is mistake.” She waves a piece of paper at me, much creased. “I come here to be governess and housekeeper. I am to be teacher of language and drawing to rich man's children.”

Bech pushes her away from me. “Shut up.”

She doesn’t take the hint, instead grovelling, weeping and screeching uselessly. “Please, sir. My father…. My father will pay you. But if you dishonour me, I will be outcast.”

Bech snatches the paper from her then brings the back of his hand across her face. Staggering, she crashes down onto the tiles. “You were told to be quiet,” he snarls. “Now shut the fuck up.”

Trembling, she stares up. One of the men in the group darts forward, his eyes flashing up towards us, and hauls her up onto her feet again. Cradling an arm, looking back over her shoulder, she limps back to the group.

Bech mutters, “She could be trouble that one. I’d not realised she spoke English.”

Learning curve….

“So, place her somewhere it doesn’t matter. Send her to Finchby. He’ll have an outlet for her. Somewhere no-one cares what comes out of her mouth….”

Bech snorts. “Just what goes in.”

“Find out if any of the others speak English. We’ll target the men for rural work where there’ll be a gang-master to keep an eye on them. The women…. Well, different clients have different tastes. There’s plenty will enjoy knocking them into obedience.”

Bech nods and Hmmms….

Seldom takes notes….

…. Evidence….

What next?

“So, who do we have for the day-to-day running?”

Bech holds up a forefinger. “Ah, I was coming to that. Let me introduce you.” He turns to where, in the background, a sallow-faced man lurks. His thin, blond hair scrapes over the top of a bald pate. “This is Charlie Jenkins. He’s interested in the post of supervisor here.”

Without even thinking about it, I dislike the man. He steps forward, somehow obsequious as he moves. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Klempner.” He looks up at me with a flat grey gaze but never quite meets my eyes.

He gives me the creeps.

“Mr Jenkins.” I keep my voice polite, but I don’t want to talk to him. “Bech here has interviewed you? Approved you for the post?”

“I hope so, Mr Klempner.” His voice is silky, almost oily.

Bech would never have introduced me to the little shite if he wasn’t happy he could do the job. “Fine. Jenkins, you take charge of that lot.” I thumb towards the cringing group then turn to leave, but Jenkins interrupts, “You want me to send one of them to your lodgings, sir?”

That pitiful lot….

The women turn my stomach.

“No. And mind your mouth, Jenkins. Bech, you’re with me.”

Jenkins turns to the group. As we leave, from behind me, his voice rattles. “Clean-up time. You’re to be showered and deloused. Now strip….”