THE STREETS OF BUCHAREST
By
Gerard Whittaker
The Streets of Bucharest.
By Gerard Whittaker
Smashwords edition.
Copyright by Gerard Whittaker, 2010
Dedicated to my wives, past, present and future.
Who taught me things that I really did not want to know.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Prologue
Outside the icy winter curled through the streets of Bucharest, bringing the sub artic weather from Siberia towards the Southern Balkan states, covering the mediaeval city with an enchanting blanket of snow that lasted from November to April. It hardly mattered to those in the small room that was heated by a single electric heater dating back to the days of Stalin. In that dark place nothing mattered at all.
There was no window in the curving stone wall that arched overhead, and the only light came from an energy saving bulb that left the chamber in perpetual gloom. The door was of sheet steel that could only be opened from the outside, and a row of single iron beds was wedged against one wall, with only the odd crumpled blanket on the straw stuffed mattresses to provide a little comfort to the lost inhabitants.
The air was thick with the musty smell of stale sex and boiled cabbages, dirty bedding and rank urine that was turning to ammonia in the slop buckets.
Catalina gazed hopelessly at the other twelve girls who sat or squatted together for warmth in the tiny room. Most wore little more than an odd item they had managed to scrounge from their pimp. She was the new girl, and as such had the privilege of being handcuffed to the stout iron bed by her right wrist; until they finished breaking her will totally by the usual tactic of starvation, abuse and torture. The other girls, from about twelve to twenty five could hardly dare glance up as the pinp brought clients to the room. Most girls were Romanian but there were a couple of Russians and one girl who they could not understand at all. Catalina thought she was a Serbian.
The majority of clients were locals but the odd American did have a chance to examine the girls before dragging one from the room. Some came back, an hour or two, perhaps a day or a week later. But some did not. Whether they had been sold or killed was never explained. New girls bought from impoverished parents, thrown out of the intuitional state orphanages, or simply kidnapped off the street, soon replaced the missing girls. A week ago Catalina was surprised to see six girls of about twelve who had been bought straight from an orphanage. They were all bright eyed and bushy tailed on first arriving at what they had been told was a good job in a hotel. She had to watch as they were raped repeatedly, tortured with a belt and had their wills broken until they begged to please their new masters. When she woke in the morning the children were gone, no-one had dared mention them since.
She had once tried to work out the profit margin on each girl: prostitute or slave. Call them what you will. But all she knew was that there was an endless supply of dollars going into the pimps' pockets, and the only outlay was a couple of bowls of soup a day. They were just about the only commodity of any value in many of the bankrupt ex-soviet states.
Irena stumbled into the room, carrying her usual bundle of plastic bowls and wooden spoons. She came back a few minutes later with a bowl of thin cabbage soup. She served the girls as her tiny daughter collected the washing up.
"I'm being sold," Irena blurted to Catalina. "And Stela. Tiberiu just told me."
"Your daughter as well!" Catalina gasped in surprise. "Any idea where?"
"Anywhere is better than here. It must be!"
"What did he tell you? I've never known Tiberiu to be talkative."
"Only when he's had too much vodka. Then he gets very maudlin, starts singing foke songs about a glorious Romanian past that never was," She chuckled. "Believe it or not he's quite fond of me. But business is business. He'll have to train another girl to please him."
"That's one job I can live without, thanks all the same," Catalina gasped in horror.
"I was sold on line," Irena whispered in confusion. "Some crazy foreigner: he must have thought he was on a dating site and bought me."
"Just like that?" Catalina blurted out, "E-Bay for the perverted!"
"But he wanted Stela too," Irena sighed.
"Why? I mean, what for?"
"Tiberiu said domestic. I'm only going to be screwed by one man, instead of a hundred. Who cares what he wants or how he wants it. I'll give it to him by the bucketful to get out of here."
"And Stela? Where does she come into this? Does this crazy guy want you or a four year old?"
"God!" Irena gasped in horror.
"Are you just there to get her through customs? Or will he want to screw you both?"
"You don't think so do you?" she gasped sickly. "Not really?"
"He could have picked anyone of a thousand, probably fifty thousand. Why would he want a girl with a child?"
"What can I do?" Irena spluttered in horror. "I can't let that happen to Stela. Not yet. Oh God no."
"Does Tiberiu still take you to the market?" she asked in sudden hope.
"He's not going to go himself. Yes I can get there. They know I'm too scared to escape. The last girl who tried that they beat her to death with a red hot chain. They made us all watch. It took her a week to die."
"But that is what you must do," Catalina insisted. "To save your daughter you must escape."
"But there is nowhere to go. No-one to turn to. The police all turn a blind eye, for a few bucks or a quick fuck," Irena sobbed hopelessly. "The courts will never convict a business man over the word of a prostitute."
"There is a new force in Bucharest. Part UN and part EU. Some of the brightest cops in the world are starting to clean up this mess." Catalina whispered forcefully, "But only if you can find the courage to ask for help."
"How do you know this?"
"Irena, how long have you been here? How long is it since you've read a newspaper?"
"I, I don't know. I've never read a paper, in the orphanage we were not taught to read. I don't even know what year it is."
"Then trust me in this. When Romania joined the EU the world was forced to face up to your nightmare. But Human Trafficking and Exploitation is even harder to tackle than we thought. It's far too engrained in your culture. But we are trying."
"Can't you go?" Irena whimpered.
Catalina shook the chains that held her to the bed. "Would that I could, but I'm a little tied up right now."
In the morning one of the brothers who ran the brothel took the terrified girl to the open market. But not before Catalina had given her a wisp of freedom. A quick spray from a tiny jar of expensive perfume, the only thing she had managed to smuggle past her kidnappers. A gift from a special friend.
