A WEEK LATER when Sonya still hadn’t left, Marion demanded to know what was happening.
“I’ve come to a decision, Marion,” John announced, looking as excited as he did when he was a teenager and got accepted into Oxford. “She is going to stay with us for a while. I’m going to educate her, to improve her English, to teach her science, mathematics, literature. This way she can aspire to be something more than just a whore or a criminal.”
“She’s going to live with us? In this house?”
“Yes, but she’ll have to stay hidden. In the cellar. I’ve made it quite comfortable for her. The young lady has everything she needs.”
“But why does she have to stay down there?”
“The people who gave her the drugs are looking for her. She worked for a gang of very dangerous men, and if they find her, they’ll kill her. They’ll probably kill us too, for protecting her.”
Marion was terrified. What choice did she have but to trust her brother? She had relied on his judgment her whole life.
“John, it doesn’t seem right—her living down there—just how long will she stay?”
“Until it’s safe. You mustn’t tell anyone, though. Not a soul. And I don’t want you going anywhere near her—”
“Why ever not?”
“Girls like Sonya can be very clever and manipulative, Marion, someone as softhearted and unworldly as you would be no match for her. That little lost kitten has come from the streets. In the past she’s had to protect herself—you know I found a knife in her pocket?”
Marion recoiled, feeling her plump flesh shrivel as though the blade were already being pressed against it.
“Of course the poor soul can’t be blamed for being that way,” John continued in his soft, cajoling tone. “I want to help her, to teach her to trust people again. But that will take time, like taming a feral animal. Until then you promise me you won’t go down there?”
She nodded solemnly like a child vowing not to run out into the busy road lest she be struck by a car.
John kept the cellar locked, but Marion would have been afraid to go down even if he hadn’t.
? ? ?
THEN, SIX MONTHS later, John announced they were going to pick up another girl. Of course Marion had said no, she would have nothing to do with it, but her brother insisted. The girl, who was called Alla, he said, if they didn’t help her, she would end up working as a prostitute for a criminal gang. According to him, they made these girls do dreadful things, and many of them became drug addicts or killed themselves if the gang leaders didn’t beat them to death. If she came here, he could help her get an education and a good job. They were saving this girl’s life, how could she refuse? Weeks of arguing and sleepless nights left Marion exhausted and confused. Eventually John wore her down and she agreed to go with him to meet the girl.
And Alla had been so different from Sonya; though only in her twenties, she had had the jaded eye of experience. Tall and glamorous in her fur coat, winding manicured fingers through her long blond hair, she had looked Marion up and down with a smirk as she identified the older woman as someone of no significance.
The girls had to stay down the cellar. He said that was very important. People were looking for them, perhaps watching the house. They couldn’t even risk being glimpsed through a window. But did they have to stay hidden all the time, every minute of the day? And could they possibly want to stay down there? Wasn’t that even worse than anything these so called “gang members” might do? She had so many questions, yet whenever she challenged John, darkness would fill his eyes and the air would become so thick, it was impossible to breathe.
Truth be told, Marion was a little relieved that the visitors remained down in the cellar. She had always been shy of people. Company made her anxious, and she had never learned how to make small talk. The girls would probably giggle about her behind her back, making fun of her clumsy body and scruffy clothes.
? ? ?
THE INSIDE OF the Mercedes had a damp, mildewy smell from being locked in the garage for months. A silky cobweb that covered the wing mirror clung on until they reached the coast road, then blew off into the wind. By the time they were on the motorway, driving along between green fields and trees, Marion began to feel a little better. It was a sparkling autumn day, and just being in a car and away from Northport was such a novelty, she realized she was almost enjoying herself.
They passed a wrecking yard. The top of a crooked Ferris wheel poked over the wall.
“There’s Frank’s place,” said Marion excitedly. “Remember when Dad used to take us there?”
John just shook his head and grunted in reply.
It was nearly half past one when they reached the McDonald’s car park, half an hour before the girl was due to meet them. As they waited, John kept looking at his steel watch. Condensation from their breathing began to build up on the windows of the car, and Marion wiped hers with the sleeve of her coat and peered through the glass for signs of the girl. Three children, their tummies and bottoms sticking out aggressively, followed a large woman with a drab blond ponytail across the car park and into the low, redbrick restaurant. Even inside the car, you could smell the sweet, rancid odor of fat coming from the building. Marion’s back began to ache, and her mouth was dry. She wriggled her toes to get some life back into them, but it didn’t make them any warmer.
John kept flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles. Perhaps she isn’t coming, thought Marion. Once they had come to this car park, waited for hours and hours, but no one arrived. John became a dark tornado of fury, ranting about all the months of preparation wasted, not to mention the money he had sent. He had called the girl all the names under the sun, saying she was a vile, thieving bitch and what he would do to her if he ever caught hold of her. His driving on the way home had been so reckless, she was surprised they weren’t killed.
Marion was afraid even to suggest the same thing might have happened again. After they had been waiting nearly an hour, she finally dared to speak.
“John, you don’t think she might have missed the ferry—?”
“Why don’t you leave the bloody thinking to me?” he snapped. “She’ll be here.”
The wriggling anxiety inside her grew claws and teeth. She tried to breathe, but her chest was too tight. She wanted to get out of the car and run, as if she were being kidnapped. What if she went into the restaurant and told everyone what was happening? Would they even believe her?
“I—I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Oh, for God’s sake—”
“I’m sorry—”
She opened her car door and heaved. Of course she hadn’t eaten, so there wasn’t much to bring up—just some clear liquid that formed an egg-white froth on the dark gray tarmac of the car park. Luckily, no one saw, and when she was done, she wiped her mouth and closed the passenger door.