Trafficked, p.18
Trafficked, page 18
What was wrong with the girl; did she really think a trip down memory lane would bend Aurélie to her will?
‘So, go on, what do you miss the most?’
How could you miss what you couldn’t remember?
‘Or, if not a thing, who do you miss the most? I miss me mam; she can be such a nightmare at times, but she gives the best hugs. That’s the first thing I’m gonna do when I get back home: give her the biggest hug, and tell her how sorry I am about everything I ever did wrong. If this – all of this – is a punishment, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.’
At the time, Aurélie couldn’t remember what her mum and dad looked like; in fact it had taken their walking into her hospital room to fire any kind of recognition.
‘It doesn’t have to be like this, you know,’ Seven had kept on. ‘I know it’s scary, but I’ve heard about others who’ve escaped. They want us to live in fear, so we’ll be more compliant; that’s why they threaten and hurt us, but it isn’t in their best interests to leave any lasting damage. Think about it, we won’t be able to… perform if we’re in too much pain, right? So they threaten violence – inflicting only a little to show they mean business – and have our own imaginations act as prison guards.’
Aurélie hadn’t wanted to listen, but was there some truth in this child’s words? How could one so young be so smart already? It was impossible that she could have been in their clutches for as long as Aurélie, and yet she was so much more clued up; how was that possible?
‘What time does he bring you breakfast, like? That’s probably when they’ll come and collect me, and that’s why we need to be ready. Is there anything in here we can use as a weapon?’
The girl was talking so quickly, it had been difficult for Aurélie to understand her, despite the language tapes she’d studied to stave off boredom.
‘No, it is impossible,’ she had tried to reason. ‘There are rules; if you try to escape, he will punish me; they will punish us.’
‘They’d have to catch us first.’
Aurélie had grabbed the girl’s arms at that point, had implored her to see reason, but she had refused.
‘My name is Jemima – Jem for short – and I plan to get out of here, even if you don’t. Tell me your name and I’ll get a message to your parents and let them know you’re still alive, and where they can find you. How about that? You help me escape, and I’ll lead the police to save you.’
No, no, no, she’d wanted to scream, but it had been like talking to a broken record; she’d had more sensible conversations with the muddy wall of her inherited home. Seven would not listen, despite Aurélie’s best efforts.
‘All you need to do is tell them I’m not well; tell them I slipped and banged my head. I’ll be lying on the floor so they will think I’m unconscious, and as soon as they come close, that is when I’ll attack them. Your only job will be to tell them I’m hurt, and then try and block them from chasing after me. Please? I can’t do this without you.’
The plan was full of holes, and no matter how many times Aurélie pictured the attempt, it always ended with the two of them being caught and punished.
‘I am sorry, but I cannot help you. It will not work, and we will both be punished. Please do not do anything stupid.’
It was shortly after this point that Seven had agreed she wouldn’t cause Aurélie any trouble, and had suggested they both go to sleep, leaving the candle burning. Aurélie had climbed onto the mattress, leaving a space for Seven to lie in, but she had refused, opting for the cold floor instead. Aurélie must have drifted off, only to be woken an hour or so later. Keeping her eyes closed save for a fraction, she watched the candlelight dancing over the walls as Seven snuck about, obviously looking for something she could use as a weapon in her crazed plan. That was why she hadn’t wanted to sleep on the mattress, to avoid disturbing Aurélie when she started her search.
Aurélie remained silent, trying to ignore the less than subtle movement, and when she heard him coming, her senses were instantly on high alert. Sitting upright, it had been impossible to see as the candle had been extinguished. She wanted to scrabble around on the floor, to pull Seven close, and hold her there, but if he opened the door and found her not on the mattress, he wouldn’t be happy; that was one of the rules.
‘Psst, Seven, come to the bed,’ she whispered into the darkness. ‘We must be in bed when he arrives or he will be angry. Please?’
She’d strained to hear the sound of any movement, but the room had been deathly silent. She’d gasped when he’d opened the door wide, shining his torch over at the mattress to check she was in place. He immediately saw that Aurélie was alone, and as he shone the torch around the rest of the room, he didn’t see Seven step out from behind the door and crack the chair over the back of his head. To the sound of splintering wood, he crashed to the floor, the torch spinning on the ground.
‘Come with me.’ Seven beckoned from the open door. ‘Please? This is our chance to escape.’
Aurélie had looked at him, prone, and probably bleeding. He wasn’t moving, but she couldn’t tell if he was dead, not without getting closer. She had wondered for a moment whether they could actually get away, but something held her back, and she remained where she was, shaking her head firmly.
‘Oh well, your loss,’ Seven called, disappearing through the door and beginning the ascent to the surface.
In that moment, Aurélie had prayed that Seven would be rewarded; that she would find her way out and avoid capture, returning to her life of warm milk and Curly Wurlys, but the dream had lasted fewer than sixty seconds. That was how long it had taken for him to come to his senses and charge up the tunnel after her.
Aurélie heard the kicking and screaming long before she saw Seven dragged back in through the door, and mercilessly flung to the ground like an old cloth. Then he’d made Aurélie watch as Seven’s body had writhed with the jolts of electricity.