Irena struggled through the icy wind, slipping on the slick cobbled road as they walked through the centuries old market that had hardly changed since the days Vlad Tepes had gone through the neighbourhood impaling on long wooden stakes anyone he thought was aiding the invading Turks.
Since Ceausescu had decided to increase the workforce by millions through the simple tactic of banning birth control, and encouraging families to have five children each, even though they could not afford to feed one child, millions of unwanted children had been dumped on an overstrained and under funded state orphanage system. Irena was one such child who had grown up moving from one institution to the next, never being treated as a human being or shown any kind of love. At fifteen she was thrown out onto the streets, uneducated, barely literate, and unemployable. She spent a year or two begging and stealing on the streets, living in the sewer system in the winter or shop doorways in summer.
Then one day she was offered a meal for sex, and she jumped at the chance of a full belly. She entered the new car and a world of sexual exploitation she never could have imagined. It did not take long to break her spirit; her upbringing had already taken care of that. A few beatings, two weeks of starvation locked naked in a dog cage in a freezing winter, and then the sight of a girl being tortured to death, did wonders to break her to the point of a trained animal. She knew there was no-one who cared if she lived or died. There was almost no-one who knew she even existed. The hundreds of clients didn't come into it. They never saw her as a human being. Irena was a thing. Just a collection of holes to please them however they liked.
For years she had believed that, until one day a condom had split at the wrong moment and Irena found she was pregnant. Tiberiu had tried to induce an abortion, but he was too mean to pay a surgeon to kill the foetus. And no amount of blows could stem Stela's will to live. Slowly and painfully Irena leaned how to love.
She slipped from the guard and disappeared into the crowd before he noticed she was gone. Using a slip of toilet paper as map she stumbled in terror through the old town.
The new police headquarters was just where Catalina had promised, she was almost dying of fright as she stumbled up the steps. She pushed the rotating doors open and slid into an alien world of mirrored steel and polished glass.
The enquiry desk sat in what looked like half an acre of gleaming gold flecked marble, but the officer in charge glared at her in quite rage. Her kind did not belong here, she should be back living with the rats.
"Can I help you?" the desk sergeant snapped in disbelief. What he really meant was: 'Get out before I throw you out!'
"The task force," Irena gasped. "I have to see the Combined Taskforce. Commander Trainer, I have to see him," she almost screamed.
Several officers were walking past and Sergeant Lucian had no choice but to guide Irena through the maze of offices.
Five minutes later his mobile rang. He hung back to take the call. "Yeah, she's here. Look, this is different. I'm at work for Christ's sake. Ok, but it'll cost you- big time."
Irena was almost at the Taskforce door when the first bullet destroyed her heart. The second entered the back of her head and blew her face off against the brightly painted door. She stumbled forward and slid limply to the carpet, her hand flopping to rest a fraction of an inch from the bright red door that would have saved her life.
The Sergeant hurriedly withdrew a hypodermic and jabbed the needle into her backside, wiped the tube and slipped it into her coat pocket. He was just slipping a small pistol into her right hand as the corridor began to fill with police from a dozen countries.
"What the hell happened?" Commander Trainer shouted as he almost fell over the body.
"Just a crazy junky," Sergeant Lucian replied. "She forced her way in and drew a pistol. I had no choice."
Irena was bundled into a body bag and dragged from sight. Just one more dead prostitute that no-one cared about.
PART ONE
The house was dark and dusty; the curtains pulled an eternal foot apart, day or night, summer or winter. The odd energy saving bulb provided a bit of light exactly where it was needed and for exactly as long as needed. The kitchen was untidy, not really dirty, but the cleaning was haphazard to say the least. A small dog lay on the carpet gnawing a rib bone, surrounded by a dozen others he'd finished with but that had not yet been cleared away.
Paul sat on the sofa, his gaze listlessly moving around the room, not noticing the dog hairs or the bones on the carpet. He kept glancing at the display of Japanese swords on the mantle piece. Or at the framed wedding photo that stood before the matched swords. The wall clock showed the time the battery had run out, two years or so ago. In the bathroom the mirrors had been either broken or thrown away.
Thoughts flickered through Paul Stevenson's head, again and again in a never ending cycle: 'Nobody likes me, nobody wants me, nobody loves me; no-one cares if I live or die!' Every few minutes the mantra was repeated, hour after hour, day after day and year after year. 'Nobody likes me, nobody wants me, nobody loves me; no-one cares if I live or die!' It was not consciously done in any way, for the eternal depression was a state of being that was almost comforting in the way it took away all hope for the future.
A lap top computer lay flickering on the coffee table; it was the only thing except the dog that seemed alive in the house. The computer beeped: You've got mail.
Paul glanced at the screen for a few seconds in confusion, he never got mail! Or not real mail, just the kind that promised miracles only to give heart ache.
Like the 30 million dollars he had inherited from an American relative who didn't exist. All he had to do was send three thousand dollars to pay for the paper work to collect. Or the endless stream of girls online who had fallen in love reading his dating profile, without ever seeing his picture. As soon as he responded they sold his Email address to other spam artists. However, in a house without a TV the computer was his only lifeline to the real world.
He reached down to click the mouse and the letter that would change, or destroy, his existence appeared on screen.
Package delivery at 12:15 today. Bring the money. We are following your directions exactly, so if anything goes wrong you can expect to forfeit.
