The Mister

“Of course you did.”

And I have to touch her, so that she knows I’m on her side. Folding both her hands in one of mine, I squeeze gently. The temptation to haul her into my lap and just hold her is overwhelming, but I resist. She needs to talk. She gives me a hesitant look, and I let go. “I went in a small bus to Shkodër, and there we move into the big truck. Dante and Ylli are there with five other girls. One of them has…I mean—is only seventeen years.”

I gasp. Shocked. So young.

“Her name is Bleriana. On the truck. We talked. A lot. She lives in the north of Albania, too. In Fierza. We became friends. We made plans to find work together.” She stops—lost in the horror of her story, or maybe she’s wondering what became of her friend.

“And they take everything from us. Except the clothes we are wearing and our shoes. There is only one bucket in the back….You know.” Her voice fades.

“That’s awful.”

“Yes. The smell.” She shudders. “And all we have is a bottle of water. One bottle for each of us.” Her leg starts jiggling, and her face pales—I’m reminded of how she looked when I first met her.

“It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you. I want to know.”

She turns dark, devastated eyes to me. “Do you?”

“Yes. But only if you want to tell me.”

Her eyes move over my face, scrutinizing me. Exposing me, like that first time in my hallway.

Why do I want to know?

Because I love her.

Because she’s the sum of all her experiences, and this, sadly, is one of them.

She takes a deep breath and continues, “We were in the truck for three, four days maybe. I don’t know how long. We stopped before the truck went on a—what is the word?—ferry. For carrying cars and trucks. We were given bread. And black plastic bags. We had to put them over our heads.”

“What?”

“It is to do with the immigration. They measure the, um…dioksidin e karbonit?” She flounders for the words.

“Carbon dioxide?”

“Yes. That is it.”

“In the cab?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know, but if there is too much, the authorities know there are people in the truck. They measure it. Somehow.

“We drove onto the ferry. The noise was loud. Too loud. The engines. The other trucks…and we were in the dark. My head in the plastic bag. And then the truck stopped. The engine was off, and all we could hear was the creaking and groaning of the metal and the tires. The sea was rough. So rough. We were all lying down.” Her fingers move to the little cross at her neck, and she starts to fiddle with it. “It was hard to breathe. I thought I was going to die.”

A lump forms in my throat. My voice is hoarse. “No wonder you don’t like the dark. That must have been terrifying.”

“One of the girls was sick. The smell.” She stops and gags.

“Alessia…”

But she continues. She seems compelled. “Before we went on the ferry, when we are eating the bread, I heard Dante say in English—he did not know that I understood the language—he said that we would be earning our money on our backs. And I knew our fate.”

My fury is swift, burning through my blood. I wish I’d killed the fucker when I had the chance and dumped his body the way Jenkins suggested. I have never felt as inadequate as I do in this moment. Alessia drops her head, and I lift her chin gently with my fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

She turns to face me, and there’s a fire in her eyes. It’s not sorrow reflected back at me, or self-pity—she’s angry. Really angry. “I heard rumors, before. Girls missing from our town and from neighboring villages. And from Kosovo. It was in the back of my mind when I boarded the bus—but you always hope.” She swallows, and beneath her anger I see the anguish in her eyes. She feels like a fool.

“Alessia, you are not to blame, and neither is your mother. She acted in good faith.”

“She did. And I had to get away.”

“I understand.”

“I told the girls what Dante said. And three of them believed me. Bleriana, she believed me. And when we had the chance to escape, we did. We ran. I don’t know if the others succeeded. I don’t know if Bleriana got away.” There’s a trace of guilt in her voice. “I had Magda’s address on a piece of paper. People here were celebrating Christmas. I walked for days….I think it was six or seven days. I don’t know. Until I reached her house. And she looked after me.”

“Thank God for Magda.”

“Yes.”

“Where did you sleep while you were walking?”

“I didn’t sleep. Not really. It was too cold. I found a shop, and I stole a map.” She lowers her gaze.

“I can’t begin to imagine this horror that you’ve been through, and I’m sorry.”

“You do not have to be sorry.” She gives me a slight smile. “This was before I met you. Now you know. Everything.”

“Thank you for telling me.” I lean over and kiss her forehead. “You brave, brave woman.”

“Thank you for listening.”

“I’ll always listen, Alessia. Always. Shall we go home now?”

Seemingly relieved, she gives me a nod, and I restart the engine and reverse out of the space. I head for the slip road back to the motorway.

“There’s one thing I want to know,” I add, reflecting on the horrid tale she’s just shared.

“What?”

“Does he have a name?”

“Who?”

“Your…betrothed.” I spit the word out. I loathe him.

She shakes her head. “I never say his name.”

“Like Voldemort,” I mutter under my breath.

“Harry Potter?”

“You know Harry Potter?”

“Oh, yes. My grandmother—”

“Don’t tell me, she smuggled the books into Albania?”

Alessia laughs. “No. She had them sent to her. By Magda. My mother read them to me as a child. In English.”

“Ah, another reason you speak such good English. Is she fluent as well?”

“Mama? Yes. My father…he does not like it when we speak to each other in English.”

“I bet.” The more I hear about her father, the more I dislike him, too. But I keep that to myself. “Why don’t you find another song?”

She scrolls through the screen, and her eyes light up when she finds RY X. “We danced to this song.”

“Our first dance.” I smile at the memory. It seems like a lifetime ago.

We settle into a comfortable silence, both of us listening to the music. She seems preoccupied by the rhythm, swaying gently to and fro. And I’m happy to see that she’s recovered her equilibrium after telling her harrowing story.

While she chooses another song, I brood. This man, this fucker who harmed her, her betrothed, I want to know everything about him if I am to protect her from him. I need to sort out Alessia’s legal status, urgently—but I have no idea how. Marrying her would help, but I think she needs to be here legally for me to do that. I resolve to call Rajah as soon as possible.

I smirk as we pass the junction for Maidenhead, and shake my head, amused by my own idiocy. I’m embracing my inner twelve-year-old boy. I glance at Alessia, but she hasn’t noticed. She’s deep in thought, tapping her finger against her lips.

“His name is Anatoli. Anatoli Thaçi,” she says.

What? “He who must not be named?”

“Yes.”

Mentally I file the arsehole’s name away. “You decided to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he has more power without a name.”

“Like Voldemort?”

She nods.

“What does he do?”

“I am not sure. My father owes him a big debt, something to do with his business, I think. But I don’t know what. Anatoli is a powerful man. Rich.”