‘You did well,’ he said when it was over, pressing a hand to Aurélie’s cheek, passing her back the small piece of paper she’d managed to push under the door when Seven’s back had been turned. ‘Thank you for warning me. You’ll be rewarded.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Now
Weymouth, Dorset
The summer dress is clinging to my lower back by the time I arrive at the former church hall, now homeless kitchen, where I first interviewed Freddie Mitchell. It’s shortly after two, the lunchtime queue has dwindled, and there are only three people waiting inside at the table for a fresh batch of rolls to be brought out and the fruit platter to be topped up. I’m given wary looks as I move past the queue and head to the front of the table. I look apologetic as I try to offer reassurance that I’m not pushing in.
The three of them seem tired and famished, their clothes hanging from gaunt frames, hair too out of control to be styled. Each carries a rolled-up coat presumably holding the precious belongings they daren’t allow out of their sight.
‘Have any of you seen Freddie?’ I enquire, but it’s as if they don’t hear me, because their attention has been diverted by a basket with arms and legs moving from the makeshift kitchen area.
The basket is lowered, and I instantly recognise the shaved head and vibrant eyes of my close friend Freddie, the man who dared to let me into his world, turning mine upside down in the process. I will never forget meeting Freddie, and I feel truly blessed that he was able to open up to me about his troubled past. I owe him for all the success and rewards that writing Monsters Under the Bed has brought with it.
‘Hello, stranger!’ he coos when he spots me waiting at the side of the table. ‘Don’t tell me sales have dropped so much that you’ve come here for your supper.’
Freddie has a gift for extracting potential tension from any situation. He is incredibly self-deprecating, and doesn’t display any illusions of grandeur about himself or anyone he meets. The Queen herself could step through the rickety old doors of the shelter, and he’d offer her the same deference, humility and hospitality as any other person in this room right now.
‘We’ve got tuna and mayo, ham salad, and cheese and pickle,’ he says now to the woman at the front of the queue, whose expression has changed from weariness to glee upon seeing him. ‘Help yourself, and make sure to take two different pieces of fruit this time, Dawn; we don’t want a banana-belching issue like yesterday, do we?’
He smiles at her and she beams back, rifling through the basket of wrapped rolls until she finds one with a ‘C & P’ scrawled on it. She places it on the brown tray before her, along with an apple and a satsuma, before shuffling down the line to where the tea urn awaits. It was Freddie’s idea to offer visitors a tray on which to carry their menu choices, so it would feel more like they had stepped into a café like any normal person, rather than that they’d reached rock bottom. It’s those little touches that make Freddie who he is; all the more reason why I wish I’d come here with a less selfish motive.
With the three diners stocked and seated, he now turns back to me, and wraps his arms around my shoulders. ‘I wish you’d said you were coming; I’d have hoovered and dusted and rolled out the red carpet.’
He’s only teasing, as he always does, because he knows I prefer to shy away from my new-found celebrity status.
‘I like what you’ve done with the place,’ I say back to him, ‘though you didn’t need to put on this buffet just for me.’
He chuckles. ‘I hope you’ve brought your Marigolds with you, as there’s a stack of cups and plates need washing up through there.’
‘Actually, it’s more of a social visit,’ I say reluctantly.
‘Oh yeah?’ He’s eyeing me suspiciously, almost as if he can already read my mind, and is raising his defences in anticipation. ‘Well, you know me: I charge by the hour, and unless you’ve brought a chest full of gold and diamonds, you’re going to have to do something else to earn my time.’
‘If you wash, I’ll dry,’ I say, sliding the bag from my shoulder and making my way to the kitchen doorway.
In truth, I’d rather speak to him out of earshot, and hopefully, with his hands wet with suds, he’ll be more of a captive audience.
‘Is this about the summer fête?’ he asks when we are alone, and the sink is beginning to fill.
He wasn’t joking about the stack of cups; it’s like four towers of a makeshift castle, with battlements built from crockery plates and bowls. I know he won’t admit he’s struggling to keep the operation running, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s been the only one working here today, preparing the food as well as serving it. Most evening shifts at the shelter are operated on a rota basis, but it’s harder to find staff during the day; all are volunteers and most have day jobs.
‘Summer fête?’ I question.
‘To raise funds to fix the leaky roof,’ he says, looking towards the ceiling. ‘It’s not a problem whilst it’s so warm and dry, but as soon as autumn arrives you won’t be able to move about without fear of tripping over one bucket or another. So, your Uncle Freddie here thought we could use the shelter to host an afternoon fête for locals to promote their businesses, and to harness the cash of the well-off tourist trade that flocks to the beach every weekend. I’ve been doing the rounds at all the local churches asking parishioners to bake cookies and cakes, donate unwanted clothes and, if nothing else, just come along and see if there are any bargains to be had.’
Whilst I am in awe of this wonderful man who has every right to hate the world for the hand he was dealt, it doesn’t surprise me that this is what he has been ploughing his energy into since finishing work as a consultant on the televised version of Monsters.
