The Happy Ending

Copyright © 2017 David Stokes

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

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Matador

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Leicestershire. LE16 7UL

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ISBN 9781788030465

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

My father, Charlie Stokes who died in 2015 aged 102, was the inspiration for this book together with my mother, Florence who died in 2009. Like Harry, my dad was supported from the grave by my mum, talking to her every day after she died. Although the plot is entirely fictional and my father never had any involvement with anti-trafficking, he was adventurous and joined the RAF in the 1930’s. Many of the anecdotes of Harry’s earlier life are taken from my father’s rich repertoire of stories. He became the full-time carer for my mother during the later years of her life when she suffered badly from arthritis and other illnesses. His persistent search for solutions to the problems that he encountered was an inspiration to all who knew him.

No book can be produced without a considerable team effort and I would like to thank all those who have contributed to this, the final product. In the writing phase, I received much needed encouragement and advice from other writers, especially those involved in the Writers’ Workshop including Debi Alper and Susan Davies whose help was invaluable. In the production phase, the editorial staff at Matador and Troubador Publishing all demonstrated considerable expertise and patience. Any errors that persist are my own. The insidious and wicked practice of modern human trafficking, which is the serious theme of this book, is finally receiving much needed attention and I would like to acknowledge the work of all those involved in fighting it. If you want to know more about the business model behind this terrible trade then read ‘Sex Trafficking: Inside the Business of Modern Slavery’ by Siddharth Kara (Columbia University Press). You will be shocked at the continued global scale of the slave trade which we ‘abolished’ in the nineteenth century.

Finally I give thanks to Sue, my mentor and muse who has patiently read every page in several drafts and inspired me to do less, better.

Contents

The Morphine

The Police

The Memorial

Bituin’s story

The Seaside

London

The Break-In

The Journey

The Business Plan

The Club

The Escape

The Fire

Nadia’s Story

The Capture

The Police

The Plan

The Slave Trade

The Custody Suite

The Counter-Attack

Lilly

The Betrayal

The Sting

The Happy Ending

CHAPTER 1

The Morphine

Every day, I look out from my bungalow over the field towards the cemetery. Wedged in amongst all the headstones is one that simply says:

Elizabeth Margaret Pigeon

1922 – 2011

Beloved wife of Harry

for 70 golden years

That’s Betty. It’s funny how we try to put a whole life into a few words on a piece of marble like that. Still, she’s not far away, so first thing each morning, I look in her direction and say:

‘Hello. I still love you.’ Then I tell her what’s been happening – well, not everything; I wouldn’t want to upset her with some of the goings-on down here.

One day, I didn’t choose my words very carefully and it was nearly the end of me.

‘Betty,’ I said from the doorstep of my front door. ‘I made out the food order, did the washing, just as we always do on a Monday. Didn’t see anyone. Couldn’t go out because of the rain. Nobody came round, not even the postman. Just sat at home and read the paper until I fell asleep. Days like that make me wish I was with you, over there, in a wooden box.’

Her reply was as bitter as the east wind that tugged at the overcoat I was wearing over my pyjamas.

‘That’s not what you told me, Harry Pigeon. We go when our body says its time to go, not before. That’s what you told me, even when I begged you to let me go. So just you get on with life. Do some cleaning if you’re bored.’

That blast from Betty hit me so hard I had to grip the doorpost to stop my bent old frame from doubling over. It took me straight back to her last days. She would plead with me, tears in her eyes, to give her more morphine. Night and day, that wicked pain tormented her, wearing her down, draining all the fight out of her until it had eaten up every little bit of who she was. I knew she was on the maximum dose and any more would likely kill her. That’s what she wanted, of course. Maybe I should have helped her to go.

I shuffled back to the chair by the window, hoping to see a bird on the feeder or a dog chasing a ball in the field. Instead I watched misty rain turn to icy sleet that obscured the view. After breakfast, I took Betty’s advice and did some cleaning. Things had slipped since the funeral; I hadn’t even cleared out her clothes. I opened the cupboard on her side of the bed and pulled out a stack of romantic short stories that she liked to read before sleep and a pile of fancy handkerchiefs.

That’s when I found the morphine, tucked away at the back.

She must have been saving it gradually over the years, hiding it away for the moment when she could no longer bear the pain. So why hadn’t she taken it? She asked for it often enough. Maybe she left it for me, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to cope on my own. Closing my eyes, I began to think the unthinkable. What if I took it all now? Faded away, nice and quiet; nothing to worry about any more. Maybe the vicar was right: I’d see Betty again, up there in the sky. That would be a happy ending.

