One Secret Summer Page 14

  Occasionally she got up and walked along the corridor to stretch her legs. Switzerland was the kaleidoscope of images seen on chocolate boxes, one Alpine village after another, church steeples, wooden barns and fat glossy cows grazing on fields of dazzling green. At the border with France, the train slowed to a halt. In the silence that followed the screaming and shunting of brakes, she awoke with a start. The unfamiliar half-light of the train’s interior revealed a dozen or more people moving towards waking in the same stunned manner. Across from her a man dozed fitfully, his chin sliding further and further down into his chest.

  They pulled into Paris just before dawn. The deserted station glowed under eerie fluorescent lights. She hoisted her bag on to her back and made her way towards the Métro. She bought a baguette and a coffee and bit into the soft, floury inside hungrily. The train to London was leaving from the Gare du Nord in just under an hour. The warm air of the Métro rushed at her as she descended into its depths; from somewhere deep inside came the thin wail of a solitary busker. She bought a ticket and joined the growing swell of commuters as they began their day. She was too tired to think about anything other than making sure she got to the station on time. Beyond that the future was an empty, dark hole. She had barely enough money to last her a week, but she couldn’t allow it to frighten her. She’d found a job before; she could do it again. She shoved and pushed her way out of the Métro at the Gare du Nord alongside everyone else and found the London train. She climbed aboard, stowed her small bag carefully in the luggage rack and found herself a seat next to the window. The carriage began to fill up with people: students, backpackers, a mother with a young child. As she watched them take their seats and arrange their possessions around them, laughing and chatting excitedly to those they knew, smiling at those they didn’t, she suddenly felt terribly alone. No one else could be doing what she had done – no one else was on the run. She looked out of the window. Through the thin veil of tears she saw Christian’s face again. Niela, what’s wrong? She’d been unable to speak, just as she couldn’t speak now. She waited, her breath coming in short, foggy gasps against the cold windowpane, willing the train to start.

  Victoria station at four o’clock in the afternoon was a terrifying cacophony of bustle and noise. Niela was discharged, along with hundreds of others, on to the platform at the end of an enormous domed arch with train doors slamming all around them and the deafening sound of hundreds of pairs of feet hitting the ground running. She clutched her bag to her chest and made her way towards the station exit. She picked up a map from a Tourist Information booth; the bored-looking woman inside must have taken pity on her. She looked Niela over once, twice. ‘Watch out for men offering accommodation. Try the hotels on Warwick Way. About a ten-minute walk.’ Niela thanked her and hurried away. She crossed the road in front of the station and walked down Vauxhall Bridge Road towards the river, stopping every few minutes to consult the map. The hotels that lined Vauxhall Bridge Road looked forbidding; tall and dilapidated, they displayed neon signs for ‘Swedish Massage’ and ‘Hourly Rates’ – she held on to her bag even more tightly and quickened her pace. She turned into Warwick Way and looked nervously around her. A cluster of expensive-looking hotels – the Windermere Guest House, the Enrico Hotel, Astor Palace, Lime Tree Hotel. She stopped in front of one, a pretty little cottage-style place with a blue sign outside and four shining gold stars. She swallowed nervously and walked up the steps.

  Fifty-five pounds without breakfast. Niela gaped at her. The woman behind the reception counter looked her up and down. ‘Try nearer the station,’ she said coolly. ‘Might be more within your price range.’

  ‘Th … thank you,’ Niela stammered and quickly turned away. She caught a glimpse of a chambermaid pushing a trolley of freshly laundered sheets and towels. She swallowed. It had been three days since she’d had anything close to a shower – her skin felt grimy and sweaty, despite the chill in the air. The girl disappeared down a corridor. Niela pushed open the door again and walked out. She made her way back towards the station, avoiding the puddles. It had begun to rain – a fine, misty drizzle that lowered the sky and made everything around seem even more dark and grey. It was hard to concentrate for the fear bubbling nervously inside her. What had she done? She was utterly alone in an utterly unknown city. She had just under two hundred pounds to her name … with nowhere to sleep, nowhere to go and no one to ask for help. She looked at her watch. It was just after 10 a.m. She thought of her parents back home in the flat. Her mother would be cutting up vegetables and checking the pots on the stove. Her father would be at work. The boys would be at school. An image of Korfa bent over his German homework, tongue sticking out in concentration, flashed before her eyes. She stopped. The stab of homesickness that rippled through her made it impossible to move. Nothing for it but to stand still and let it burn itself out.