‘You’re amazing, Freddie. When is it? I’ll be sure to come down and serve tea or whatever you need me to do.’
‘I was hoping you might be able to do a little more than that.’
‘Name it. Do you want a signed book? No, wait, I can do better than that; how about signed copies of all my books? Maybe you could auction them off or something? No, wait, that’s a rubbish idea, who’s going to want to buy books I’ve scribbled in when they can go up the road to Waterstones and get a clean copy? Sorry, that was a silly idea.’
I’m getting flustered, and he immediately comes to me and places bubbly hands on mine. ‘That would be incredibly generous, and we would really appreciate the signed books for an auction or raffle. Thank you.’
I wish the burning in my cheeks would dampen.
‘I was actually going to ask if you would mind being our celebrity guest at the fête; it would be great if you could officially open the event, and pose for some selfies with those who want them. I reckon if we could put your name on the flyers that will be going up around town, we’ll draw a much larger audience. Would that be okay?’
Whilst I don’t believe my presence will draw more than a few book-club members, I’ll never be able to refuse Freddie. ‘Whatever you need, I’m here for you.’
‘Then good, it’s settled. There’s a dry towel hanging in the cupboard that you can use now.’
I head over to the cupboard, remove a pressed towel, unfold it and reach for the first cup on the draining board.
‘So, how have you been, Freddie? Clearly keeping busy.’
‘Yes, well, you know I don’t like to be without a purpose; that’s a dark and slippery slope I hope never to find myself on again.’
Given the trauma Freddie experienced at the hands of Arthur Turgood and the other abusers at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys, it was almost inevitable that he would seek solace in substances that would help temporarily numb the pain and suffering, and with that came petty crime and eventually a life on the streets. When I met Freddie he was still using, but wanted to get himself cleaned up, and had already started volunteering at the shelter a few days a week. It is incredible to see how much he has changed his life in the last four years. The man before me now stands proud in his sleeveless flannel shirt and denim jeans cut short at the knees. He has a way of brightening any room.
I dry cups and saucers in silence for several minutes, uncertain where to start, wishing I hadn’t come to ask him about his traumatic past, but knowing I can’t leave here until I have.
‘What’s on your mind?’ he asks, pausing in the middle of scraping something dried and red from the edge of a soap-covered plate. ‘You’re not usually this quiet.’
Here goes.
Lowering the towel, I lean closer to him, my voice barely louder than a whisper. ‘There’s something I need to ask you about, and I don’t know how.’
I feel his shoulders tauten beside me. ‘I think I know what you’re going to ask.’
‘You do?’
I feel him nodding. ‘It’s been months since I told you your PC Jack had found videos of me in compromising positions on Turgood’s computer, and we haven’t talked about it since. I figured a day would come when you’d want to know more, but I secretly hoped it wouldn’t.’
I can’t bring myself to look at him, and I don’t know if I’m doing that for his benefit or my own. ‘I’m sorry, Freddie, I know it’s probably the last thing you want to have to relive, but I have to ask you about it. Did you hear that Aurélie Lebrun has been found thirteen years after her abduction?’
‘I’ve got eyes and ears, so I don’t know how I could have missed it. Even though I try to avoid reading newspapers and watching television, local gossip like that filters through even to homeless shelters. It’s not often towns like Poole make the national news.’
‘I’m working with the local police to try and make sense of what happened to her and identify who took her all those years ago. I can’t go into all the detail, but it’s clear this goes much wider than just one girl. Aurélie has been able to confirm she met one of the victims who also appeared in videos on Turgood’s hard drive, and now I believe there may be a link to yours and Anna’s situations. I’m not sure exactly what, but I wanted to ask what you remember of where they took you when they made those films.’
He returns to scratching at the remnants on the plate. ‘I’m not too sure what I can tell you. I said they would offer rewards if we agreed to appear on film, right?’
I nod, because I know if I try to speak, the bubbling sob will escape.
‘They would drive us to the place, we’d be taken into a darkened room, and… well, you know the rest.’
I take a deep breath, swallowing my trepidation. ‘Did you ever see anyone else there?’
‘I really don’t remember; I think I blotted it from my memory, repressed it. As I said in December, I’d totally forgotten about the videos until your PC Jack reached out to me.’
If I was a real friend, I would leave it there. I can see how painful this conversation is for him, and I desperately want to stay quiet and allow silence to return. But I can’t; Jemima Hooper and my sister deserve more, and it’s a cost I’ll have to pay.
‘Do you remember if there was any kind of film crew? Presumably it wasn’t Turgood operating the camera?’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t remember who was there. Yeah, probably there was someone holding the camera, but I don’t remember who. I mean, you’ve got to be pretty messed up in the head to be able to film things like that.’
‘What about other children? Do you remember seeing any other victims being forced to perform there?’
‘What’s this all about, Emma? Do you think this Aurélie appeared in films too?’
‘No, not her – at least I don’t think her – but someone she met where she was being held.’
He places the cleaned plate on the draining board. ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t remember seeing anyone else there at all. My only memory is being put in the back of Turgood’s car and driven somewhere, and then returning to the home with some kind of chocolate bar.’
