Molly

By William Davies

Molly, kidnapped by a human trafficking and drug cartel, eventually escapes and takes her revenge only to be recaptured and subjected to even worse torments.

Thomas, a young Scottish photographer on a quest to reveal the horrors of the cartels, finds himself drawn to the young woman of high intellect and clear moral purpos

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Davies
• Release date: Aug 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780648531326

Book preview

Chapter One

An overriding interest in the lives of others led Thomas quickly into photography. Starting with friends and family he took his work throughout Scotland and extensively into Europe. While on consignment in Italy his mother died, and he hurried back to be with the family who had gathered to bid her farewell. After lunch, Thomas sat under his favourite tree, a large oak where he and his mother had spent hours discussing problems confronting teenagers riding the wave towards adulthood. With shaking hands, he slit open the envelope of her last letter to him written the day before she died. Tears blurred her untidy penmanship, overlapping words scrawled amongst ink blotches slid across the exercise book.

‘My Darling, Thomas, when you read this, I will be with Gordon, but my love and thoughts for you will be just as important as they were when we sat under our favourite oak chatting while you unloaded your troubled mind. Are you sitting there now as you read this, I wonder? Our greatest hope was that you would find that special person at home who would help anchor your restless spirit. One day you will find her, if not here, maybe in one of those countries you visit. There are people who find direction quickly, others dwell. Keep looking, Thomas. We love you, Darling. Never let your caring spirit be overwhelmed by your down days.’

Thomas was in his thirty-first year. He folded the letter and walked back to the house. Before entering, he dried his eyes and looked back at the Coalbrookdale seat, her gift to celebrate his twenty-first birthday. He clasped his hands and remembered her wrapping them firmly in hers, something she would do to emphasise a point.  They had a good relationship and her last letter continued her hopes he would settle soon with a local girl, though he noted wryly she had said not to rush.

Masika, a university friend from Africa had been urging him to visit. Thomas had promised Belinda it would be his last trip. She said she would wait, but with a firm look added, ‘Just one more trip, Thomas’. His sister called to him as he entered the house.

‘Anything interesting from Mum?’

‘Just the usual Sis, something you would agree with.’

With an impatient look she knew full well what their mother had written. ‘Be a dutiful uncle, Thomas. Find someone who will curtail your craving for distant horizons. You get camera work at home. We all like Belinda. She won’t wait much longer, Thomas.’

‘Said to Mum, one last trip as I folded her letter. The oak leaves stirred but there was no wind. She heard me. I’ll catch up with Belinda when I return. Just a short trip, no more than two months. Masika, my university friend, has asked me to visit his country, Bortonia, on the west coast of Africa. He mentioned a paid job for me. Thomas looked at his two nieces. ‘Miss them but I’ll write and send gifts.’

Thomas’s sister drew in breath sharply. ‘Not there, Thomas. It has no government to speak of and is dangerous for westerners to visit.’

‘I’m sure he’ll see me safe. We’re having lunch in Edinburgh next week.’

Chapter Two

Masika and Thomas had formed a close friendship at university, which continued when he returned home to work in the family business. Masika was a tall, well-built African with a ready smile and a playful wit. Both being skilled runners they had enjoyed the rivalry at university, Masika preferring the longer distance races.

When Thomas asked why, Masika laughed and tousled Thomas’s hair. ‘To outrun the slave traders. You’d make a good target, Thomas, freckled skin, prized, I believe!’

Masika knew of Thomas’s freelance work and over lunch secured his agreement to visit Bortonia and collect photographic evidence of slavery. ‘Exposing the drug and slave trade to the international community will support those working to remove this evil, Thomas.’

Although he had worked throughout Europe and Great Britain Thomas had never been to Africa and was interested in Masika’s proposition. ‘A tempting offer, Masika. Tell me more.’

‘Bortonia is surrounded by the ocean, the large Langano river and a country to the north. There is a ridge running the length of the country, a physical barrier between the two sides. About two- thirds of Bortonia is on what is known as the Badlands side which bounds the river. The Palace City, where I live, is the main trading port on the North Atlantic Ocean and is the seat of government.’

Masika described three significant periods of recent Bortonian history. ‘The first period covers Luca and Santino’s drug and slave trading business. They are descendants of southern Italian migrants. Dromona, a trading nation, invaded Bortonia and damaged their business, which sent it underground. The second period started not long after that. A Prince and Princess ruled Bortonia for five years. It was a period of peace that Luca and Santino used to rebuild their organisation. The third period, which continues, started when Luca defeated the rulers. Now openly back in business, Santino controls the Badlands where the slaves come from. Luca runs the corrupt government.’

‘Sounds challenging, Masika. You’re making me into a war correspondent. Tell me what happened to the Prince and that period of peace.’

‘It was during my time at university and travelling when the Prince took control of the government. There are risks, Thomas, but good people in the Badlands disrupt the slave trade. The people fear Santino along with his brutal militia and a cousin known as the chemist who develops mind controlling drugs. This keeps people loyal to the regime. Moctar is a tribal head who leads the fight against slavery. He’ll look after you if you run into difficulties. He lives by the Langano river upstream from the port town.’

