This Broken Land Read online

  I don’t like these threats. Or the promises. “So which is it?” I say quietly. “Is she ill, or does she have dangerous ideas?”

  “Oh, both I think. Madmen can be the most dangerous of all. The girl’s close to insane.” He runs his hand down my neck and I suppress a shiver of disgust. “You’re not. Don’t make us treat you as if you are.”

  ~

  ~ Six ~

  Missy

  “For God’s sake, what were they thinking? It’s a fucking chink!”

  Missy had never been woken by quite such a startling statement before and she lay still, wondering where she was and whether or not she was dreaming. Dream people said all sorts of bizarre things; dream people couldn’t be arrested for their words.

  Somebody, somewhere above her head, sniffed loudly.

  “Could be a Jap, Zeb. Never know with orientals. All look the same to me.”

  It was so surreal to hear men discussing her race so blatantly that Missy almost giggled at the absurdity of it. It was a long time since she’d heard the term Jap used to describe her or her brother. Racist language carried a mandatory prison sentence, surely the speakers knew that.

  “Chink or Jap, I don’t fucking care! You were meant to buy white girls. No-one gives a rat’s arse when white girls go missing. You don’t touch fucking ethnic minorities. Don’t they know that?”

  Clearly whoever was being admonished did not seem to know that. Missy remained still although now fully alert. She didn’t recognise the smell all around her. A nasty sort of smell like a dirty stable, a musty sort of wet straw smell. She didn’t move. The deeper of the two voices did not sound pleasant.

  “She’s pretty.” The other voice had a tight, nasal tone and sniffed regularly. Missy wondered whether he was ill. She hoped he was. “Look at that hair. Black silk.”

  “Yeah, well, our clients like blondes best. They’re fucking simple like that. They won’t want a chink.”

  “I might not be a chink you know.” Missy’s mouth began to speak before her brain gave it permission. It did that sometimes. She’d been in trouble at school more than once because of her mouth.

  “I could be Korean. Or Vietnamese. The possibilities for you to insult me are just endless.” She opened her eyes and winced a little at the light. The two men stared down at her, one in a suit – not an expensive suit but still a suit – the other in the scruffiest army fatigues she’d ever seen. Both gaped a little, their expressions were so funny Missy forgot to be frightened.

  She remembered to be frightened the instant she moved and realised there was a set of handcuffs holding her right wrist to the iron frame of the bed though. That wasn’t funny at all.

  “Where am I?” She demanded, wondering whether or not she would receive an answer. Missy wrestled with her last memories, hunting in her fuzzy brain for some information pertaining to the last few days. It was all horribly blank.

  The man in the suit grabbed her face with a rough and stared at her. He had a pair of brown eyes set in a soft, rounded face, like putty, with thin lips and heavy eyebrows.

  “Well, for a chink you’re pretty enough I suppose.”

  “You realise calling me chink could get you locked up? Besides, I’m a Jap.” Missy had never truly found derogatory words offensive despite the fuss made over such things, her wise mother had raised her to believe sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. But right now, this was no longer even slightly amusing. This man used chink the way he might use cow. To describe an animal.

  He slapped her. She wasn’t expecting it and it hurt.

  “Shut your mouth.”

  For once Missy obeyed. The man grabbed her again, and turned her head sharply to one side and then the other.

  “You’re a mistake, that’s what you are. I’m not sure what to do with you.”

  “Where the Hell am I?”

  He hit her again.

  “I said to shut your mouth.”

  He released her head, grabbed the loose nightshirt she seemed to be wearing, and wrenched it down to expose her breasts. Missy squealed and pulled away.

  “Get off me!”

  The insulting names were funny they were so anachronistic, but being stripped by a strange man with cold eyes was not. Not even slightly.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at Zeb. Can’t you see the poor kid’s terrified?”

  There was a fat woman in the doorway, grey hair poorly coloured a garish blonde with obvious roots. It was the door she had just opened that caught Missy’s attention, even more than the woman. The door was heavy wood with a small, barred window at head height. It was a prison door.