He stared at the screen in disbelief. Never had he expected the crazy idea to work. He checked the time, an hour to go. He took a much needed shower and left the house. The dog yapped in disappointment when Paul did not reach for the lead, and went back chewing the bone. The car started on the fourth attempt, he was relieved, there was a short somewhere constantly draining the battery. He kept a starter in the boot just in case. As usual it was something he did not worry about. The drugs took the worry away, along with everything else, like joy and love. The only thing they left was constant loneliness.
Paul should be excited, he knew that. But he felt nothing. This was just an old plan come to fruition. He'd had crazier ideas that had bitten him in the backside. He could only see this one through. Hope was a word in a dictionary; he'd nearly forgotten what it meant.
Everything was all so dry and dusty: academic.
He remembered the discovery, three years ago, of a habitable planet only ten light years away. While the world was going crazy with excitement all he could think was: 'That's nice.'
He put the car into first and pulled away from the drive, turning into the main road for the five minute drive. Normally he would have walked his dog, but it didn't seem appropriate. Besides he might have to run for it. The people he was going to meet weren't saints. They could kill him if anything went wrong. For a brief second his face flickered into a tight smile, until the muscles began to ache with the unusual activity. Then his usual morose expression slipped once more to hide behind. For a second he wondered if they did try to kill him, if he would let them. Fifty, fifty, he decided. He just didn't care if he lived or died. It was only his dog that had kept him alive this last five years. And he knew was that if the dog died then so did he. In some crazy way he was living on dog years, his dead existence was rushing past at seven times the normal human life span. And yet each moment lasted an hour of heartache.
The bottom entrance to Townley Park was next to the five hundred year old mock fortified gate house and the boarded up high school. The lane led for a mile up past a first rate golf course, the brand new University, and on towards the nine hundred year old fortified museum and art gallery.
That was the usual way in, but a second car park had recently been built above the ancient woods that encircled the old hall. It was almost invisible from the main road; if you blinked you'd miss it. Which is why he had not directed the delivery team to the top car park. He parked and paid the fifty pence fee, then took a short walk in the upper Townley Park woods, almost falling over the ten meter high stone cross erected by a guy who expected people to be still praying for his soul after six hundred years. Paul could read the desperation in the translation of the original Latin script.
'Please pray for the soul of John Foldys, Chaplain, who caused this cross to be erected in the year of Our Lord 1520.'
"Chaplain Foldys, you should have used drugs to ease your conscience," he muttered.
A walk of golden gravel, with wide strips of lush grass on either side, gave a clear view five hundred yards down towards the rear of the Hall, and of the lane heading towards the town. He checked his mobile; he was ten minutes early. Paul sat the bench at the foot of the cross, he did not have long to wait.
A man walked from behind the dense trees, he looked too ordinary, the kind of guy who could get away with murder, and probably had several times. "Foldys cross, I'm glad you came on time. Mr?"
Paul turned to the stranger, as the bright sunlight hit the right side of his face. The man gasped in horror and looked away hurriedly. "I've no wish to know your name," Paul sighed, "please do me the same service."
"We don't know you. This is always a risk. You said domestic and personal," the Romanian looked sickened as he saw more of Paul's face, "now I understand why."
"The merchandise?"
"The money?" The trafficker gestured towards a pine tree that was old when Chaplain Foldys felt in need of redemption.
Paul headed into the woods, pushing aside the branches that trailed to the ground, bowing as he entered the house sized space beneath the pine. They were there. He was almost disappointed that the plan was working. A second guard of Albanian decent held a woman by her arm. A girl of about four looked up as she sat on the pine covered ground, seeing Paul with incurious eyes.
He turned to the woman who was tall with short black hair and an immaculate fair complexion. Her large grey eyes were glazed as well. "I said no drugies."
"Just to keep them docile on the journey. Well, what do you think?"
"This isn't the girl I ordered."
"Distribution problems. Sorry and all that but I'm sure you know how it is? This is not ASDA; you can't change your mind in a few days and ask for a refund."
Paul examined the girl's face, and felt something for the first time in long lonely years. He decided to take another pill, emotions were dangerous. "You don't mind if I examine the merchandise?"
"Be disappointed if you didn't, we've got plenty of time to make the next delivery. Been driving all night, you know."
"Oh, yes sure." Paul started to undress the woman, as she gazed around incuriously; all she wore was a simple dress of grey cotton. He peeled her right down until she stood there naked. It was cold under the trees, she shivered slightly in the chill wind of early spring. She looked almost thirty, her figure was stunning, and altogether she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. "Well, she's not bad," he admitted finally.
"Not bad, you could make three thousand a week off her without even trying." He saw Paul's face turn even harder. "Hey, when you said personal, you meant it."
Paul examined her thoroughly, looking for anything from signs of drug dependency to hidden wires. "She's clean. Now the girl." He gave the same treatment to the child, finding a phone number written on her bottom. He opened a pack of wipes and cleaned the number before the traffickers could see it.
He stood back and admired them for a few seconds. "Ok, we have a deal." He withdrew two packets from his jacket, throwing one full of money to the trafficker. The second he opened pulling out two dresses, and slipping them onto his slaves.
"The clothing?" the trafficker pointed to the discarded dresses as he gave Paul the woman's passport.
"Take it with you, or toss in into a river. I don't care. But it's not coming with me." Paul checked that the passport was genuine, or a good enough copy, and that it also covered the child. He hadn't time to check names, they weren't important, but the photos were real.
"Worried about bugs?" the trafficker scooped up the discarded clothing, tossing it into a second bag Paul had shaken free, but never touched.
"Not if they don't follow me home."
"That's it, we're done." He turned to see the grinning traffickers vanishing from sight. He began to peel off skin-tight latex gloves, rolled them up and put them in a pocket. If they intended to ID him they had no fingerprints to go on. And there were no recent photos of his face- and never would be. He was not photogenic.