The next thing I knew, my head was lolling on my chest. I forced myself to wake up, wondering what I’d done as I scrambled to check the morphine at the back of Betty’s cupboard. All still there. I read the doses on the label of one of the bottles. More than enough to finish me off. A framed picture of Betty stood on top of the cupboard and I could feel her green-blue eyes watching me carefully as her words came back to me.

‘We go when our body says it’s time to go, not before. That’s what you told me, so don’t even think about it.’

I didn’t throw the bottles away, though. I moved them to my side of the bed.

***

Later, the sleet turned to snow and I watched thick flakes swirl around the garden. It was meant to be spring. Anyone who claims that our climate isn’t changing fast doesn’t go outside very often.

Snowflakes weren’t the only thing to fall that day.

Once the storm had eased, I ventured outside to try clearing the path. I couldn’t use a shovel any more but I did manage to push the snow aside using a broom. It was so cold I could feel the hairs in my nose crackling when I breathed in and my chest heaved and wheezed with the effort. Looking forward to a quick snooze by a warm fire, I came back in, stamping my feet in the hallway to shake off the snow from my boots. That’s when I spotted an odd sock on the floor that must have dropped out of the washing basket earlier. Bending down to pick it up, I felt my body heading down too far. I struggled to keep myself upright, but I lacked the energy somehow and sat down with a bump. Crawling to a chair, I tried to pull myself back up. Do you know, I must have tried a dozen times if I tried once, but each time that I thought I’d made it, my strength drained away at the last minute and I slid back down. I cursed my frail, old body. As a young man, I could do press-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, twenty or more of each. Now I couldn’t do one stand up. I had to press the emergency button around my neck for help; couldn’t help myself any more.

A polite young man assured me that it wouldn’t take long for the paramedics to come round and pick me up. A few minutes later he called back to say that there was a major incident on the by-pass so the ambulances were a bit busy and there would be a delay.

I sat there on the cold, hard floor and waited. Just sat there, not able to do something as simple as stand up. Like a little baby, except I didn’t have a mother to pick me up. I was even wearing a nappy. That’s what the doctor had prescribed for me when I went to see her for a check-up. She’d poked and prodded, taken the pressure of this and the pulse of that. Finally she scribbled ‘sanitary pads’ on a prescription to take to the pharmacy. She said they would stop the dribbling. They looked just like nappies to me. I really had become a baby again.

***

Betty was with me the first time that I fell. Not that she helped much, bless her. I was in the garden pruning the rose bushes outside the window where she looked out. She loved to sit there and watch the flowers come and go according to the season. Even in the depths of winter, she had her eye out for chrysanthemums, primroses or crocuses so she could call me as soon as they began to appear. In her later years she spent most of her time in that chair looking out of the window, so I tried my hardest to give her a really good view all year round. It was spring and I was busy pruning. I took a step back to see if I’d got the shape right. Betty was very particular about the shape of a rose. I reversed a bit too far and backed into the next bush. The shock of those prickles in my backside made me shoot forward and stumble onto my hands and knees. It’s a good thing Betty is there because I’m not wearing my panic button, I thought. I hauled myself up on the thick stem of the rosebush to the level of the window to wave to Betty. Her head was drooped onto her chest as it often did after the morphine. I hollered at her but I think her hearing aid was switched off because she didn’t react. The rose thorns were biting into my hands so I fell back down. I tried again but she was fast asleep; must have been dreaming of something nice. If she’d seen my head yelling at her through the window, she’d have thought it a nightmare. In the end a neighbour found me and helped me up. When I went in, my hand covered in blood, Betty was awake and looking at the garden.

‘That rose has got a bit straggly, Harry,’ she said, pointing at the bush I had been hanging onto.

***

I wriggled my bottom to get some of the numbness out. Now I was on my own. Even a helpless wife was better than this. She gave me a purpose, a reason to be here. Had to keep myself fit just to keep her alive. It was my arms and legs that fed her, washed her, dressed her, even went to the toilet with her; my brain that sorted the dozen or so pills she had to take every day; my voice on the phone pestering the doctors and nurses to come when she needed them. Couldn’t afford to be ill. Sniffle of a cold and I would think, Harry, you can’t be doing with this. You have to shake this off. If you’re not up to looking after her, they’ll have her in a home before you can blink.