  The Comfort B&B on Vauxhall Bridge Road was twenty-five pounds a night. Niela handed over the money for four nights. That was all she could afford. She was left with four twenty-pound notes and three or four pounds in change. The receptionist, a large peroxide blonde whose jaws moved mechanically up and down on a bright pink wad of chewing gum, was brisk. ‘Breakfast’s in the basement. Two pound fifty flat rate. Starts at seven. I’d get there early if I were you.’ She showed Niela to her room, pointed out the toilets at the end of the corridor and then disappeared into the lift. Niela was alone. She sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. The room was tiny; just enough space for a single bed and a wooden built-in wardrobe without a handle. The window looked out directly on to the extension of the building next door. There was a tiny patch of sky in the upper left-hand corner – nothing else. A pair of drab, faded floral curtains hung droopily towards the ground. The bathroom was halfway down the hall. The enormity of what she’d done was beginning to sink in. She stared at the counterpane on the lumpy bed until the flowers began to run and the colours bled under the deluge of tears.

  Breakfast the following morning was boiled eggs and cold toast with tea and jam. Under the receptionist’s watchful eye, Niela took four slices. In spite of the sense of panic that permeated her every waking moment, she’d slept well. She knew from experience that the thing to do in the situation she found herself in was not to give in and do nothing – but rather the opposite. To do everything possible – and as quickly as possible. The weeks and months of waiting for their visas to come through in the camp back in Ethiopia had taught her what she recognised as one of life’s great lessons. Keep active. Stay busy. Look for ways out. She drained her cup of tea and stood up. Her task for the day was clear – find a job. Any job. It didn’t matter what. So long as it paid her enough to live on, the rest would come later.

  She tried everything. Every restaurant, every hotel, every office … she even applied at the London Underground station in Victoria for a job as a cleaner. Anything. It was pointless. After taking her name, she was asked for references and her address, neither of which she had. She walked up and down the streets of Victoria and Pimlico, scanning the signs in newsagents’ windows, employment agencies … she walked into hotel lobbies, two dental practices and the off-licence on the corner. To no avail. If there was work to be had, she wasn’t in line.

  On her fourth and last day at the Comfort B&B, she counted out what was left of her money – £2.54. She slipped the change in her pocket and walked downstairs.

  ‘A job?’ The receptionist looked her up and down suspiciously. ‘What sort of a job?’

  ‘Anything,’ Niela replied honestly. ‘Anything at all.’

  There was a moment’s pause. She seemed to be considering something. ‘All right,’ she said finally. She pulled a pad towards her and took out a pen from behind her ear. ‘Give this number a ring. Ask for Marty. Tell him I sent you. My name’s Irene.’ She tore off the leaf of paper and handed it to Niela. ‘You only paid for four nights. We’re not a charity case, you know. You either pay for another night, or you check out before noon. You don’t have any
luggage, do you?’

  Niela shook her head, too embarrassed to speak.

  Irene narrowed her eyes. ‘All right. Speak to Marty and come back and see me this afternoon. Marty’ll find something for you. You’re pretty enough.’

  Niela swallowed. She wasn’t sure what her looks had to do with anything, but she was desperate. After two days, she realised London was nowhere near as cheap as Vienna or Munich, or anywhere else for that matter. At the rate she was going, she had barely enough funds to last her until Friday … and then what? There was absolutely nowhere to go. She fingered the piece of paper as she walked down the corridor towards the payphone. There was a cold, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that she dared not name. She looked at the number, drew a deep breath and dialled.