"Have fun," one laughed as they began the walk on the gravel path down towards the hall.
"And if you ever want to sell them, or buy any more, you have our website," the second called back with good humour.
"Follow me," he insisted. Leading them past Foldys cross towards the car park. They followed without hesitation, blindly giving themselves into his care.
The drive home was over before he knew it. He grabbed the woman's arm and led her into his house. The child followed without question. The dog jumped up as soon as they entered the house, yelping happily. He took one look at the child and fell in love.
Paul put the kettle on and started to make tea. He returned to the living room to find them standing just where he had left them, too scared to move. The drugs were starting to ease off. He got them to sit on the sofa and served tea and biscuits. Slowly the hot drink started to take effect.
The room was still dark; the woman could hardly see Paul against the half drawn curtains. "Why do you want us?" she gasped at last, her accent was strong, the English limited but clearly understandable.
"If I tell you, will you believe me? Has anyone ever told you the truth, about anything?"
"Yes, many times," she gasped in remembered terror. "When they said they were going to hurt us, they always told the truth."
"I've two spare bedrooms. Only one has a bed. It should be big enough for you both for a while."
"I'll not be sleeping with you?"
"At the moment I'd not touch you with a ten foot pole. In a few days I'll have you both checked out for the usual diseases picked up in your profession."
"It's not my profession," she gasped in horror. "I'm not a whore."
"Then what are you?"
"Nothing but what you make of me," she said humbly. "Tell me what to do and I will do it. You won't have to beat me sir, I'll be good."
"That's a good start. What are you called?"
"What do you want to call me sir?"
"Your name will do."
"Lina," she sighed. "My daughter is Stela. What are your intentions...?" She hesitated and then gasped out loud, "I mean, why did you?"
"Why did I buy a child? Why didn't I buy someone without children?" He pointed to where Stela was curled up on the sofa half asleep, with the dog laying beside her. The picture was so innocent even he wanted to smile. "That is why. I'll not harm her in any way, or allow any harm to come to her."
"She's a hostage," Lina gasped.
"Not at all, you are both my guests. Hopefully in time it will go beyond that."
"I feared for her, so much."
"Lina, she is free."
"And I? What will you do to me? With me?" She trembled in exhaustion and confusion. "Whatever."
"Everything you enjoy. You belong to me. I've your passport and if anything goes wrong you'll be deported and find yourselves back where you came from."
"You would do that to Stela?" she asked numbly.
"No, I won't do it. But if the authorities find out about you, they will do far worst to you than I ever could."
"I'm here legally. I'm a citizen of the EU."
"If they catch you selling sex, just try telling them that."
He showed her the spare bedroom, with painted walls of light blue and old furniture of fake beech. The bed was simple without anyway to restrain her. "I thought I'd be working here," Lina gasped. "I expected to be..."
"You thought this was a brothel," he almost laughed. But the drugs would never allow that emotion. Or any other save desperation. "How long since you slept?"
"We've dozed a bit. But sleep, real sleep. I don't know. Weeks I think."
"I'll run a bath for you both. While you're getting clean I'll bung something in the oven. Then you can both sleep the clock around if you wish."
"Sir, why?" she gasped. "Why are you doing this?"
"You expected me to rape you? Not the plan. I'm keeping you here, OK, but I'm not going to rape you. I'll not force you. But when you give yourself to me, then it will be a fresh ball game."
"How long? Lina gasped. "How long are you going to keep us?"
"You still don't understand do you?" Paul turned and started to run the bath. He turned to see Lina stripping and carrying Stela to the steaming bath. Neither seemed embarrassed about nudity.
They had their first meal together on the eight seater dining table, Paul cleared space for his guests by simply brushing off the accumulation of old papers that seemed about a foot high on the once polished mahogany.
Lina and Stela sat to eat wearing bathrobes found hanging in the bathroom. Paul served roast chicken and veg; it was a simple meal but well cooked. And starvation added extra spice to the meal. Paul watched them eating with gusto, wanting to smile but knew he never would.
After the meal Lina watched the sun setting through the conservatory window over a once neat garden that had not seen a spade or a mower in four years. She glanced around her new home in confusion, the house was of good solid construction, and there were signs that it had once been a lovely home. But now all the clocks had stopped running when their batteries had run out, a calendar on the dinning room wall was four years out of date. The days were filled in as far as March, and then everything was blank. It was as if for Paul time had just stopped dead. As he had stopped caring. Not once had she seen him clearly, the house was almost always dark. And never had she seen the slightest expression on his face. She could read most men, she was good at it. But Paul was an enigma. Was he just an empty shell? Or was there something dark lurking behind his blank expression?
She took Stela to bed, wrapping her arms around the four year old as the girl cried for her mommy.
Lina woke with the sun, to hear a chorus of bird song from the overgrown garden. At least the birds didn't mind if the garden was not tended. She found a few dresses in the wardrobe, all were surprisingly modest and of good quality. She pulled on a simple blue polo top and a matching knee length skirt. Stela was still sleeping, so she left the bedroom to explore the house early. Before her master awoke.
It wasn't as if he had deliberately created a pig sty, she though, if something got in the way he cleaned it, but if not he left it.
She started on the kitchen, cleaning it until it shone. The medicine cabinet had a collection of powerful drugs and strong antidepressants, and she began to realise where Paul was coming from, his lack of care was medically induced. Then the dining room, she started to bin the old papers on the table only to find a hand written note at the very bottom of the pile. She took it into the conservatory to read in the bright spring sunlight.
Paul, dearest.
