Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
The front hallway is tiny and made more crowded by the two packing boxes that stand in the corner. Alessia removes her hat and anorak, and I take them from her and hang them on one of the pegs on the wall.
“Magda,” she calls up the stairs while I shed my coat and hang it beside hers, but there’s no answer. The house is empty. I follow her into the tiny kitchen.
Jesus, the place is a shoebox!
From the threshold of the dated but tidy 1980s kitchen, I watch Alessia fill the kettle. She’s in her tight jeans and the green sweater that she wore the other day.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“Please.”
“Would you like milk and sugar?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.” I loathe instant coffee and can only tolerate it black, but now isn’t the right time to tell her.
“Sit,” she says, and points to the little white table. I do as I’m told and wait, watching her while she prepares our drinks. I am not going to rush her.
She makes tea for herself—strong, with sugar and milk—and eventually hands me a mug inscribed BRENTFORD FC that bears the team logo. Taking the seat opposite me, she gazes down at the contents of her mug, which is emblazoned with the Arsenal shield, and an uncomfortable silence settles between us.
Finally I can bear it no longer. “Are you planning to tell me what’s going on? Or do I have to guess?”
She doesn’t respond, but her teeth worry her upper lip. Under any normal circumstance, this would drive me crazy, but seeing her this distraught is sobering.
“Look at me.”
At last her big brown eyes meet mine.
“Tell me. I want to help.”
Her eyes widen with what I assume is fear, and she shakes her head.
I sigh. “Okay. Let’s play twenty questions.”
She looks puzzled.
“You answer each question yes or no.”
Her frown deepens, and she clutches the little gold cross that hangs at her neck.
“Are you a failed asylum seeker?”
Alessia gazes at me, then gives me the briefest shake of her head.
“Okay. Are you here legally?”
She blanches, and I have my answer. “Not legally, then?”
After a beat she shakes her head again.
“Have you lost the power of speech?” I hope she notices the trace of humor in my voice.
Her face brightens, and she half smiles. “No,” she says, and her cheeks color a little.
“That’s better.”
She takes a sip of her tea.
“Talk to me. Please.”
“You will tell the police?” she asks.
“No. Of course not. Is that what you’re worried about?”
She nods.
“Alessia, I won’t. You have my word.”
Placing her elbows on the table, she clasps her hands together and rests her chin on them. A range of conflicting emotions crosses her face as the silence expands and fills the room. I hold my tongue, silently begging her to talk. At last her dark eyes meet mine. They’re full of determination. She sits up straight and places her hands in her lap. “The man who came to your apartment, his name is Dante.” Her voice is a pained whisper. “He brought me and some other girls from Albania to England.” She looks down at her mug of tea.
A shiver runs up my spine to my scalp, and I have a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach. Somehow I think I know what she’s about to say.
“We thought we were coming here to work. For a better life. Life in Kukës is hard for some women. The men who brought us here…We were betrayed—” Her soft voice halts over the word, and I close my eyes as revulsion and bile rise in my throat. It’s as bad as it could possibly be.
“Human trafficking?” I whisper, and I watch her reaction.
She nods once, her eyes tightly closed. “For sex.” Her words are barely audible, but in them I hear her shame and her horror.
Fury like nothing I’ve felt before ignites inside me. I clench my fists trying to control my anger.
Alessia is pale.
And everything about her falls into place.
Her reticence.
Her fear.
Of me.
Of men.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“How did you escape?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
We’re both startled by the rattle of a key in the front door. Alarmed, Alessia leaps to her feet, and I jump up, knocking my chair to the floor.
“Stay here,” I growl, pulling open the kitchen door.
A blond woman in her forties stands in the hallway. She gasps in alarm when she sees me.
“Magda!” Alessia cries. Dodging around me, she runs to embrace Magda.
“Alessia!” Magda exclaims, and hugs her. “You’re here. I thought…I thought…I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Magda babbles, anguish in her voice, as she begins to cry. “They were here again. Those men.”
Alessia takes Magda by the shoulders. “Tell me. Tell me what happened.”
“Who is this?” Magda turns her tearstained face to me with suspicion.
“This is…Mister Maxim. It is his apartment that I clean.”