  Marty sounded friendly enough. ‘Oh, Irene sent you, did she? Right, well, why don’t you pop in and see me this afternoon?’ he said. ‘We’re only just up the road. Number 84. You can’t miss it. It’s the one with the red door.’

  Niela thanked him and hung up. Perhaps she’d misunderstood Irene’s glance. He sounded decent enough … perhaps he was some sort of agency? Cleaners, au pairs, house help … that sort of thing. She could do that. She squared her shoulders. She hadn’t been joking when she told Irene she could do anything. She would do anything. She had to.

  That afternoon, at two o’clock on the dot, she walked up the steps of a rather run-down building on Vauxhall Bridge Road, about a five-minute walk from the hotel. Yes, it was the one with the red door, she confirmed, looking up and down the street. The only one. There had obviously been a brass number; a ghostly ‘84’ remained where the paint had faded. The door was locked. There was a small buzzer to her left. She pressed it and waited.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Um, my name is Niela … I spoke to Marty this morning … ?’ She spoke hesitantly into the microphone.

  There was a second’s pause. ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Irene. From the Comfort B and B. She gave me Marty’s number.’

  There was another second’s pause. Then the door clicked open. Niela stepped inside.

  The hallway was dark and damp-smelling. There was an old chair in one corner, a hatstand and a freshly laundered pile of sheets, still in their plastic wrapping. She eyed the sheets nervously. What were they doing there? Suddenly, she heard a noise from the floor above. A man’s head appeared over the balustrade. ‘Up here,’ he said, peering down at her. ‘First floor.’

  Niela hurried up the stairs. There was a narrow corridor at the top and, at the end, an open door. The man who’d spoken to her was waiting in the doorway. He watched her as she approached. ‘Niela, right?’ he asked as she drew level. She nodded. There was something wolfish and rather predatory about his smile. She could feel her skin begin to contract in fear. ‘Go on in,’ he said, leering down at her. ‘Marty’ll be with you in a second.’ His arm was lifted above his head, holding open the door. He made no move to stand back as she passed under it. The smell of sweat and tobacco emanating from him was overpowering. She slipped inside the room – it was hard to call it an office, despite the presence of a desk – as quickly as she could. Her own underarms were beginning to prickle with sweat. ‘Take a seat.’ The invitation came out like a command. She sat down quickly, her knees pressed hard together. Something was wrong. She wondered how she was going to leave.

  ‘Niela?’ Someone came in through the doorway. She looked up. A short, fat man with a moustache advanced into the room. ‘You’re the one who rang this morning?’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Very nice, you are. Very nice. Only just arrived in London, have you?’

  Niela nodded, her heart sinking fast. ‘A few days ago,’ she said, hoping her voice wouldn’t betray her fears.

  He raised a thick, hairy eyebrow. ‘Run away from home, have you, love?’ he asked, a false note of concern in his voice.

  Niela swallowed. She shook her head. ‘No, nothing like that. I’m … I’m just looking for work. Irene didn’t really say what sort of work you had … what can I do?’

  He walked around the desk and sat down, pushing the chair closer and putting his hands in a V in front of him before answering. ‘That depends on you, love.’

  ‘Wh … what do you mean?’ Niela asked. Sweat was beginning to trickle down her back.

  ‘Well, we cater for all tastes here. Oral, anal, straight, three-somes … whatever the client wants. We charge extra for doing it without condoms, of course, but that’s up to the individual girls. We cater to all tastes. Black, Asian, white … whatever. We’re a one-stop shop, aren’t we, Pete?’

  The man who’d been standing in the doorway grinned. Niela felt the cold hand of fear and the hot flush of shame take simultaneous hold of her entire body. She got to her feet. ‘I’m … I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I … I misunderstood. I thought … I was looking for something else … a cleaning job or something like that. I didn’t understand, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Shame,’ Marty drawled, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’d be a right little earner. You sure?’

