mistresses with their fake tits.’ Years of solemn therapy sessions at the Priory, in which she had talked around the problem to a sympathetic man in a Spartan room, were now proved redundant. For her ears only, in that empty bathroom, the truth she had been holding inside about the root of all her unhappiness was finally outside. ‘Paddy, you bastard! I hate you. I fucking hate you.’ She slammed her palms down onto her knees with a splash. ‘But I love you and I’m scared and I don’t know how to be alone. Please don’t let him die tonight, God.’
Visualising her husband, standing in the gallery, clinching the deal of a lifetime with the Boddlington bosses … Perhaps the Boddlingtons would bring a suitcase full of cash like you saw on the films. She didn’t know how deals that size worked – her cleaning deals were all dodgy invoices and almost bona fide transactions to slightly shady offshore accounts or cash, no questions asked. But she knew that if the sell-out went ahead, they would be rich enough never to have to think about money again. Off to Thailand, flying first class. Trapped forever, hidden away from what few friends and family Paddy allowed her to have.
And what if the deal failed and he was killed tonight? What then? Patrick O’Brien was all she had known from being a girl, becoming her father figure long before her own father had disowned her. She visualised his gravestone.
Here lies Patrick O’Brien, survived by his ungrateful wife and doting daughters.
Freedom at last.
She shook the thought away. What a prize cow she was!
Sobbing in the bath until the bubbles had all burst, her fingertips and toes had become wrinkled and the water had grown cold. Shivering. Teeth-clacking. She turned on the hot tap, shoving her purple toes under the gushing warm water, wondering how it was she could feel so many conflicting emotions at once.
‘I’ve made my bed,’ she finally told the television, feeling guilt start to pull her under again. The water level was rising fast … ‘Loyalty keeps this family together. I need to keep us together.’
She slid down the bath until even her buoyant breasts were covered. Her hair swished around her like weed on the bottom of a pond. Water seeped up to her chin and into her ears. Over her nose. Under. Contemplating if she should stay there forever, choosing a watery way out of this life and these wifely obligations.
But then, in amongst the thunder of the hot water, now so dangerously near the rim of the bath, she heard another insistent sound. A chime from far away. Was she drowning? Was this destiny calling from the other side?
The bell.
She emerged abruptly from the bath, spilling water all over the floor. The chime was insistent – somebody was at the gates, pressing and pressing on that button. Who the hell was it at this time of night?
Conky had a fob for the gates. Paddy had a key for the door. They weren’t due back until 11pm at the earliest, unless it had all gone very badly wrong, of course …
Ignoring the mess, she skidded across the bathroom, grabbing her robe from the heated towel rail. Hastened down the oak staircase, stepping gingerly with wet feet on the bare, polished treads. The intercom and CCTV screen were close to the front door in the glazed, double-height vestibule. She was vulnerable here, at night with the chandeliers blazing. Anyone lurking in the dark out there would be able to see her. Her heart was pounding, all thoughts of a watery end gone now. Visualising instead where Paddy had the shotguns and live ammo stashed, in case the Boddlington gang had turned up thinking they could claim O’Brien Towers as spoils of war.
A woman was on the screen. Or was it a girl? A small figure with a pinched, frightened-looking face. Difficult to see as the night-time footage wasn’t helped by being black and white. She looked familiar to Sheila. Was this a trap? Was she a dealer, pushed up to the camera by some gun-toting monster because she looked less threatening at a glance?
Chiming, chiming – the visitor was insistent. Sheila could have just walked away. Turned off the lights and retreated to the bedroom. But her battered conscience said she should answer this girl’s plea.
‘What do you want?’ she barked down the intercom.
‘Mrs Sheila, it’s Efe!’ The girl had a heavy Nigerian accent. ‘I work for you. Please. I need to speak to you.’
Sheila scrutinised the girl’s face, mentally running through the staff records that Gloria had meticulously put together. Comparing the haunted girl on the CCTV screen to the photographs stapled to fact sheets. Click. She found a match with one of those trafficked girls from Benin City. She wasn’t lying. Exhaling heavily, she was only now aware she had been holding her breath.
‘What do you want, Efe?’ Sheila asked. ‘It’s late. I was going to bed.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘No. Call Gloria in the morning if you’ve got a problem.’
‘Please! You must hear what I have to say.’
‘You shouldn’t have come here. Hasn’t Gloria told you we’re closing the business?’
The girl started to weep, clinging to the gatepost for support.
Against her better judgement, Sheila buzzed her in.
‘You cannot let us go, Mrs Sheila,’ Efe said, hiccoughing. She dabbed at her puffy wet cheeks with some kitchen roll that Sheila gave to her. Sipping at a glass of milk. Doleful eyes not even taking in her surrounds. Just focusing on Sheila, then her work-worn hands. On Sheila, then the hands. ‘There are five of us living in that flat Gloria found. We are so grateful for you getting us away from those bad men in Birmingham. You saved us. You are both like aunties to us.’
Sheila poured herself a vodka and orange. She sighed heavily. ‘I didn’t save you. I’m no angel, Efe, and I’m not your auntie. It’s business. You’re just numbers on a spreadsheet, love.’
‘Mrs Sheila! If we don’t work for you, what will we do? We don’t want to go home. We can’t get benefits.’
‘Look, it’s not my problem, is it? You’re a free woman, now. Apply for a visa,’ Sheila said, swigging the drink rather more quickly than she should. Wet hair, dripping down the back of her robe, as she willed herself not to pity this shabby, tired-looking girl in a duffle coat and old-fashioned jeans who couldn’t have been more than seventeen.
Efe’s mouth turned down at the corners. She tugged at her hair, styled in a loose Afro, and pulled it off in one piece – a wig, much to Sheila’s surprise. Pointed to a patch of unsightly scarring on her scalp where the hair no longer grew.
‘You see this? This is where one of those bad men threw petrol at me and set fire to me. Then, he pushed me out of a car because I didn’t want to go with the disgusting pigs he brought to the house where we were being held prisoner.’
Sheila winced, trying to picture the scene. Felt the long shadow of guilt dim the brightly lit kitchen and fall across her. ‘What’s that got to do with my cleaning company?’
‘I need that job. I need my flat. I don’t want to have to work for bad men again, giving my body to strangers just so I can eat.’
‘Go back to Nigeria.’ Sheila examined her nails, unable to look the girl in the eye. Wishing she’d put the wig back on.
‘I
