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  So here’s the bitter irony. Sam has come back to me on her own account, for her own reasons, and she’s no sooner settled into our bed than I make my grand entrance with Edona all but nude under my coat, snuggled up close. Sam is staring at both of us from the bed, and the roof is falling in.

  The two women mirror each other in a silent reflex action, both trying to hide their nakedness, like Eve after she’s eaten the apple. My inane Oh, hello, Sam. You’ve come back dies on my lips as the tableau in the doorway, or her interpretation of it, dawns on Sam, drawing her expression. In the eternity before anyone speaks again I have time to notice the holdall, unzipped but still largely unpacked, on the floor by the bed. That signals limbo, but hell is gaping.

  I know I can’t talk any more right now. I’m waiting, racked up, for Sam to let loose. I’m braced for a howl of rage or pain. But the sound, when it comes, is tiny, hardly more than a whisper, and it comes, not from Sam, but from Edona.

  “Please. I am Edona. Your man has save my life. He is guximtar, brave person. Believe. I am being prisoner no more. Men have hurt… përdhunoj, understand, hurt to woman… here…” Edona moves a hand to her womb and, as she does so, seems to lose all strength. She sinks to the floor, my coat parting to reveal her pale nakedness as I try to catch her arm. She clutches at my hand and holds it to her face, streaming now as she breaks into tears. I crouch down beside her, wrapping my coat around her again while she weeps and Sam looks on, saying nothing. Edona so close and upset, I can’t be worrying about Sam’s interpretation, I just have to hold the poor girl, drawing her head under my chin and soothing her with my hand stroking her hair. I even kiss her on the forehead and whisper some comfort to her, closing my eyes, rocking her.

  We stay like this on the floor until I sense a shadow moving between me and the light, and I open my eyes. Sam, beautiful unclothed, is there with a glass of water, offering it to Edona. She says, “Thank you,” meek as a lamb, and almost spills the water as she accepts the glass, so that Sam has to keep a steady hand on it until it is secure in Edona’s grasp. She crouches with us and studies the girl’s face discreetly while she drinks. We must look a strange trio, hunkered down on the floor between the bed and the doorway. I want to include Sam along with Edona in my arms, but don’t dare reach out to her, not knowing how she’ll react. At last Sam says the first words I’ve heard from her since she screamed at me to get out of here six weeks ago. She is speaking quietly to Edona.

  “How old are you, love?”

  The question I’d never asked hangs in the air for a moment. Edona blinks through tears at Sam. “Pesëmbëdhjetë. Fifteen years,” she says.

  It’s like a punch in my gut; I let out an involuntary gasp. Sam’s eyes move across me, then back to Edona. She holds out her hand. “Come, come with me,” she says. As Edona softly breaks from my embrace to follow her I have the guilty sensation that Sam is rescuing the girl I saved, from me. My hands feel suddenly dirty. Sam turns back the covers on the bed, inviting her, and takes my coat from her shoulders as Edona slips under the duvet. Sam tucks her in gently. She pauses, holding the coat to herself, looking down on the girl in our bed, before she turns her attention to me. All I want is to curl into the foetus position at her feet, but I feel called upon to do the opposite. I stand unsteadily, formally, a soldier wounded in reckless dereliction of his duty, returned and confronted by his superior officer roused from bed in the middle of the night. I’m expecting to be sentenced.

  Sam offers me my coat. When she speaks she is still very hushed, as if Edona is asleep and she doesn’t want to disturb her.

  “Can you find somewhere else to stay? I mean, just for now?” If this is banishment, it’s gently done.

  “Of course, yeah. No problem.”

  The coat passes between us slowly, neither of us sure what we’re meant to do next. Sam is trying hard to stay composed, quietly efficient, and succeeding outwardly, but I can detect her agitation and incomprehension underneath, and she’s finding it difficult to look directly at me. This isn’t the reconciliation scene she’d envisaged.

  “Got some money on you? Credit cards?”

  “Fully solvent, don’t worry.” Putting on a light manner, almost patting my pocket.

  “If you get your stuff out the bathroom I’ll… I’ll pack an overnight bag for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it, we’ll sort something out tomorrow.”

  “Yes.” I’d meant clothes and toiletries, but Sam’s long, slightly distracted yes implies much more. “Do you have your mobile with you?” she adds.

  This time I do pat my pocket. “Got it, yeah. Same number.” As if she’d been away for years.

  “Call you tomorrow.”

  I take a look past Sam’s shoulder at Edona in the bed, eyes closed, and whisper a goodbye aimed at both of them as I turn to go. Sam watches my exit, arms forming an X across her breasts, fingers caressing her bare shoulders. She’s wearing the eternity ring I bought her last Christmas.

  XII

  A good night guaranteed. Well, I’ve stayed in better billets, but the hotel is clean and what Meg Reece would no doubt deem fit for purpose, ie somewhere she personally wouldn’t be seen dead in, but ideal for the likes of me. As a place used to white van man arriving at all hours, there was no problem checking in at that time of night, and the receptionist didn’t turn a hair at the fact I didn’t even have a change of clothes, while the machine in the Gents (the other one) dispensed a useful overnight travel kit that allowed me to clean my teeth, and even supplied a disposable razor, though I ultimately decide to stick with the beard I seem to have grown by default over the last few weeks. I’ve rinsed my socks and boxers in the sink and they’re more or less satisfactorily dry on the radiator (still slightly damp on the skin) by the check-out deadline at eleven.