  The man called Zeb didn’t take his eyes from Missy.

  “She’s been here long enough. You should’ve taught her not to give anyone lip by now.”

  The fat woman tutted and marched forwards on worn down heels. She was old, Missy decided, easily sixty, wearing an unflattering vest top that showed far too much sagging breast tucked into tight jeans that showed too much sagging everything-else.

  “She won’t remember anything Zeb, you prick! She had a bang on the head, remember? She’s been concussed. Not that those fucking men you call soldiers cared.”

  “I don’t call them anything. They’re nothing to do with me. They bring the merchandise and I buy them. And I take what I can. One of the other traders is undercutting me.”

  The old woman barged Zeb aside and lowered herself heavily onto the thin, threadbare mattress. The room really wasn’t much more comfortable than the stable to which Missy had already likened it. The walls stared at each other, exposed brickwork with no plaster and no attempt at decoration. There were no windows at all and the bare bulb above their heads washed the room with harsh, artificial light, revealing the stark, ugliness of a concrete-floored box.

  Missy counted ten beds in the room. Ten old-fashioned, dirty beds in rows. Like a school dormitory in a house that cared as much for hygiene as décor.

  “There now ducks,” The woman’s voice was not unsympathetic and she patted Missy’s leg in a kindly way. “How do you feel?”

  Missy stared at the woman. How she was feeling seemed ridiculously unimportant. There were far more pressing questions.

  “Who are you?” She asked. “Where am I?”

  “I’m Nicky love, I’m your friend. I’m here to take care of you. How does your head feel?”

  The answer was unacceptable. Missy pulled at her chained wrist. “Why am I chained to a bed?”

  “Ah now, just a precaution.”

  “A precaution?” Missy tugged at the handcuff again. What sort of precaution involved chaining up a slight, twenty-five year old woman with handcuffs?

  “This is illegal.” Unless they were the police and this woman did not look like a police officer. “Kidnapping. You could be in a lot of trouble.” If she was not here legally than that was the only explanation. Besides, no official in any position of authority would ever use racist language, not ever.

  “Not here it’s not.” The man, Zeb, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lit one and sucked on the end. “Anything goes here.”

  “Where is here?” And how the hell did she get here? “Last time I checked, kidnapping was illegal everywhere.” Not that she’d ever actually checked, but it was a pretty fair assumption.

  “Not in the Border, ducks.” Nicky chuckled, touching Missy’s forehead with a motherly hand. Missy flinched at the contact. “There now, I’m just checking your temperature. You’ve been ill. Calling out in your sleep you were.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “And I want a million quid and a decent car. Don’t always get what we want I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t understand! Why am I here?” She screwed up her eyes, wrestling with her jumbled memories. “I was at home. I was…..I was out running. Before work. I was cross…..angry about something – why don’t I remember any more?”

  Nicky patted her leg again and made little soothing sounds,
as though she was calming a frightened animal. “Don’t upset yourself now ducks. That bang on the head was quite serious.”

  With her free hand, Missy examined the back of her head and discovered a large, tender area that seemed to be stitched. She yelped and drew her fingers away; they were shaking, she hoped the woman didn’t notice.

  “You were given quite a knock love. Those Wolves can be vicious bastards.”

  “Wolves?” Missy queried the word. She knew about the wolves, everyone knew about the wolves.

  “Thugs all of them. That’s why I’m here love, to take care of you.”

  Missy wriggled backwards sharply in the bed and a bolt of fresh, burning pain shot through her legs and stomach. She shouted out involuntarily.

  “Something hurts!” She cried, shifting her leg and feeling the pain a second time.

  Nicky took her hand and squeezed her fingers, gold rings digging into Missy’s flesh without comfort.

  “You have a few little injuries…...down below. That’s all. They’re all stitched now too.” The smile she offered was as reassuring as the room was luxurious.

