The Trafficked

‘Good, Jojo. Place is busy, I see.’

Ma

‘Yeah, pretty busy, bro. We got a ree-al good singer to-night.’ His voice was high-pitched and lyrical, each word split into its separate syllables and each syllable taking it in turns to go up then down then back up at the end of the word. It was an accent between Pakistani and Jamaican. Jojo gestured towards the stage, where the beat box drummer had been joined by another young brown-ski

The barman set the drink down in front of Ma

‘Stick a-round, Joh

Jojo went to walk away but Ma

‘Thought about what I said?’

Jojo laughed uncomfortably. ‘I tol’ you, bro, this is pa-ra-dise—you should know, you bin com-in’ here for long enough…ah? Best place on Mama Earth…ah?’

He disappeared to play the happy patron, circling the bar and talking to his customers. After twenty minutes he came back to stand at the end of the bar. Ma

‘To paradise—where every hour is “happy hour”. And you’re right, Jojo.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve been coming here a long time. I’ve known you since I was the same age as your son, Rex, over there…’ He nodded in the direction of the brown-ski

‘Long time, bro, long time.’ Jojo smiled and nodded his head wisely. ‘Remember that time you were suicidal over a woman? What was she called?’

Jojo screwed up his face, trying to recall her name.

‘Janie…’ Ma

Jojo closed his eyes, put his hand on his chest and sighed.

‘Dat storm was one I never forget…ah?’

‘But, do you know what? In all the years I’ve been coming here, this is the first time I’ve ever seen you scared.’

Jojo wiped the sweat from his eyes with his shirt sleeve. He was smiling but he didn’t look like a happy man.

‘Listen to me, old friend.’ Ma

‘You go-in’ to get me killed, bro.’ Jojo looked around, smiling nervously. The boxing was still going on. The others were still staring at their drinks—waiting to find ‘happy hour’. Jojo turned his back on the bar and looked hard at Ma

‘Tell me. I might be able to help.’

‘The Chinaman come here ten days ago. He rent my house…ree-al nice place I have bee-hind here.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Not as tall as you, but tall for a Chinaman—goatee beard, bald, mean-faced, thirty-five, maybe?’

‘That’s the man. Anyone else?’

‘Come wid five other Chinese—his monkeys. Same time as he arrive come four white guys. They stay up at d end of d beach. Come wid whores from Angeles.’

‘What did he want—the Chinaman?’

‘He want me to sell ’im some-thin’, some-thin’ I own.’

‘What?’

‘Biz-nesses in Mindanao—down south.’

‘What kind of businesses?’

‘A bar, a small hotel. Nuttin’ big. Nice place, on d coast.’

‘What did you agree to?’

‘Not agree nuttin’. He said he be back. He left d white guys here. Bin here a week. Deese are bad fuckers,’ he whispered. ‘One of d whores is beat up nasty. Dey got money, plenty, pay off police. I see dem talking wid dem—like old friends.’ Jojo shrugged and shook his head. ‘I tell you, bro, I go-in’ to be in big trouble when dat Chinaman come back.’

‘Are they here tonight—the white guys?’

Jojo signalled for Ma

He clutched his hand to his chest as if he were about to have a heart attack. ‘Baztads,’ he laughed, talking to the men watching the fight and rolling his eyes in the direction of the beach. ‘You give dem your name n they treat you like shit—kids.’ He took a beer from the barman and waited for the fuss to subside before making his way back over to Ma

‘They here?’

Jojo leaned in. ‘One of dem is here…sat left of d stage…wid a young Filipina…big white guy…peak cap.’ Jojo turned away from Ma

‘Relax, old friend. There’ll be no trouble.’

Ma

Hertfordshire

Amy Tang’s oversized bag banged against her short, stumpy legs as she ran full pelt, arms flailing, down the long school corridor. It was Saturday afternoon and all the pupils had finished morning lessons and were dispersed at either sports matches or common rooms to enjoy the start of the weekend. But not Amy: she was getting a weekend pass. She was getting out. When the exeat list had been read out the previous evening, Amy had not been listening—she never expected her name to be on it. The teacher had had to repeat it: authorized exeat…friend of her father…shopping… She didn’t hear the whole message because she was shrieking so loudly.

Now she ran down the corridor, even though it was against school rules to do so. She didn’t care. She was twelve and she had been at boarding school since she was four, and this was the first time she had ever had an exeat. Other girls went to relatives for the weekend but Amy didn’t have any family in the UK. She had plenty in Hong Kong—on her mother’s side—but she didn’t know much about her father aside from the fact that he was rich and powerful and that he didn’t live with them and that he wouldn’t marry her mother. Sometimes Amy thought he didn’t care about her or her mother at all. But now, finally, there was proof that he did—he had organised an exeat for her, the email said. She was going to be taken to Alton Towers, to the funfair there. Then she was being taken out for di