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Rebecca Hales was tired. It had been a long
flight. She dragged her trolley bag through the front door of the flat she
shared with her boyfriend. “Larry?” she called, not really expecting him to be
there. No reply. Then she saw the note on the hall table. “Hi Hun, welcome
back,” it said. “I’m up in town tonight. Call me tomorrow when you get back,
we’ll do lunch if you’re not too tired.” She looked at her watch.
Her intentions were interrupted by a ring at the door. Almost without thinking she reached out and opened it. Outside stood two men in dark blue overalls. The taller one of the two, smiled and pulled his cap from a mass of black curly hair. “Ms Hales?” he said, “Ms Rebecca Hales?”
Rebecca nodded, puzzled.
“Blue Box : Archive Storage and Removals.” He said, gesturing to a pile of bright blue, flat-packed, plastic crates stacked on the wheeled trolley being pushed by his colleague.
“I don’t think so,” Rebecca said. “I’m not planning on moving and I don’t have anything that needs to go to storage.”
The curly haired guy looked puzzled too. He scratched the back of his head. “I’m sorry there must have been some sort of mistake. Do you mind if I just call the depot to check,” he said taking out his mobile phone. He was holding it in front of him, pointing directly at her. She thought nothing of it at first. Then she said “Why are you wearing latex gloves?”
He tapped out a sequence of numbers on the
keypad. There was a quiet hiss. Rebecca looked down in surprise as the dart hit
her. She gave out a short “Oh!” at the sudden pricking sensation. A tiny
scarlet stain spread out around where the dart had pinned her white blouse to
her belly. The chemical took effect quickly, her knees buckled under her own
weight and she toppled forward into the hands of the curly haired man. He
lowered her gently to the floor.
She was conscious, aware, but unable to move. He took her under the arms and pulled her back into the apartment. His colleague leant down and plucked the dart from her. This time she didn’t feel a thing. “Very neat,” he said, turning it over in his hand. “Very neat indeed.”
The curly headed man was rummaging through Rebecca’s handbag. “Be careful you don’t scratch yourself with that,” he said. “I don’t want to have to carry you out.” He pulled out a small, laminated photo-id on a silver chain. “Rebecca Hales, Atlantic Airlines, Cabin Crew,” it said. He held the photo against her face. “That’s her all right. Best to be sure.”
“OK,” said the other, as he started turning the flat-packs into the crates they were intended to be. “I’d have settled for this though.” He pointed to the badge on her jacket lapel that said ‘Rebecca Hales, Purser’ with small replicas of the French and German flags as indicators of the languages she spoke. “Time to wrap and pack, I guess.” He pulled Rebecca up into a sitting position, supporting her against his body. She could only watch as he reached around her and first wrapped duct tape around her ankles fixing them together and then did the same for her wrists.
The curly headed man emerged from the bedroom carrying a pile of her clothes. He put them into one of the crates and tossed something to the other man. “She shouldn’t need much of a muffler, but you might as well gag her properly.” Rebecca felt the man prise open her unresisting mouth and push a wad of cloth between her lips.
He pulled tape across her lips sealing the cloth in her mouth, half choking her. “You just love gagging them with their own panties don’t you?” he said and laughed. Rebecca still had no control over her muscles. The man wound more tape around her fingers this time and then bent her over, first taping her wrists to her ankles and then running tape behind her knees and around the back of her neck pulling her head forward onto her knees. She knew that even if her muscles would do as she willed she could do nothing to escape the embrace of the tape.
As the tape was pulled around her limbs she
was aware that the other man was gathering up more of her belongings and
dumping them in crates. “Pack up your dirty looks, your songs that have no
hooks…” He’s singing, she thought... “your stacks of Modern Screen, your
portrait of the queen,” … What the hell is going on … “Da
dada dad da-da, Da dada dad
da-da,” The tape was jerked tighter as a length went around
her calves and back bundling her up into a ball. “You're headed that a-way.
You're moving out today.”
Her assailant called out. “She’s ready. Have you got everything?”
“Yeah. Let’s put her in
her box.” He gripped her at the ankles, the other man lifted her from behind
and she was lowered into the crate that sat on the trolley. The curly haired
man tossed in her shoes, her hat and her handbag before fitting the lid of the
crate. Rebecca heard the clack of the other crates being stacked on top of her
own. The trolley began to move. As it bounced out of the door and up the ramp
into the truck her captor was still singing… “So pack your toys away, your
pretty boys away, your forty-fives away, your alibis away, your silly lies
away, your old tie-dyes away, your one more tries away. You're moving out
today.”