That was her big fear, of course, going into a nursing home; couldn’t blame her for that. Who wants to be lifted out of bed and stuck in front of the TV all day, with the occasional tray of food put on your lap until it’s time for you to be put back into bed again? That’s no sort of life. After Betty had fallen a few times, the woman from social services asked me if I would consider putting Betty into a home.

‘She’s in a home,’ I said. ‘Our home. And that’s where she’ll stay.’

Both of us had decided some time ago we wouldn’t be moving out except in a wooden box. But being there alone, sitting on the floor, unable to stand up, wasn’t much fun either. No friends that I could phone. Too busy looking after Betty to make any new friends and I’d lived too long to have any from the past. Last man standing; or rather, sitting. Four score years; that’s what you’re supposed to get and most of my friends got that or less. Can you imagine? All my pals at school, all my mates that I’d be out on the town with on a Saturday night, all gone. The entire generation that I’d known, all dead.

The heating had gone off. I began to shiver with cold. I shuffled my bottom towards the kitchen to switch it back on, but I realised it was too high to reach from the floor. I noticed a fridge magnet that Betty had put up. It was a quote from a famous singer:

‘Old age isn’t so bad when you consider the alternative’

Got that wrong, didn’t he? It should say:

‘The alternative isn’t so bad when you consider old age’

I remembered the morphine.

I could crawl around to the cupboard and swallow the lot; stop being a burden to others and having to apologise because I couldn’t stand up. They’d be taking me to the toilet next, like I did for Betty. No dignity left when it came to that. Best to go before we got to that. No-one would miss me. The doctors would breathe a sigh of relief that I wasn’t calling them all the time, like I was for Betty. They would just think I’d had a heart attack or something; ambulance was coming so they’d find me before my body started to rot and smell. Everything was taken care of: insurance for the funeral; instructions in my will for the headstone.

I started to crawl on all fours to Betty’s cupboard and had almost made the bedroom, when I heard a rat-tat-tat on the front door. I kept going.

‘Mr Pigeon? Can you hear me? It’s the paramedics.’

Damn, they’d be through the door in a flash. I’d just have to take the morphine after they’d gone.

The paramedics got me up, put me into some warm clothes, asked me to sign a form and left. They were so busy they didn’t even have time for a cup of tea.

***

Later, when I was preparing for my last night on earth, a car crashed into my house.

I was in the bathroom getting ready for bed. I’d decided to take the morphine just before I normally fell asleep. Balanced with one foot on the floor, the other up on the toilet seat, I was taking off my socks. I like to wedge myself against the bathroom sink so I can’t topple over backwards when I tug them off. I’m glad I did. The bang made me jump and I could’ve easily gone down again.

I grabbed my stick and looked out of the front window. I saw the outline of a car wedged into my wrought-iron gates like an animal caught in a net. Its engine was still running, its headlights glaring brightly. No sign of a driver. I just had to go and investigate. When I opened the front door, the cold air made me realise I was still in my underpants. I grabbed an overcoat and my walking frame in case it was slippery and went outside.

The security light flashed on and lit up the snow all around. That and the car’s lights made it as bright as midday in the tropics and I wished I’d worn my peak cap to keep the glare from my eyes. Squinting, I made my way carefully towards the car, glad that I’d swept the snow from the path. From the badge on the bonnet and its sleek shape, I realised it was a posh Mercedes; not exactly a common car in my neighbourhood. The smoky windows made it difficult to see inside but I made out the shape of the air bag that must have inflated when the car hit my gates.

It took me a while to see the body. Her face was turned away from me so all I could see was this shiny sheaf of hair lying on the air-bag. Just like a child sleeping on a pillow.

The impact of the car had forced the gates open a little so I could squeeze through. Tapping on the window, I heard a little moan. When I tapped harder, her head shot up and she turned to look at me. Her big, brown eyes stared at me as though I was a ghost.

‘Are you alright?’ I asked.

‘Who’re you?’

‘I’m the owner of the gates you’ve crashed into,’ I said. I wasn’t sure she’d heard me through the glass window because she just closed her eyes and her head sank back onto the air-bag. I fumbled at the door to try to open it.

She sat back up and grabbed at the door. ‘No! No come in. I must go.’

‘I don’t think you’ll get very far with that airbag between you and the steering wheel. Besides, I need your insurance details for my gates. Maybe I should call the ambulance in case you’re hurt or in shock.’ I pressed my mouth close to the window to make sure she could hear me.

‘Not hurt. No ambulance.’ She sat upright and straightened her dress, wriggling away from the door.

I was getting cold. ‘Look Miss, if you won’t even open the door, I’ll just have to call the police to sort this out.’