I only came back to collect my things, but you were sleeping and I didn't want to wake you. Your flaming dog just looked at me the whole time I was packing, just whimpering at me. I'm sure he knew.
I'm sorry, but I've got to go. I'm sure you know that. It's not what you did in the army. It's not what they did to you. I wasn't there; I don't know why you turned traitor.
But you cheated on me! That I can never forgive.
I've emptied the joint account and left my card. I had a word with the bank last week. Just take both cards and the check book to close the account.
There's a casserole in the slow cooker.
Just know I loved you,
Jan.
Lina walked into the living room, to see the wedding photo standing before the rack of ornamental swords. She gazed at the small blond woman who looked radiantly happy, a tall handsome Paul in his dress uniform beamed down on his new bride. Then she turned to see the mausoleum that had been left behind. "Bitch!"
She continued to clean the living room, mulling over what she had learnt about Paul. He had been a soldier, but became a traitor. He was a loving husband, the sheer depression he was under for the last four years proved that, but then he cheated on his wife. Then why hadn't he raped her?
She jammed the rubbish into a few bin bags to leave in the front yard for collection.
A woman in her early forties walked past, and stopped dead on seeing Lina holding the bags. "You're living here?" She gasped. "I didn't know he'd left. Not dead I hope," she finished wistfully.
"No, I'm living with him," Lina insisted.
"You don't look blind. Eastern Europe? What did he do, buy you?" the woman scoffed.
"Why would you think that?" Lina gasped.
"Have you ever seen that traitor?"
"Why does every one call him a traitor, I thought he'd be in jail if he were."
"Check it out on the net. Everyone else has. That bastard betrayed his own platoon in Afghanistan, got a lot of good men killed, took up with the enemy, got a new wife and broke little Jan's heart. He got what he had coming to him!"
"Then why has it taken four years to get over her?"
"Because that bastard couldn't get a date in a mortuary. Even the dead hate his guts." She walked off as if disgusted to be discussing the local bogy man in broad daylight. A few dozen small stones lay under the kitchen window, the kind thrown by small hands. She looked up as a boy of about six let loose at the house with a pebble that just managed to avoid hitting her. "Stupid traitor's slut," the lad yelled in glee, and ran off bragging to his friends. The boy's mother looked on proudly at her plucky son.
Lina wondered how long it would be before he stopped throwing stones and started on petrol bombs. Probably first year chemistry.
She returned to the house in confusion, she knew there was something deeply wrong with Paul. Now was the time to find out the truth. Stela was still sleeping, smiling happily as Paul's dog lay on the bed protectively.
She cooked breakfast for two and carried it into Paul's bedroom, placing the tray on a small glass table next to the bed. She opened the curtain for the first time in years, letting the sun fall on the still sleeping man.
The scared face and upper shoulders glared at her defiantly. The right side of his face was horribly mutilated. She began to understand why he always stood with his left side towards her.
One eye almost protruded from the dried socket. Half his nose was but a bit of burnt gristle. A deep slash on his cheek, covered in calluses, revealed four miss shaped teeth. All the scared skin was covered in ridges left by serious burns coloured from yellow to deep purple.
The damage was faded, more than four years old, it had happened before Jan had left. But she could see no evidence that any form of treatment had been administrated. Ever! It was as if he'd had to survive on his own while the world, and the medical authorities, had turned their back.
"Oh God!" she gasped in horror.
"Am I then that repulsive?" he whispered. He'd been awake the whole time she had examined him.
"I brought breakfast," she said defiantly.
"I know, but if you spend any more time gawking it will get cold." He bent to pull on a T-shirt.
"No, please don't," she insisted. "I have to get used to this. I want to watch you while we eat."
"To see if your stomach can handle it?"
"Perhaps," she admitted. She put the tray on the bed and sat facing him, serving herself. "Right, I've heard a few things. Now tell me your side of the story."
"Once I was a soldier, it didn't end well," he summarised.
"If you want my trust, then tell me the truth, I'm the last person who can judge you."
"Very well," he sighed. "You're probably the first to ask me for the truth. To all the rest I was prejudged and found guilty."
"I'm waiting," she insisted.
"Ok." Not once did his expression slip as he told the story.
"I was a professional soldier, when we were told to kill we didn't ask questions. War was fun and I enjoyed it. I've been promoted in every war, and demoted as soon as we got back to the UK, usually for getting drunk and asking an officer's wife if she wanted a fuck. Last time it happened it was my CO's daughter, and she said yes. He busted me to Private but six months later we were married. I used to think I got the best out of that deal."
"Ok, I can understand that."
"Then we had a nice little four sided fire fight in Afghanistan. The Brits, the Yanks, the Afghan army, and the Taliban. Only nobody knew who was shooting at who. We were shooting at the Yanks, they were shooting at us. God only knows who the Afghan army was shooting at, probably themselves."
"Why?"
"Defence cutbacks. The MOD cancelled the army's new Battlenet communication's system. So when the old system died of information overload the entire comm system shut down and we couldn't do diddly about it. Men died and the government wanted someone to blame. I was back to being a corporal then, so of course they picked me.
"There were mortars and artillery, RPGs and machine gun fire coming from every direction. Even air strikes. I've no idea who did this. I woke up in a tiny cave somewhere in the mountains about a week later. The Taliban were trying to negotiate with the British government. Some chance, we never negotiate with anybody."
"That only leads to more hostage taking."
He nodded. "I was there for about six months, fed like a pig and treated like a slave. What I didn't know was that as far as the government was concerned I was AWOL. That was simpler than admitting I was a hostage. The press knew the truth but couldn't tell it, very bad for moral in an unpopular war. So, as usual, they made it up as they went along. First I'd got married and converted to Islam. Then I was actively helping the Taliban. Anyway, it got ever worse. Nobody cared; they knew they would never see me again."
