was guffawing with laughter at something the two pimps said.
‘You’re pretty new, aren’t you? What’s your name?’
She understood that much. ‘Irina.’
‘Mine’s Lev.’
In the rear view mirror, lightning bolt blinked hard and opened his mouth several times without saying anything, as though he were trying and failing to expel a thought.
‘I’m sorry …’ he finally said, eyes flickering down towards the scratched car stereo. Furrows appeared in his forehead. He stretched out the fingers on his smooth-skinned hand. Bitten fingernails said all was far from perfect in his world, too. She realised then that he couldn’t have been a great deal older than her. ‘… Sorry for all this shit. It’s not right. I wish I could—’
But Lev fell silent as the Fish Man opened the passenger door and slumped down into the seat, bringing with him the pungent scent of fish and menace.
They drove several blocks down the wide road that bisected the main Strangeways business district, the car bouncing and jerking as it hit pothole after pothole, making Irina’s jaw clack. Rubbish, whipped up by the wind, adhered itself to the car’s sloping bonnet.
They pulled up outside a large red-brick building that looked as though it had once been a giant factory, now with its large, multi-paned windows cracked and broken. The grime of a century’s existence clung to the façade like a mourner’s veil. No jaunty sign outside this one. But the noise of industry and voices coming from within. The Fish Man opened the doors and pulled Irina out, leaving Lev behind in the people carrier.
‘Be friendly,’ the Fish Man told her, ushering her through a heavy steel door that was opened by means of a buzzer entry system. ‘Smile.’
What Irina saw brought morning sickness on, bloating her like a quickly inflated balloon, stretched to popping point with bad gas. She held her hand over her mouth, willing herself not to vomit.
There were people everywhere, beavering over production lines. Mainly men. Predominantly Asian, she could tell. Small and thin, as though they weren’t properly nourished. Chattering animatedly as they stuffed white pills into baggies at this workstation, put CDs into CD cases at that, packaged branded trainers into boxes. Just do it. The air was thick with pungent smells. Sweat. Bad breath. Dust. Hot machinery, where conveyor belts chugged ropey-looking dolls in various stages of assembly from one end of the factory to another. Everywhere, there was life. Everywhere, she smelled the clashing scents of desperation and hope. Were these workers all slaves like her? Perhaps just illegals. Lucky bastards.
‘Go to the back,’ the Fish Man said, prodding her between her shoulder blades. ‘The office, there.’
Irina’s heartbeat, already ragged, sped up further. Adrenalin doing battle with nausea. At the rear of the factory there was a door – battered khaki paint that revealed grey beneath and red beneath that. The Fish Man opened the door and pushed her inside a cold room that was furnished with a cheap old melamine desk and an ugly brown metal filing cabinet. Behind the desk sat a man dressed in beige tunic and baggy trousers. On his feet, which she could see poking beneath the desk, he wore blue flip-flops. His greying, shorn hair was covered in the main by a flat round hat that reminded her of the loaves of rye bread that her mother used to bake.
The man’s brown eyes darted in her direction, furtively taking a snapshot of her face. He looked back up to the Fish Man.
‘Tariq,’ he said simply.
‘Sit!’ The Fish Man pushed Irina into a torn grey twill typing chair, opposite the strange man.
Would she have to sleep with him? She looked at his fingernails. He was clean enough, at least. Oddly, he seemed more nervous than she felt, if that were possible, fidgeting as he was with his beard. Those darting eyes were dogged by dark shadows that said this man wasn’t someone who slept.
Presently, Tariq entered the dingy office. Irina recognised him. The other boss-man. The one who hadn’t tried to screw her. A well-dressed Asian man who smelled like heaven and would have been good-looking were it not for his beak-like nose that put her in mind of a hawk.
‘Hello, love,’ he said, smiling at her like a benign father she didn’t want. ‘How you doing?’ He rubbed the ends of her blonde hair between his fingertips, as though he were appraising the quality of a wheat stalk, saying something in a language she did not recognise to the man in the hat.
A conversation ensued during which Tariq never sat down, though he spoke calmly. He released her hair to jangle his gold watch and then turned to the Fish Man.
‘Get the fee from our client, here,’ he told him. ‘Fifteen K as agreed.’
‘Don’t you want to count it, boss?’ the Fish Man asked.
Tariq held up his hands and closed his eyes. ‘I’ve got a five-a-side team to manage at my son’s school. You take the money and give him details of the registry office.’ With a fleeting glance at Irina, he muttered, ‘Congratulations,’ and started to scroll absently through the texts on his phone.
The nervous man’s watery smile suddenly had something predatory about it. Sensing that something was afoot, Irina stood. Turned to the door. The Fish Man pushed her back into her seat.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked in her own tongue.
‘You’re getting married to Mohammed here so that he can stay in the country. You can’t get kicked out because you’re a pregnant EU citizen. He’s an Afghan national who’s been threatened with deportation.’
‘No!’ Irina yelled, tears welling in her eyes. She tried to force herself up and out of the chair but the Fish Man’s grip was too strong. ‘You can’t make me.’ Turning to Tariq, she cried in English, ‘Help, please!’
But Tariq’s phone was ringing. He turned away, speaking into the device.
‘Jonny. Slow down. What’s the matter?’
Irina struggled and tried to scream but, as if he had anticipated her protest, the Fish Man’s large hand pressed firmly over her mouth. She could smell stale herring on his fingers. The man in the round hat squirmed in his chair, counting out £20 notes as though his every move were being observed by some hidden camera. He looked almost apologetic.
‘HMRC have found what?’ Tariq shouted, opening the door to the hallway. Suddenly, he seemed to think better of it and shut himself back inside the small office. He shot an agitated glance towards the Fish Man, gesturing impatiently that he should lessen his grip on Irina. Held his finger to his mouth, motioning to her that she should resist the urge to scream.
For some reason – perhaps the sharp boning knife that the Fish Man had just taken out of his coat pocket and pressed to Irina’s throat – she felt obliged to obey.
‘This is bad. Very bad,’ Tariq said, pressing his fingers to his temples. ‘Oh hang on, I’ve got another call coming through … It’s Maureen. She’ll deal with this. Yeah, I’ll get back to you.’
Irina watched, pinioned to her seat by the Fish Man and a mixture of intrigue and fear. She didn’t fully understand Tariq’s words or whether they had any bearing on her fate or not. He greeted the caller named Maureen, whoever that was. His eyes grew wide. A smile, then – an unexpected sunburst brightening the stormy expression on his face.
‘You kidding me, Mo? The O’Briens are saying what?’
He whooped with apparent joy just as the Fish Man drew a bead of blood from Irina’s neck.
‘What