  “Down below? How did that happen?”

  “The Wolves again I’m afraid.” Nicky’s laugh was pitched to be comforting but missed the mark altogether. “They’re all men aren’t they, and men can…..can lose control when there’s a pretty girl. And I’m told you were insulting them.” She glanced across to Zeb who had the decency to look mildly ashamed.

  “It’s not my fault they do what they do. I pay less if the damage the merchandise, that usually stops them putting their dicks where they’re not wanted.” Zeb added, blowing a mouthful of smoke into the room. “They made you an exception. Sorry about that.”

  Missy’s fear began to morph into anger and indignation, then, all at once, back to fear.

  “Are you saying I was raped?”

  Nicky tossed her a kind look that wasn’t kind at all, but it was Zeb who answered.

  “Just once or twice.” He muttered. “Serves you right for mouthing off at them. Still, I’ll fucking do them for damaging the goods.”

  “You won’t do anything of the sort.” Nicky’s tone was curt. “They’d eat you for breakfast. You only talk to them when there’s a gate between you and them. Anyway,” The old woman didn’t release Missy’s fingers. “You’re all stitched up now, good as new. Doctor thinks you’ll be better than new when the stitches heal.” She winked. “Tighter even. A virgin again almost.” She turned back to Zeb. “You could get a high price for her.”

  Zeb shook his head and tossed the remnants of his cigarette away.

  “I told you Nicky, can’t risk it. Minorities are a no go. If she’s reported missing to the Council for the Advancement of Ethnic Peoples they’ll kick up a shitstorm.”

  Missy found her tongue. Very little silenced her but this was new territory and it was terrifying.

  “This is a joke. A sick, sick joke.” The pain between her legs told her it was no joke, but what else could it be? It certainly couldn’t be real. “I’m suing you! I am so suing you all!”

  Nicky stroked her hair. “You have a good shout love. And a good cry. All the girls do it, I don’t mind.”

  “All the girls?”

  “The girls that come here. I take good care of them.” Nicky said that with pride and Missy shuddered.

  “You can’t sell people, not in Old Britain. They don’t even sell people in the BSI though my brother says they do….” Missy’s voice trailed off and she stared at the three people surrounding her bed, the small, hairy man in fatigues hadn’t said another word. Was he one of the ones who raped her? The idea was sickening and she couldn’t even remember.

  “Shit. Is this….is this the BSI?” Were all those rumours true?

  Nicky shook her head. “No love, I told you. This is the Border.”

  “Which side of the border?”

  “The Border isn’t a line between Old Britain and the BSI. It’s seven miles wide. Cuts from Stirling in Scotland all the way to Brighton. That’s four hundred and seventy miles. The Border is a whole separate country.”

  “And it’s okay to sell people here?”

  “It’s okay to do a lot of things here.”

  “But trafficking?”

  “It’s just business.” Jeb muttered, lighting a second cigarette. “Supply and demand.” He tossed a venomous look to the smaller man. “Except when my idiot men buy the wrong people. Never blacks or wogs or chinks. They know that. Can’t afford to be done for racism.”

  Missy gave a long, cynical laugh that came from some defiant place within her.

  “Racism! You’re worried about racism, but kidnapping is fine is it?”

  Zeb continued to smoke, barely looking at her.

  “Love, it depends on who you kidnap. Nobody cares about the white girls, nobody comes after them. That was the point of #whitekarma.”

  Missy stared at the man. She’d seen that hashtag everywhere over the last ten years. It was employed whenever the Wolves attacked and girls disappeared. Karma, everyone said, for the Trans-Atlantic slave trade.

  “But – but that doesn’t mean it’s okay to kidnap people.”