‘No police. Please, no police.’ She fumbled at the controls and the window buzzed down. Now I could see panic in her dusky face.

‘Look, I can’t stand out here in the cold for much longer. Why don’t we go inside, have a nice cup of tea and see what’s to be done,’ I said.

She looked past me at my bungalow. ‘You alone?’ she asked.

‘Yes. You’ll be perfectly safe.’ She was looking round at the field opposite and the other houses in the distance. I’m lucky enough to live in a nice, quiet corner surrounded by farmland. Nobody stirred. The air was still and fresh.

She wiped at her eyes with a tissue. ‘I’ll come.’

‘Best turn those headlights off or you’ll flatten your battery. Then you would be stuck. I don’t suppose you can push-start a car like this.’ I tapped the front wheel with my stick to check it hadn’t been damaged when it had hit the curb. Tyres that thick would cost a pretty penny to replace. I slowly pushed my walking frame back towards the house, trusting that she would follow.

She paused, uncertain, at the door; maybe waiting to be invited in. I turned and saw her properly for the first time. Jet-black hair framing a round face, high cheek bones, pink lipstick. Blue dress down to her knees, overcoat on one arm, bag on the other. Petite and perfect. She could have been an angel the way she looked. Except that she wasn’t white.

Maybe some angels were black. It’s just I’d never seen any: they were all white on the windows of our church. I bit my lip and told myself not to be hasty in judging her. What was on the outside had little to do with what was on the inside. She wasn’t exactly black anyway; more of a coffee tone, like most of our doctors and nurses.

When she came through the door, she noticed the picture on the wall. ‘This your wife?’ she asked.

‘No, that’s the Queen,’ I said.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she said and giggled nervously, just like a little girl. I liked her from that moment.

‘This is my wife,’ I said pointing to Betty’s photograph.

‘Oh, she is lovely. Looks like the Queen. Is she here?’

‘No she’s over there,’ I said pointing across the field. ‘In the cemetery.’

‘Oh, she’s dead?’

‘I hope so. She’s three feet under.’ That reminded me of what I was about to do when I’d heard the crash. I hoped I hadn’t left the morphine lying around too conspicuously.

I boiled the kettle and she sat on the edge of her chair, anxiously watching me through the door, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and smoothing her hair. When I came in with the tea, she had obviously made up her mind what to say.

‘I’ve run away,’ she said.

It was good thing I had just sat down. You don’t hear grown women tell you that sort of thing every day.

‘Run away from what?’ I asked, putting my cup down so my shaky hand didn’t spill any tea.

‘From very nasty man. He beats me and shuts me in cupboard. So I take his car and run away.’

‘Your husband?’ I asked.

She giggled that nervous giggle again. ‘No, not husband. Son of boss.’

‘If they mistreat you, you’re right to leave,’ I said, although I wasn’t so sure about taking the car.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘I hope you understand. Can I use your toilet please?’

‘Of course,’ I said remembering that my clothes were in the bathroom and I was wearing only underpants under my coat. ‘I’ll just clear up a bit.’

***

Whilst she was in the bathroom, I went into the bedroom to make myself more respectable and check on the morphine. I glanced at Betty’s photo by the bed. She had that old–fashioned look in her eyes.

‘What? I’m not doing anything wrong, am I?’ I muttered. ‘What would you do?’

‘You silly old fool, of course you’re not doing anything wrong. You look after her. She could be your daughter.’

My daughter. I hadn’t thought of her for years. The baby I never met. She was born during the war when I was stationed in France and died a few days later. Betty never talked about it much when I got home but I know she never got over it. There was not even a grave to visit. The body was whisked away and buried somewhere, like a bad memory. No-one ever told us where. I probably should have tried harder to find her, but it seemed easier to just forget.

That was nearly seventy years ago, so this one couldn’t be my daughter; granddaughter more like. But she’s someone’s daughter and if mine had lived and turned up in a strange house like this, what would I want them to do? I leant over and kissed the top of the Betty’s picture frame, as I do each night before I turn out the light, and her smile seemed to be a little bit bigger.

***

‘Now then, young lady,’ I said when we were back together in the sitting room. ‘We need to get you sorted out. What about if you quietly take yourself off in the morning and I call the police to say someone left their car parked in my gates, but I didn’t see anyone? We just need to make sure there’s nothing of yours inside, no fingerprints or anything. It could have been stolen by anyone. You can disappear quietly and get yourself another job.’

She was smiling until I said the word