I was sitting in my office at Saleware.
The sign on the door said “Marketing Director”. I was feeling surprisingly fit
after the previous evening. That’s the worst of customer hospitality events, I
think. You always end up drinking more than you should – just in the interests
of keeping the customers happy. And of course as the host you’ve got to hang on
until the bitter end. I could only have had about three hours sleep.
Still, one good thing - I was amazed that I didn’t
have the least sign of a hang over.
Everything seemed really great. In fact I felt
really sharp and…
It was then that my brain ran into a brick wall as
the alcohol finally caught up with me.
Five minutes later I was sitting at my desk with my
head in my hands and a glass of seltzer fizzing noisily in front of me,
courtesy of my secretary. I wasn’t in the best of moods when she put her head
around the door five minutes later and pointed at the phone. “Can you pick this
up,” she said, with a grin “I didn’t think you want me to ring through - all
things considered.”
I nodded, grateful for the consideration, and
picked up the receiver. It sounded like a thousand angry snakes were hissing
down the wires. I winced and moved the receiver away from my ear as the voice
at the other end boomed out. “Morning,” it said. “Clegg here.
We spoke last night. Thought you did a good job on the event. Wondered if you might be interested in a proposition.”
The good thing about Clegg’s staccato delivery was
at least I didn’t have to cope with following long sentences. He didn’t wait
for an answer.
“Good, good. Thought you’d like some lunch. I’ll be
at my club, The Crescent. Come over about
The clunk of the receiver heralded blissful
silence.
I’d only met Clegg for the first time the previous
evening. His company had installed our software earlier on in the year. I ran
the marketing for SaleWare – it’s the
He managed to avoid any discussion of a profile and
then I got drawn into a debate on the merits of some particularly abstruse new
feature with one of our more tiresome clients. I took a vodka
or two to numb the conversation. I guess that started the down-hill road to my
current condition.
I climbed out of the taxi as it stopped in the
middle of a Georgian terrace of houses ranged in an elegant curve. A very small
sign on a brass plate on some railings said “The Crescent”. Some steps led down
to a basement entrance.
The woman standing at the desk just inside the
doorway peered over her spectacles as I arrived. “I don’t believe you’re a
member,” she said, suspiciously. I really wasn’t in the mood for complicated
power games, though looking at her in her well fitting, sharply tailored suit
and crisp blouse I might have been encouraged to other activities when in my
normal state of health.
“Mr Clegg,” I replied. “I’m a guest of Mr Frederick
Clegg.”
The woman’s look changed instantly to one of
ingratiating pleasantness. “Of course,” she said. “Do come this way. I’ll show
you through myself.” She ushered me across the dining room. It was a rather
more modern setting than I‘d have expected for Clegg – I’d have thought deep
padded seats and tapestries on the wall were more his style; this was all bare
wood and steel. We arrived at the door to a private room and she knocked. I
heard Clegg’s voice boom out, “Come!”
The woman opened the door and showed me in. “Your
guest, Mr Clegg,” she said quietly.
“Excellent,” Clegg smiled getting up and extending
his had to me. “Thank you, Hermione, give us a few minutes and then we’ll
order.”
“Of course,” she said, smiling as she left the
room.
Clegg watched the door close. “Snooty bitch,” he
said. Hope she didn’t give you too hard a time.”
“Well, no,” I started but Clegg cut in.
“Good, good. Now let me get to the point. You’ve
done a good job for SaleWare. I’d like you to come
and do the same for me.”
“That’s certainly coming to the point Mr Clegg,” I
replied, startled by his bluntness.
“That’s me,” said Clegg. “Don’t believe in wasting
time. My business, distribution and selling. World’s changing. Too many suppliers, too
much competition, too few customers. People tell me I need some of this
marketing stuff. Maybe they’re right. You seem like the man to do it. Talked to some people that know you. They seem to agree. So
what do you think?”
“Well, Mr Clegg apart from the fact that I don’t
know you, I don’t know your company, I don’t know your products or your
customers and I have a perfectly good job at the moment; I can’t think of a single
reason to say no.”
“Capital, capital,” beamed Clegg, “you’ll need a
sense of humour. Do you want some food or are you still feeling frail?”