  “True enough, but it stops people kicking up too much of a fuss. Nobody comes after the girls we take because the whole fucking white population of the country – what’s left of it – thinks it deserves this for its colonial past.” He finished his second cigarette and threw it into the corner. The end glowed red for a few moments before fading to ask grey. “So we use that to keep the court of public opinion off our backs. Everything’s so screwed up there are more important things than girls disappearing.” He gave a sly grin. “Sending the cops round to arrest someone for being a fucking Christian is waaay more important than what I do.” He laughed at that. Missy didn’t. There was nothing remotely funny about the certainty in his voice.

  Zeb leaned forwards and gazed thoughtfully at her. “What’s your name?”

  “Misaki Hisakawa.” She pronounced her name carefully. If this man only wanted white girls then he might be persuaded to release her.

  “Quite a mouthful.”

  “No, it’s an ordinary Japanese name. Moron.” She didn’t mean to add that, but having done so, she set her jaw and met his nasty little eyes. She wasn’t Elsie, she didn’t apologise for breathing.

  Jeb glowered at Missy but did not hit her again, instead he regarded her as though she was some irritating problem, like a flat tyre on a bike. Then he sighed and ran his hand through his greying hair.

  “Can’t keep her Nicky. Can’t take the risk.”

  Nicky seemed upset at that. “Oh come on Zeb. You’re already out of pocket after the doctor patched her up. You might as well get your money back.”

  Zeb shook his head firmly. “Nah. Not worth it. She goes. Safer all round that way.”

  Missy swallowed and shrank a little under Zeb’s cold eyes. She was alone, chained to a bed and in pain.

  “You – you’re going to let me go?” Did she really think that was what he meant?

  Zeb pushed his hands into his pockets and addressed the other man. He didn’t look at her again.

  “Can you make it look like an accident? I don’t want any sort of investigation.”

  The other man nodded his shaggy head and ran a tongue over his cracked lips. “Sure. Seems a pity though to waste the doc’s work though.”

  Zeb shrugged. “I said I didn’t want an investigation. That’s why I had the doc stitch her up. I don’t want it obvious she was raped, so keep your mucky hands to yourself Gav.” He thrust both hands into his pockets and headed for the door.

  “She stays put long enough for those stitches to come out Nicky, then we kill her, nice and easy and dump the body on the other side of the border.”

  ~

  Josh

  I don’t go to bed. Instead I go straight to the computer room. Day or night, these computers are available. Most of the others search for porn or watch TV shows. I prefer to loo
k up history and politics. Nobody stops us, though I’m not so much of a fool to believe our search histories are unmonitored.

  I type Diana Lamont, family into the search engine and hunt through the results.

  It takes twenty seconds for me to learn the truth. Diana Lamont has no children.

  I frown and try a new search. Diana Lamont daughter River.

  This one brings up a news story from fifteen years ago. I read it in the darkened room in horrified fascination.

  Diana Lamont did have a daughter called River. River Lamont died aged two. There are dozens of stories covering her death, I click on one at random and scroll through. Then I click another, and another.

  It’s two thirty by the time I close down the computer and head for bed. I have all the information I need. River Lamont died after suffering a severe reaction to the HIV vaccine. It seems Diana Lamont used the tragedy to spearhead a new, safer immunisation, the one that’s still used today.

  But River Lamont is very definitely dead. That means Mr. Scott is right. River is insane. Or a liar. Or both.

  I sit back on my chair and begin the process of shutting down the computer, my head fuzzy with new, unpleasant thoughts. A tiny ping and a little icon at the bottom of the screen informs me I have a personal message on my social media account. Everyone has social media here; half of us live our lives on cyberspace and forget all about ever setting foot in the real world again.

  But not me. I dabble with my accounts as much as is expected. I laugh at the cute bunnies wearing hats and the kittens falling off pianos and I share the occasional inspirational message, that’s the extent of my life Online.

  I click on the message and, instead of a face, a little picture of an idyllic, country scene pops up, a river running through green fields. Beside it is the message.

  - Guess who?

  - River? Who else would message me? She must be in another of the computer rooms.

  - Right first time. Thanks for talking. I enjoyed it.