  Sam hasn’t called my mobile yet, so I gamble on leaving the Audi in the hotel car park while I walk the short distance into town. I resist the pull of the Eldon Arms and, after a short pretence of window shopping, end up once again in the reading room of the Central Library. There I flick through the pages of this morning’s local, just to check there’s no Disgraced DJ in stolen wheelchair drug chase story, then start thumbing through last week’s back numbers, killing time until Sam rings.

  Funnily enough I do find a reference to me, and a cheering one at that, on the letters page of Saturday’s Chronicle. Under the heading Bring back Marc, it’s from a reader asking why I haven’t been restored to my rightful place as host of the phone-in show now that I’ve been totally exonerated from blame over the hoax call affair. The letter doesn’t exactly rip into Simon as a presenter, though it does finger him as bland (true) whereas I’m a loyal servant of the station and, indeed, the local community. Name and Address Supplied. Hmm. Can’t be Oliver because, aside from some excusable tautology, the letter is more than passably literate. Norman Tait, maybe? Or another of my vast army of fans.

  The quiet of the library is shattered by the opening bars of Van Morrison’s Brown-Eyed Girl. By the time I’ve fished my mobile out of my pocket I’ve suffered daggers from several pairs of brown, blue and possibly psychotic red eyes around the room and Van is already skippin and a-jumpin loudly and Irishly. I smile my apology in all directions as I press the button to answer.

  “Hello, Sam?” I whisper to save any more disturbance. I must sound furtive – the voice at the other end is nonplussed.

  “Well… yes. Mr Etherington?”

  It’s my turn for a double take. “Who? Is that you, Sam?”

  “Samantha, yes. Is that Mr Tom Etherington?”

  The penny drops. It’s Samantha from the estate agent. She’d promised to get back to me about meeting the client.

  “Oh, Samantha, sorry. Wires crossed for a moment there. How are you?”

  Having suddenly gone from conspiratorial to hail-fellow-well-met in tone and volume, I’m attracting more eye venom from the desks around me. I raise a hand in acknowledgement of their right to despise, then stick
up one finger umpire-style as a promise this will only take a minute.

  “Fine, thanks” says Samantha. “I’m wondering if you are going to be in town anytime this week. Just, if you’re still interested in the property at Prince Albert Road I’ve persuaded the client to come and meet with you. Actually, between you and me…” she drops her voice as if she really is sharing a secret, “They’re quite keen on a quick sale, so when I told them you’re looking to get fixed up soonest they were prepared to put themselves out a bit.”

  Other things have pushed Amina to the back of my mind since the viewing, so my reactions to her offer are a bit slow. “Oh, well, I’m not really…”

  “You are still interested? Believe me, there’s not a better house in the market at this price range.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re right. Just… what day did you say?”

  “To suit yourself, sir, you’re the one has to travel, but I was hoping before the weekend?”

  “OK.” I’m trying to factor Sam and Edona into my possible movements, but I haven’t the first idea how that’s going to pan out, whether I’m even going to see either of them again. I’ll just have to take a punt – I can’t miss my chance to peel another layer off the Hassan mystery. “Well, how about Thursday? I’m… I’m in the area on Thursday. Around two o’ clock, say?”

  “Perfect. I’ll only ring back if that doesn’t work for the other party. Otherwise we’ll see you there.”

  “Thanks, Samantha. Bye.”

  Most of my fellow library-squatters have gone back to their reading by the time I terminate the call, but there’s still one or two smouldering in my direction. I nod at them agreeably and am about to pocket my mobile when that famous guitar lick strikes up again. Shit! I answer a mite too brusquely.

  “Yes?”

  “Marc? Sorry, have I called at a bad time?”

  “Oh, Sam.” (Sam-Sam) “No, it’s cool. Just…” I grab my coat off the chair and continue in a stage whisper as I escape from the furies, phone clapped to my ear, “I’m in the library. Just leaving the library, actually, hotly pursued by members of the Noise Abatement Society, militant wing.” Is that a little giggle on the other end of the line? Could that be much-missed vivacious Sam enjoying one of my jokes again? “I love you, by the way,” I add, chancing it. “Meant to say that last night.”

  “Yes, well.” (Noncommittal.) “Do you want to meet for lunch?” (Oh, committal. Surely committal.) “Not the Eldon, somewhere else.”

  “How about Paolo’s? You used to love Paolo’s.” I’m doing it again. She’s only been gone six weeks.

  “I’ll be about half an hour, OK?”

  “Fine, I’ll get along there now, grab us a place.”

  I quicken my step as I hit the high street. Table for two, or three? I didn’t ask. Didn’t have the nerve to mention Edona.

  It’s just the two of us. As she approaches the table I’ve composed myself enough to risk asking, “Where’s…?”