  Niela clutched her bag as if it were a weapon. Sweat was pouring down her back. She nodded. ‘I … I’m sure. I’m sorry to waste your time …’ She moved towards the door. The man called Pete remained where he was. His hand was blocking the doorway. ‘C-could I just …’ Niela indicated his arm. ‘C-could I just get past … ?’

  He stood his ground, not moving. Niela felt her stomach turn over. There was a movement behind her as Marty got to his feet. She heard his footsteps and then, without even thinking about the consequences, she lunged at the doorway, catching Pete off guard. He put out a hand to balance himself, momentarily releasing his hold on the door jamb. In a flash, she was through. She fled along the corridor and down the stairs, tears of shame and embarrassment coursing down her cheeks. The front door was closed. Her heart missed a beat. She looked around wildly. There was a small button underneath the lock – she pushed it hard and the door buzzed open. She tumbled out into the street, ran down the steps and didn’t stop running until she’d reached the end of the road. She couldn’t go back to the Comfort B&B. She couldn’t face seeing Irene. How could it have happened? Marty’s voice reverberated inside her head. Black, Asian, white … oral, anal … She put her hands up to her ears. How could Irene have sent her there? Suddenly she caught sight of her reflection in a shop window. Her hair had partially come out of its ponytail and was damp and frizzy in the light rain. Her skin was dull and grey, not brown … and her eyes … ? She stopped. She’d never seen her own face so haunted and desperate-looking. She looked half mad with worry. No wonder Irene had misunderstood. She swallowed painfully. What was happening to her?

  She was suddenly overcome with a longing to feel her mother’s arms around her, no matter how long it had been since she’d received a hug; to hear Raageh’s high-pitched giggle or Korfa’s deeper, throatier laugh … Even the thought of her father’s voice produced a terrible ache in her side that made her place her hand over it. The memories that she’d kept at bay for the past few months came flooding back. The smell of her mother’s hair after she’d washed it – she would often call Niela into her room to comb and braid it. Back in Mogadishu, someone came twice a week to the house to wash and set Saira’s hair, to thread her eyebrows and wax her arms and legs. When Niela was old enough, the same woman had attended to her too. But in Vienna there’d been no money for such luxuries – it was Niela who’d stepped into the role. At the time she’d regarded it as just another one of her too many chores. Now, standing at the side of the road on a wet winter’s day in London, without a place to sleep or the unimaginable luxury of a hot meal, it came to her just how much she missed it all – how much she missed them. She fingered the change in her pocket – what wouldn’t she give to hear her mother’s voice again? Should she … ? Could she … ? Just one phone call. She wouldn’t have to say where she was calling from … a quick call, just enough for her to know that she wasn’t alone in the world, that somewhere, no matter how fa
r away, she had a family, parents who cared about her, brothers who loved her.

  There was a row of red telephone boxes just outside the station. She moved slowly towards them, as if in a trance. The one farthest away from her was empty. She pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside. The booth smelled of urine – a sour, unpleasant scent that made her want to gag. She picked up the receiver and listened to the unfamiliar tone. She pulled the change out of her pocket. After the packet of crisps she’d bought that afternoon for lunch, she had £2.12. Could she afford a pound for a phone call? She stood looking at the paltry collection of coins in her hand. No. She had no idea where her next meal was coming from. She couldn’t spend a pound just to hear her mother’s voice. She pushed open the door and stepped out. She took a deep breath of the fresh air and put a hand up to her wet cheek. It was 3 p.m. and the light was already beginning to fade. She had nowhere to sleep that night. Her fingers were numb with cold – in her haste to escape from Hamid and Fathia, she’d forgotten to take her gloves. She blew on her hands to try and keep them warm. She felt dizzy with hunger. Aside from her usual egg and four slices of toast, she’d had nothing to eat all day save for the packet of crisps. Her mind was racing, desperately seeking an answer. What was she going to do?