He tossed a menu towards me. I looked down at the
food on offer. It all looked appetising but none of it appealed just then. “I
think I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.”
A waitress appeared, blonde, coolly dressed in
charcoal grey shirt, tie and skirt with a black apron over it. She didn’t say
anything but took out her pad. Clegg ordered a gravadlax
starter followed by some monkfish. “Mineral water all right for you?” he asked
peering across at me.
“Mmm, sure,” I responded.
Clegg talked almost continuously about his views on
business. He barely paused when first the starter and then the main course
arrived. He talked and talked but I felt that the more he said the less I knew
about what it was that his business did. He obviously enjoyed the company of
women though as he kept up a suggestive banter with the waitress whenever she
appeared.
The waitress reappeared with desert menus. Hermione
came back into the room as well. Clegg leant back in his chair and turned
towards Hermione. “I’ll have my usual,” he said. “My friend here will have a
sherbet.” He turned back towards me. “Trust me on this one.”
Without a word and to my astonishment, Hermione
pulled one of the high backed chairs from the table bent forward over the back
and flipped up her skirt to reveal her naked rump. Clegg got up from the table
unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly. I looked on in disbelief. As I was
doing so, the blonde waitress dropped to her knees beside me and, with
practiced skill, unzipped my fly, pulled out my cock and had it in her mouth
almost before I could react. A teasing, nibbling, sucking followed
demonstrating her abilities as a fellatrix in a way that quite took my mind off
of my hangover. Clegg, meanwhile, was working away at Hermione from behind her
back, squeezing and pinching at her tits by reaching around her. He carried on
with evident pleasure until he came with a grunt and turned to me with a smile.
“Enjoying your desert?” he asked as the waitress finally brought me to
orgasm.
The waitress zipped my fly and got up from her
knees as Clegg, backed away from Hermione. The two girls left us. Clegg
standing with his trousers still around his ankles,
poured a brandy for each of us and passed one to me.
I nodded in thanks for both the brandy and the
desert. It hadn’t been what I expected but my own firm was hardly above
offering similar inducements if the situation needed it and I’m not one to look
a gift horse in the mouth or to look a gift mouth in the mouth either. “Mr
Clegg, I have to admit that the, shall we say, fringe benefits offered by your
company seem attractive. But I still don’t understand what it is you buy or
sell.”
“I’m sorry, old chap. I should have made it plainer - don’t mean
to lead you up the garden path. It’s quite simple, really it is. Probably one of the oldest commodities on the planet.”
“Uh,, huh,” I said, “and
that is…?”
“Women, old chap, women.”
I choked on my brandy in disbelief. “You must be
joking,” I exclaimed but I could see from his face that he wasn’t. In fact he
looked pained at the suggestion. “I’m sorry Mr Clegg, I might be interested in
a career move but I don’t think I’d consider working as a pimp. Prostitution is
hardly a legitimate line of business.”
Clegg tried to smooth me over. “I do believe you
should think carefully about this. It’s not such an extraordinary career move.
Some would claim that pimping is the ultimate form of marketing. Besides, I’m
not really talking about prostitution, it’s more about trading – we’re a
distribution company, I suppose. Let me give you an example of some of our
stock.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim folder. He passed it
across to me. I opened it.
Inside the folder were a series of photographs, all
of Rebecca. One thing that was clear from them was that Clegg was quite
ruthless in his treatment of his merchandise. Poor ‘Becca
was standing in a room somewhere. Her wrists were manacled and her arms were
chained above her head. She been gagged – a bright red ball was wedged between
her teeth. I assumed she’d been picked her up on the way back from the airport
- she was still wearing her uniform, or at least some of it. Her blouse was
torn open, one breast bare. Her skirt had been ripped as well, the dark welt at
the top of her tights clearly visible where the side seam had been torn from
hem to hip. Her hat was still perched incongruously on her head. She was
looking pretty sorry for herself. “I suppose this is blackmail,” I said to
Clegg.
“Well, let’s say it’s more a sort of ‘golden
hello’. If you’re going to work for us we’d like to feel that you were fully
committed, at least until you’ve had the opportunity to demonstrate your value.”
I looked again at
the photographs. I’d often fantasised about having Rebecca like that but
somehow things had never worked out that way. I handed the photographs back to
Clegg.
“There’s only one
trouble with your suggestion though,” I said as I pulled an
envelop from my own jacket, took out the sheet of paper within and
handed it to Clegg.