"But you did come back, didn't that sort of, confuse the issue?"
"Not at all. Nobody asked my side of the story. After six months I managed to dig my way to freedom, and crawl across half of Afghanistan. At one point I stole a Burka off a girl, she was a pretty little thing about sixteen. Those eyes, large, grey and seemed to glitter with specs of gold. She screamed as I broke into her home and tied her up, but when she realised I was not going to hurt her she screamed even louder as I left. It was a year before I found out the Taliban had stoned her to death for helping me. I think she knew that would happen and was begging me to save her."
Lina gasped in horror, "This is the girl your wife thought you had cheated with."
"Bright girl Janice, but she reads too many tabloid newspapers. And believed them instead of me. I still see those eyes every night when I try to sleep."
"I was right, she is a bitch."
"I wore that Burka for nearly a month till I managed to find an American platoon. For some reason I thought everyone would be happy to see me again. Some chance! I was treated worse than by the Taliban. Within a day I was in solitary confinement in a British Military prison. The cell was even smaller than my cave. A doctor came by, took one look at my wounds, shook his head, and left. That was when I knew I was in serious shit! After a month three guys in black suits came to visit me. You know the sort, the ones without names. I wasn't debriefed, I was told to accept a dishonourable discharge or face a trial for treason. I could walk out of the door that instant, or face years of trials, or it was even hinted, that as no-one knew I had been found I didn't really exist. You can draw your own conclusions to what that meant. I accepted the dishonourable discharge and went home."
"Bright man. And your wife".
"She shuddered every time she looked at me. She kept vanishing, for a day, or a weekend, then a week and finally a month. It took her a long time to leave me for good."
"While she was finding a man who wasn't ugly."
"Like you said, she's a bitch. She kept trying to divorce me. But there's a problem with that. We married before God, I can't divorce her. Ever! Look, don't start thinking I'm a religious nut. I rarely went to church before this happened, and when I tried to go after, when I really needed to go, they locked me out. The parishioners had a private meeting and threatened the priest that if I went to church they would stop going- all of them."
"So much for religious tolerance," Lina sighed in distress. "The divorce?"
"My quaint religious scruples didn't stop her from divorcing me; I've a bundle of court papers somewhere. One of them probably granted her the final divorce. I don't know, I've never opened any of them."
"How long has this been going on for?"
"Five and half years since the shell hit. Six months in a cave almost dieing of fever and starvation. Weeks stumbling across a frozen desert. A year having my heart broken. And about four years living like a zombie, and looking like one."
"And in all that time no-one has ever asked you the truth?"
"They didn't want to know."
They finished breakfast, fed Stela and went for a walk back to Townley Park. Stela was learning to play with the dog as Paul took them back to Foldys Cross. "This is where you bought us," Lina gasped. "I was in a living nightmare, but with the drugs, I guess I felt for a while like you. Empty. I felt you stripping me, feeling me."
"I'm sorry about doing that to Stela, but I had to be sure you weren't bugged."
"But you are not sorry about doing it to me?"
"Hopefully you might thank me- someday."
"I do thank you. But this is complicated."
"Because I'm the ugliest man you have ever seen?"
"No," she hastened to say. "Yes Paul. I've had enough lies. Yes, you are the ugliest man I've ever seen."
He turned and walked back down the path of golden gravel towards Townley Hall, as his heart tried to explode from his chest. He rapidly swallowed three tablets, and walked home as the drugs kicked in.
Lina watched him go, sitting on a bench at the foot of Foldys Cross. She cried, at what he had tried to give her, at what he was and had become, and because she was going to have to destroy him. There was no choice; he was too dangerous, too insane, too immoral, and too ugly to live. She watched Stela playing with Paul's dog, and cried for what she had to do. She could never give him what he needed, she hadn't been a slave long enough to be that desperate.
No, for all he had done for her, she would have to treat him just like every one else had treated him. With betrayal!
Lina, Stela and the dog walked home an hour later, to see Paul polishing his swords. She didn't know much about Japanese swords but far from being decorative they were the real thing. He glanced up in relief as they entered the living room, and pushed the bottles of oil and brushes of powder to one side. "I feared..."
"Yes, I know you did," was all she could say. She held his shoulders gently, "I'm sorry."
"For telling the truth that I've known for five years. Why should you be sorry?"
"For hurting you Paul. You don't deserve that."
"Then what do I deserve?" he cried in anguish as the avalanche of raw emotion washed away the drugs.
"You deserve love," she wept.
"But not with you."
"Paul, oh Paul."
PART TWO
In the morning Paul took Lina to the sexually transmitted diseases department in his local hospital. She walked into the surgery by herself with some trepidation. An hour later the Doctor emerged with quiet wrath. "The next time you pick up street trash I suggest you leave her in whatever hole you found her in."
"What has she got?" Paul gasped in pain.
"What hasn't she got? There are a few things I've never heard of. HIV is the least of her worries. I'm calling the cleaners in, the entire department needs sterilising."
Lina emerged crying behind the doctor. Paul rested his hand against her cheek, "I'm sorry Lina."
"Not half as sorry as I," she whimpered.
They went home quietly; hardly a word was said as she cooked dinner.
A week later as Paul was getting used to the idea that Lina was going to be very sick, possibly even terminally so, she entered the lounge holding his Kattana. "Paul, I'm sorry, but..." Her voice had changed from a Romanian drawl to a proper English accent. Her manor from a street girl to a...Without thinking Paul knew the truth, and responded instantly. He dived past her and rolled towards his sword rack, reaching out to grab the short sword. The rack, vases and photos went flying across the room.