  “Taken her to Chrissie’s. She’s fine to stay there a few days. Well, till we work out what to do with her.” It sounded veterinarian but, trust me, when it comes to TLC there’s no-one better to turn to than Sam and her big sister. Chrissie trained as a social worker, and both of them deserve sainthoods for the way they looked after their mam when her cancer took hold.

  We talk no more about it while we concentrate on what pizzas to order, but in the lull before they arrive I say, “What are we going to do with her, do you think? Edona, I mean. I don’t know how much she’s told you, but she’s seriously scared for her family back home. And her faith in the police is like zilch, for good reason, possibly.”

  “Yes, she told me. This isn’t London though, is it? I doubt if those pimps are so well-organised they can keep tabs on all the girls that come through their hands.” (I can’t help shivering at that expression.) “From what Edona says, it sounds like she’s been sold on, two, maybe three times. Can’t imagine they keep records. Probably nobody here has any idea who her folks are, and vice versa. Hope not, anyway.”

  “I’m not so sure. The guy who sent her to England knew all their names. Used them like a threat over her, you know, if she didn’t do exactly what he wanted.”

  Sam drops her eyes at this. She’s quiet for a while, lightly brushing her edge of the tablecloth with her fingers as if there are tiny crumbs there, and I’m thinking, OK, we’re going to get into the difficult territory of how I got involved in all this seaminess. But when she looks up she says in a matter-of-fact tone, “Anyway, I was talking to Chrissie about it this morning. She’s heard of something... the Poppy Project, I think it’s called. Volunteers, or charity, whatever. They work with the victims of trafficking - well, the sex slaves not the cockle-pickers and such… They try to get the girls sorted, help them get back home if they want to, that type of thing. Before, if there was a raid, the women would be arrested and deported along with the slavers, end of story, but they’ve stopped a lot of that, the Poppy people – kind of step in between the women and the police.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “But Chrissie doesn’t know whether they even operate up here. She’s going to ring around some people she knows, just on the quiet. She won’t mention Edona until we find out what the score is.”

  She breaks off as the young waitress brings pizzas to our table, and we give her our undivided attention while she does the business with the grated cheese and the big pepper-pot. As she leaves us to our meal, I speak closely to Sam, “You notice? She’s…”

  “East European, yeah. Polish, probably.”

  “In an Italian restaurant. That’s where Edona thought she was going - to serve tables in Italy.”

  “Mmm, Chrissie and me were thinking. I’m sure we’d be able to help her get fixed up with something if she really wanted to stay for a while, earn some money. Maybe she could go to school, even, apply for college. We’d have to find what she needs as far as papers…”

  “You know, you’re amazing, you two. Listen…” I put my knife down and stretch my hand out on the table, on the off chance Sam might feel like covering it with hers at some point. “Thanks for doing this. You couldn’t have expected… I mean, last night must have come as a shock… I’m amazed you’ve taken it all in your stride like you have. Well, I’m not really in a way…” (I’m babbling) “Cos that’s what you do, that’s Sam.” (I nearly said my Sam. Maybe that would have been all right – she has come back.) “You’re an incredible woman. You are an incredible, wonderful woman.”

  Sam stopped eating at Listen, still holding her fork above her plate as I struggle to organise my drivel into something meaningful before my emotion takes over. She watches my hand on the table, but she doesn’t take it. In fact, she looks as if she’s resisting the temptation to stab it with her fork. When I’ve finished speaking, eyes a touch damp, she looks at me, takes a breath.

  “I haven’t taken it in my stride, far from it. It’s just that things need to be done, so I’m getting on with doing them. Don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t dare think, oh Sam’s back, everything’s sorted, everything’s going to be all right now.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that,” I lie.

  “Because that’s not the way it works. You’re not a kid – not officially, anyway – and I’m not your mother.”

  “I know that.” I look at her sheepishly. “I don’t expect you to be my mother.”

  I suppose I sound ridiculous. Something softens in Sam’s expression. Despite herself, a little smile breaks out, which she tries to hide with a touch of her nose. She’s trying to stick with the programme, keeping me at bay, but her eyes disclose some private joke that’s popped into her head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just… I have done something a wee bit motherish this morning.”

  “Which is…?”

  “Made you an appointment at the hairdresser. We’re going right after this.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “I thought the picture in the p
aper was bad enough, but you’re even worse close up.”

  “Thanks. Oh, you saw the Chronicle story, did you?”

  “Not at the time, no. Just this weekend I did. Christine had kept it, in case I was interested.”

  “Were you?” Sam looks down, intent on cutting up her pizza, so I try a different tack. “You’ve been away?”

  “Been down to Devon for a while. Carl’s been pestering me to come and stay ever since he moved, so I decided to go and wish him Happy New Year.”

  Carl was long before my time, though I knew they still exchanged cards, the occasional phone call. Sam knew him at uni in Nottingham. A friend is how she described him, that’s all. I’d never met Carl, but I hated him.

  “Right. So, what, you stayed there, did you? At Carl’s.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Right.”

  Sam glances up from her plate, watching my face, which might look a touch sullen. Eventually she says, “His partner was there.”