He peered at it
and read it out laughing, “Rebecca, I’m sorry. This will be a shock but there’s
no easy way to say it. I think we should end it. It’s not your fault. I guess
I’m just not ready for the sort of steady life I think you are looking for.” He
tossed the paper back to me. “Oh well, our intelligence isn’t as faultless it
seems. Still it seems like we’ve done you a favour. Never easy saying good bye
is it? And if you’re looking for a less steady life then working for us would
have a lot to commend it. I mean, it’s not like I was asking you to join a
tobacco company or something.”
For some reason I
found myself warming to Clegg. “All right I said, tell me more. Well at least
tell me as much as you feel able to without having to kill me if I don’t decide
to go along with you.”
Clegg grinned.
“Excellent,” he said, pulling up his trousers. “Have another brandy,
it’s the best cure I know for a hangover.
If you’re sitting comfortably, then I’ll begin.”
Clegg started with a question. “How much do you know about slavery today?”
It was a bizarre question as a continuation of a bizarre encounter but I responded as best I could. “Err, not much. I guess these days I mainly associate it with eastern block countries, trafficking women into the west, women kept in prostitution by drugs or threats of exposure to immigration authorities, that sort of thing. Look is this really a safe place to discuss all this?”
Clegg
smiled. “Oh yes,” he said. “When I said this was my club, I didn’t mean that I
was a member. It’s useful to have a base in
“But slavery nevertheless?”
“Yes, I won’t deny it. It is very definitely about the trafficking of women. Collected, rather as young Rebecca has been, prepared for their new lives and sold on. Like all trading businesses mine has its costs, its revenue and, I’m pleased to say, its profits. Most of our activity is concerned with the collection side, lots of research for the most part, although occasionally we’ll pick up inventory if the opportunity presents itself. We have one small preparation centre.”
“Preparation?”
“Well, you can guess how it is. Take Rebecca for instance. I imagine she’s fairly sexually experienced?”
I gave an affirmatory grunt, recalling some energetic evenings and week-ends over the last year. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“OK. Even so she won’t be used to the idea of being available as and when required. I’m afraid that today’s young women have developed a sense of independence that is not always conducive to our requirements. As and when required is what our clients expect. And how required come to that. She’ll need time to get used to that idea – our clients can be quite demanding – so she’ll definitely need time. And some encouragement. There’s a rather secluded location we use for that. We don’t do a lot of preparation - we’re not what you’d call in the mass market and many of our clients like them still to have a few rough edges to be smoothed out by themselves.”
“So, just the one preparation centre?”
“Yes. And then there’s the sales centre.”
“What, like a car showroom? You’re joking.”
“No, not joking. And yes, it is pretty much like a car showroom. Especially when we’re running an auction. Most go of the stock is for private sale these days – a lot are commissioned collections anyway. That’s where the buyer specifies the inventory and we arrange as requested. We still have the occasional auction, though.”
“Your clients?”
“Wealthy, of course. Male, mostly though there are exceptions. I think every continent is represented though there’s a lot more activity in some areas than others. You do need a certain amount of space and privacy if you’re going to keep slaves successfully. They’re not the easiest of pets, as you can imagine.”
“And your problem with your business is?”
“Like I said, I think I need some of this marketing stuff. We’re successful but I’m not sure we’ll go on being successful. We’ve lost a few clients recently. It’s always hard to find out why but I get the idea that they’re getting a better service somewhere else. Not that we’re bad, almost like someone else is better, if you know what I mean. I’d want you to come in, tell us what we ought to be doing and then see it through.”
“It’s probably the most bizarre proposition that I’ve ever had.”
“That doesn’t altogether surprise me,” Clegg smiled. “We may operate like an ordinary business but I can hardly pretend that we are. Almost every thing we do is illegal – that is apart from our tax and accounts; never sensible to upset the revenue men, eh? Still it’s also likely to be the most lucrative proposition you’ve had. If your Rebecca isn’t going to prove a point of leverage then you should at least get a finder’s fee for her – that’ll come in at $10,000 for a start.”
“That’s a finder’s fee?”
“Well, she’s an attractive piece. Useful skills too. There’ll be no problem in selling her on and she won’t need too much training, not with the job she’s been doing up until now. We’ll probably find a role for her with someone flying their own private jet. There’s money in this business Larry, but I do it for the love of it, really. We’ll put together a good deal but you’ll find it fun, mark my words.”