"Paul, I herby.." Before she could finish the word his short sword struck her Kattana just before the hand guard. The sword was ripped from her grasp to spin around the room. His left hand caught the flying blade as the short sword in his right hand leapt out to touch the hollow of her throat with a razor sharp chisel point, forcing her back against the wall.
"Don't finish that sentence," he warned.
"Or you'll kill me," she sobbed.
"You don't understand," he gasped. "I'm calling time out. Can you live with that? If you can't then you'll kill me."
She looked past the sword that touched her throat to the anguish in his eyes. "Explain?" she gasped.
"You're a cop, right? This whole thing was a set up to catch the traffickers. Only you caught me instead. Lina, if you finish that sentence then I'll spend the next six months to a year in jail, before you admit there is nothing to charge me with. All I'm guilty of is bad taste and desperation."
"Don't you deserve it?" she counted.
"Do I deserve to die? One thing I forgot to mention is that as well as everything else, I'm highly claustrophobic. The cave and cell saw to that. Lina, you put me in another cell and Ill be chewing my way out by the end of the week, I'll be dead in a month."
"Time out Paul," she whispered.
The sword disappeared from her throat in a flash. He collected the scabbards, and slid the swords home with finality. He turned to see the smashed glass from broken pictures and vases. "Here, hold these will you?" He pushed the swords into her hands as he started to clear up the mess. He dusted off the mantelpiece, replaced the sword rack and swept up the broken glass. The last thing he did was clean the wedding photo, gazing at the frozen moment of perfect bliss, before dropping it into the trash with the broken glass.
"Thanks," he said and reached for the swords.
Lina handed him the Kattana without thinking. He cleaned it and replaced it on the rack. Then she handed him the short sword, and saw him smile for the first time.
She was furious, he'd tricked her again. Paul replaced the short sword and turned back to her. "Why didn't you kill me?"
"How could I, after that trick?" she fumed. "That was dirty."
"I know, picked it up from Japanese politics, if you can call it that. I'll explain some time. So what is going on?"
"You were right and wrong. I am a Cop, hunting human traffickers. But I was also a slave in need of rescue. Paul, you saved me from a nightmare. But it was one I volunteered for."
"Then the men who sold you were real?"
"And so is Stela. Her real mother is the one you bought. And to be honest, she'd have loved it here."
"So what happened?"
"I volunteered to play decoy for the trafikers. It worked until I was strip searched, losing the transponder sewn into my dress, and bundled naked into a van of human merchandise and shipped to Bucharest. I spent weeks trying to pretend I was a broken slave. Another few weeks and I'd have stopped pretending. When I came here I was still in shock, it took a few days to remember who I really was. And Paul, I didn't like it one bit."
"Then I didn't waste my time," he gasped.
"What time is it?"
"13:20, why?"
"My partner is due in about a half hour. I think she'll be hungry, why don't we start cooking something and finish this when she gets here?"
"She'll not arrest me, will she?"
"Not if she wants to sleep alone tonight. Kimberly is also my civil partner. We've been married for five years."
"Ahh... Yes Lina, I'm beginning to understand."
"Paul, I'm sorry, you just picked the wrong girl."
"But I did not pick you Lena, I picked Stela's mother."
"And that I'm still confused about. Whatever happened to Irena?"
A Mercedes pulled up outside the house, with a tall redhead driving. The woman pulled a case from the car checked a shoulder holster under her neatly tailored jacket and rang the bell.
Lina opened the door and fell into her partner's arms crying happily. Kimberly turned to Paul, her green eyes glittering like ice. "Can I kill the bastard now?"
"I'd rather you didn't Kimberly. He saved me, in a rather unorthodox manor I'll admit, but he saved me."
"Then I thank you, but I still want to shoot you."
"If you're hungry we can eat soon," Paul said calmly. "You can shoot me later."
"It's always harder later."
"This I know."
They talked through the meal, catching up on recent events. "So what happened to Irena?" Lina asked at last.
"That was her name?" Kim sighed. "She was murdered by the HQ desk sergeant, Lucian, right outside Trainer's door, if you can believe it? About five seconds from freedom. And freeing you."
"You arrested him?"
"Nothing to charge him with. He shot a crazy drug addict with a gun. He almost got a medal for it."
"This sucks," Paul gasped.
"Welcome to the police," Kim sighed. "I ran the autopsy and found that she was injected post mortem. Then I smelt the perfume I had made for you Cat. It proved you were still alive."
"Hold on," Paul sighed. "Just who are you?"
"Catalina Wills, half English and half Romanian. You can call me Cat, Lina or even Tal."
"Doctor Kimberly Fokes, Kim or sir. Paul, as you saved Lina, so she saved me. And I've loved her ever since."
"Straight out of medical school Kim found herself an Albanian boyfriend, before she knew it she was strung out on drugs and being treated like a whore," Lina said sadly. "Her pimp was so impressed at having a noble English slave he took her back home. I was working undercover on my first case and managed to rescue her. It took weeks to flush the shit out of her system."
Kimberly sighed, "I went cold turkey in a tiny cabin in the endless Transylvanian woods, surrounded by a clan of the Albanian mafia, and I kept telling Cat to leave me." She sighed again wryly, "Talk about stubborn! We've been together ever since."
"Ok, stupid question I'm sure. This is slavery, right? And that is banned in a hundred conventions by every country in the world."
"So why can't we crack it?" Lina sighed. "I can tell you exactly what it is, first hand. But if you call the girls prostitutes people look the other way."