“Yes, I can see that,” I said. “More fun than SaleWare anyway. Look I’ve got a couple of good marketing execs over there that I’d like to bring along with me. They’re good girls; smart and hardworking.”
“I thought we’d just start with you Larry, if that’s OK,” said Clegg. “Let’s see how it goes. If we need more help I’m sure we can pick your girls up later on.”
“Ah, I see what you mean,” I said. It probably wasn’t fair to think about involving them, though I had to admit that at least one of them would be very much improved by the type of gag that had been used on Rebecca. “OK,” I said taking a deep breath. “How do I start?”
Clegg and I discussed it. I always like to get a feeling for the business overall before I jump to any conclusions. Clegg agreed and promised to set things up. “You’d better start at the sharp end,” he said. “I’ll get you out with one of the snatch teams.”
To say I was surprised was putting it mildly. I’d never thought of myself as a law breaker, well not apart from illegal parking and speeding. Still Clegg wasn’t the sort to beat around the bush and I guessed he’d want to discover if I could stomach this stuff fairly quickly. Actually I was more worried about what would happen if I found out I couldn’t – or strictly speaking if he found out that I found out….
Not surprisingly the snatch team wasn’t keen on having a stranger, and a beginner at that, along but Clegg had been pretty insistent when he called them and told them I’d be joining them.
A week later I was sitting in the passenger
seat of a non-descript van as we pulled up at a garage. It was a
The driver turned to me. “Just don’t fucking foul this up, we’ve been setting this one up for ages,” he said conversationally. I tried to look unimpressed. He climbed out and went to the diesel pump. I heard him call into the microphone on the side of the pump. “Hey, can someone give me a hand this pump’s not working.”
The speaker crackled back. “It should be fine.” A girl’s voice. “Try again”
My companion, Harry, spoke again. “No, not a thing.”
More crackles. “Hang on I’ll come and have a look.” That was my cue, I shuffled across to the driver’s seat. I watched as the girl locked the shop behind her and then half walked, half ran towards us, walking round the van to where Harry was standing by the pump. I just heard a muffled squeak, a thump and the sound of the rear doors opening and closing. Then there was a slap on the other side of the panel behind my back and Harry’s voice calling, “Go!”
I drove off, slowly and carefully as we’d agreed. We’d gone about five miles I guess when there was another thump on the panel behind me. We were out of town by then. I pulled over into a lay-by. As the van stopped I heard Harry get out of the back. A moment later he was climbing in and off we went again. “That seemed pretty easy,” I said.
“It is if you prepare enough.” Harry’s response was terse.
“I mean, it could have been difficult. What if she hadn’t come out?”
“She always does. There wasn’t any doubt.” He pointed to a side road. “Turn down there.” The road was dark. I almost missed the gateway on the left hand side. “In here,” said Harry. “Over there,” he waved, “into the barn.” I drove in through the open doors and stopped the van. “Come and look at what we caught,” said Harry, getting out. He was more relaxed now, but he still had his hand on the butt of the pistol in his waistband as he pulled open the van’s doors.
He needn’t have worried. Our captive – well I felt I’d helped a bit – was lying, face down, on the floor of the van. I climbed in. Harry had done a thorough job on her with duct tape. Several turns were wrapped around her ankles and above her knees. There was more on her wrists and he’d even taped her hands together wrapping tape around her fingers as well. She was quite slightly built, she’d obviously given Harry no trouble He turned her over. The tape had been used to good effect to gag and blindfold her as well. Her face was almost covered with the grey, shiny tape, bulges beneath it made clear that he’d packed her mouth and covered her eyes with pads before using the tape. All that could be seen of the girls face was her nose. She was breathing, slowly, quietly, apparently trying to listen for clues of where she might be but unable to hear much because of the tape that covered her ears.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Harry.
I looked her over. She was slim, wearing a pair of tight, low cut jeans. Her pink sweat top was stretched tight across small breasts by the way the tape was wrapped around her chest and arms. The top stopped inches short of the waist band of her trousers showing off a taught belly that you could bounce a coin off and a silver ring through a piercing in her navel. She’d evidently tried to struggle a bit during her ride - one of her trainers had got kicked off - but she’d made no impact on her bonds. With all the tape on her head it was difficult to tell anything much apart from the fact that her short, spikey, blonde hair wasn’t naturally that colour. The tabard she wore as her one concession to a fuel company uniform was a dull, brown, nylon material that clashed with the pink top. A badge on her lapel said “”E6 Fuel Stops – Happy To Help” and her name, I assumed, “Jackie”.