"It's a major problem, and a multi billion dollar industry all over the world. There is enough crime to deal with already, with the recession countries can't afford to go looking for trouble."
"I can't complain too much, I've used them," Paul sighed. "And I'll bet there's another hundred thousand in the UK alone who'd do the same given half a chance. Hell, the only way pick up a girl in this town is after she's fallen over drunk."
"Don't I wish we could do that," Kim sighed. "After we've rescued a girl it takes months to rehabilitate her, sometimes years."
"Money's short and resources or finite," Lina admitted. "A lot of the girls go back to their pimps; it's the only life they know."
"And Stela, what happens to her? I killed her mother."
"No Paul, you can't have her," Lina insisted. "You wanted to save them both, and I genuinely thought they were being sold to a brothel. But it doesn't matter, I used her to try and escape. It's my fault she's dead."
"You're both wrong," Kim gasped. "It was the traffickers, they enslaved and killed her."
"But we still share the blame," Paul insisted. "What happens to Stela, send her back?"
"Back to what?" Kimberly sighed. "Becoming another child whore?"
"No," Lina gasped, "we're keeping her."
Kim smiled warmly, "You're sure about this?" She walked over to examine the four year old. Then grinned and hugged the child. "You're positive?"
"Very, when we're on duty she can stay with my parents, they've a great little cottage in the country."
"Better than my parents, I once got lost in one of the old wings; it took them two days to find me."
"How many wings does your house have?" Paul gasped.
"Which one?" Lina chuckled.
"Paul," Kim laughed. "I hate to impose any further. But we're feeling very tired, could we borrow your bed for a couple of hours?"
"You must be both exhausted. Take it by all means. I'll be too busy to sleep tonight?"
Lina cocked one eyebrow at him, "What crazy scheme are you up to this time?"
"I'm not sure yet, but your biggest problem seems to be that all your men look like cops."
"Well, yes." Kim gave a fake yawn. "So what?"
"I don't."
In the morning the girls showered and dressed to find Paul still sitting before the laptop, dozing slightly. Lina was finally wearing her own clothes, brought in Kimberly's suitcase, looking smart and professional.
He woke fully to find them grinning at him. "I can start breakfast," he offered, standing. Then his face slipped once more into the usual morose frown. "I nearly forgot about the tests."
"I'm fine Paul," Lina sighed. "There's nothing wrong with me."
"Then," he gasped in shock. "The doctor?"
"He was carried away. I had to explain the situation before I could borrow his phone to call Kim. He ran the tests while we were talking, and they were all negative. Then the damn fool got creative, to stop you raping me I suppose."
"You were crying."
"First time I'd talked to Kim in ages, of course I was crying. Then I had to cover the doctor's amateur dramatics."
Paul crossed the room to gently rest his hand against her cheek for a few seconds. He turned quickly to enter the conservatory, sitting on the wicker couch holding his head in both hands.
"What?" Kim gasped.
"That's all he can do," Lina sighed. "The only other time he touched me like that he thought I was dieing." They followed to sit on either side of Paul, hearing him gasping for breath.
"I forgot to take my pills yesterday," he gasped. "Must be wearing off. Can you get them?"
"Paul, there's nothing wrong feeling like this," Lina insisted.
"The pain is back! Please, get the pills," he begged.
Kimberly went to find the medication, and came back furious. "Do you know what they use this shit for?" she gasped. "It's to chemically castrate violent sexual predators in prison psychiatric wards. It's far too powerful to be handed out like sweets."
"Where do you get it?" Lina gasped.
"By mail, it comes once a month."
"Somebody has it in for you Paul," Kimberly sighed. "This is the last thing I'd ever prescribe for you. It's highly addictive."
He reached for the packet with shaking hands, but Kimberly took the packet away, angrily tearing the tablets from the blister pack, and flushed them down the toilet. "That's where shit goes."
They sat beside him once more, holding his shaking shoulders. "Why are you crying Paul?" Lina whispered.
"Because the pain is back, the feeling is coming back. I don't know if I can stand it."
"Why is it coming back?" Kimberly asked. "Because of Catalina? Because you thought she was dieing, but now she is not?"
"Yes, oh yes. I've had a week to get used to the idea. But now the pain is back."
"This isn't pain Paul," Kimberly insisted. "This is joy. This is how you should feel."
"Let it out," Lina sighed. "Let the emotion free."
Paul could only resist for so long. With anyone else he would have fought tooth and nail to hide the constant pain, but not with these two beautiful, intelligent women. The sobs started as the dam broke and soon five years of restrained anguish flushed through his system.
It took a long time to purge the torment that tried to drive his soul to extinction. Hours of learning to cope with raw emotion, unfiltered or expunged. Hours of walking the thin line on the right side of sanity.
In short sharp sentences he finally explained about the pills. "When I was in that cave, dieing of fever and starvation, the only thing that kept me going was knowing Jan loved me. Her love pushed me into doing the impossible and escaping. Can you understand what it was like to come home and hear her scream in horror when she saw me? About a month after Jan finally left I was at breaking point. You know the old custom of giving a condemned man a hearty meal just before you hang him? Well, same thing. I went for a steak, a real good medium rare Sirloin steak and a couple of beers. But the beers were new to me and very nice, so I got a couple more. I finally found out they were about seven percent. Well, the meal was great but the beers were pushing me over the limit. They washed away all the self control that had kept me alive for so long. Basically I was dieing. As I ate the steak I was crying and holding the steak knife against my wrist. In desperation I called Jan, begging for her help. With all we meant to each other I expected her to drive straight home. Not to stay but just to see me though the night.