“She seems safe and sound. Is there much call for fuel pump attendants?”
Harry grunted, bent down over the girl and dragged her to the tail of the van. She squealed and tried to kick out. Without much effort he hoisted her over his shoulder. “Don’t be fooled by appearances. Let’s get her stowed, we’ll have a drink and I’ll fill you in.” As Harry stood up Jackie was struggling ineffectually and trying to kick with her bound legs. A door opened at the back of the barn.
In shuffled a little old lady of about seventy. She wore a rather shabby grey dress with a shawl about her shoulders. She was carrying a small wicker shopping basket. “Hello Harold,” she said warmly. “Have you had a nice evening? I see you’ve brought another guest to stay for a while. I’ll settle her in if you like.”
Harry put Jackie back down on her feet. Pulling a knife from his pocket he sliced through the tape that bound her ankles. The little old lady walked up to her. “You come along with me, dear,” she said quietly. Jackie turned towards the sound of her voice and gave a puzzled, gagged, squawk. She tried to kick out. The little old lady gave a sigh and took a small pistol from her basket. Beneath I could see an extraordinary array of cuffs, shackles and gags. “Don’t be stupid, you dumb little cunt, this is a gun” the little old lady hissed, jabbing the pistol against Jackie’s ribs and grabbing her arm. The turning to the two of us, she smiled again. “Why don’t you boys go and have a drink?”
“Sure thing, granny,” said Harry.
I followed him out of the barn and into the farmhouse beside it. Minutes later we were sat beside a roaring log fire, each with a glass of scotch in our hands. “So?” said Harry.
“Like I said. Neat enough I guess but I’m not sure why you picked this one up.”
“Intelligence,” he said, “that’s the answer in this job. This one’s going to be a real asset. The garage job is just a fill-in for her; paying off her student loan. She’s an undergraduate at the university. Third year studying computer science and mathematics. She’s been working on encryption algorithms. This one’s not for trading, we’ll keep her in–house. She’s going to be very useful.”
Still isn’t it a risky place for a pick-up? There must have been CCTV on that forecourt.
“Yeah sure. Here look.” Harry picked up the TV remote and the old television in the corner of the room flickered into life. He tapped in a few numbers on the control and we were watching a recording of the garage’s CCTV, views flicking from the forecourt to the shop and back again. The pictures had been taken the day before – Jackie was standing behind the counter in the shop, numbers at the bottom of the screen gave the date and time as well as the camera number. A man came to the service window. He was pointing to the pump we had been using. Jackie went out to look at the pump and then came back into the shop. “Like I said she always came out,” smirked Harry. “Quite a few people had problems with that pump. Very handy, CCTV.”
“But how do you do that? Won’t that have got pictures of the pick-up?”
“Let’s see,” said Harry, tapping more
buttons. The picture changed. The numbers on the screen indicated
“So where are we?”
“There’s a terrible flaw with these digital CCTV cameras. IP transmission through to the control room is very convenient but the problem with digital stuff is that it’s really easy to intercept and edit. Same goes for the number plate recognition stuff too. Probability is no one will notice the glitch when they view it. We can redo the time stamping so there’s no gap. That’s the sort of stuff we need young Jackie for.”
‘Granny’ appeared with a beatific smile on her face. “The young lady is all bedded down, boys,” she said. “These young girls you seem to pick up with are always so bothered about the accommodation. She was quite a handful, believe me.”
“Thanks Granny,” Harry said. “We won’t be long.” He turned to me. “You get to see all that you wanted?”
“Is that it?”
“Pretty much. She’ll stay here tonight. She’ll move on tomorrow. Granny’s got to go out with a load of pigs for market. Young Jackie will share the transport. “We’ve got a compartment under the floor of the trailer. It smells a bit of course but she’s in no position to complain. Then we’ll transfer her over to a better truck for the journey to the Prep Centre.”
“Somehow I thought there would be more to it. The pick up I mean.”
“Oh, sure. This was a straightforward one but we like to make them as simple as we can. It’s all in getting the venue and the timing right, I guess. No point in making things difficult for yourself.”
“No. Well thanks for that,” I said. “Any chance of a lift back to civilization?”
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