‘An exciting and challenging brief, Masika. Locating Santino will be my first task. Tell me, is English spoken, or will that be an added burden and why Badlands, a throwaway remark?’

‘Be careful when looking for Santino, Thomas. If you hear of him looking for you, leave the area immediately. Badlands is what it is, Thomas, though of course there are native names. Bored you will not be. Speak English, though French is more common. Seek out Moctar first. The port city lying at the mouth of the river on the Badlands side is mid-sized, semi-modern, with reasonable amenities, established in the colonial days, but it doesn’t take long to get the feel of the country as you walk upriver. There is a daily bus service between the two sides.’

As they parted, Thomas promised Masika he would be in Bortonia within the month. Thomas added self-defence to his preparations.

On arriving in Bortonia, he quickly learned the accuracy of Masika’s description.

Thomas boarded a small trading boat with limited passenger cabins that crept northwards along the west coast of Arica, eventually arriving at the Langano river port where it squeezed in between two ships unloading their cargo. Thomas was the only passenger who disembarked into a dust haze. He stepped around shiny skinned black men waiting in line to heave bags of produce from the cargo holds. Underfed dogs competed with rickety children when they furtively cut the bags of grain or waited until one of the porters tripped. Deaf to angry shouts, the boys darted between men with raised batons and swinging boots, metal dishes and cups flashed in the sun as they scooped up the spillage.

Masika had given him directions to a shop that had details of hotels and maps of the area. Walking towards the town centre there was little activity away from the bustle of the wharves. Smelling the heat of the lazy river, without a ripple disturbing the surface, Thomas photographed canoes drifting with one or two men, navigators fishing to survive on the blue glass.

With his haversack strapped firmly and camera at the ready, Thomas found the shop. The shopkeeper gave him a map of the immediate area and told him of a small hotel not far from the edge of the next town, the last before the native villages that stretched along the riverbank. He thanked the shopkeeper and, as he was leaving asked where would he find Santino. Fear replaced the engaging smile. She called to the back of the shop. A large native appeared and threw Thomas onto the street. Shaking the dust from his clothes and face, he stood and collected his backpack and map. His camera was undamaged, and he walked quickly away as the big man wagged his finger and shook his head.

It was well into a dry summer and the storms late. Thomas walked along the dirt road finding the new experience of heat and humidity confronting. Dust formed cakes of mud as his sodden shirt clung to his body, an abrupt change to the mild temperatures of Scotland. The few people, mostly small groups trudged towards town as Thomas walked upriver, his western clothes and fair skin attracting curious glances. Three natives cycled ahead. Thomas hitched his haversack a little higher, noticing two men with powerful bodies giving him an uncomfortably long stare. Looking back, he saw the town distorted by the reflected heat and a shiny black car barrelling along. Everyone jumped to the side of the road as the big American style car with its radio blaring screamed past. Coughing from the dust trail, people muttered and averted their eyes. One mother hid her child in the folds of her dress. Thomas photographed these frightened people and the rushing car with its blaring horn. Turning his camera to the river he wondered how such ugliness could exist alongside the beauty of this majestic waterway with its bobbing boats and the mixture of birds such as the ducks and grebes and gannets. He mused about the water’s secrets held tight in any weather, every kilometre collecting more before finally spilling into the great ocean. From his childhood days, being near water arrested Thomas’s troubled moments.

Two large natives, their clubs held high jogged through the billowing dust towards Thomas. With the gap closing rapidly Thomas wiped the sweat from his eyes. With a prickle down his spine, he photographed them hurriedly and ran hard the last hundred or so metres to reach three cyclists, their bright coloured shirts welcoming. The two men disappeared into the foliage. The cyclists, having paused for water, rode on, one of them giving Thomas a lift. He found Thomas’s hotel for him and was about to catch up with his friends when Thomas asked where he might find Santino.

‘Dangerous talk, man. You don’t go looking for him. Keep the camera hid.’ With a wave of his hand he quickly rode off. Thomas thought of Scotland and remembered the lunch his friends had given him before leaving for Bortonia. Instead of a farewell lunch it turned into a unified plea for him not to go. They had done their homework, Thomas had not. Next morning, his red tinged skin, below his shorts drew surprised looks from dispirited natives while he searched for a shop where he could read his guide and taste the food of the area. He stood outside one with faded blue paint peeling off the walls, its name long gone. A dog with ribs to count wandered up the street sniffing for food scraps. The café door creaked as two youths left. Chatting they walked towards the river.

‘Say, man, she might have said no, instead of just staring at the table.’ the scruffy youth reflected. ‘With your grumpy behaviour – of course she wasn’t interested.’

Intrigued, Thomas grabbed the door handle and found a table by the window which caught the morning sun. The few tables stood on bare boards. The sun pierced through cobwebs laced across dirty windows. Strands of shadow danced on the tabletops when puffs of wind eddied through the door. Patches of linoleum remained in the corners.

Early workers joined with sweaty night boatmen. A slow-moving fan that squeaked with every revolution spread the fusion of dead fish smell, fresh baked bread and brewed coffee around the room. A youth and a woman moved between the tables taking orders. The mute woman?

She served a man; his face was smeared with the dirt of his work.

‘What is it today?’

‘The usual.’

Their voices drifted over the room; hers without emotion while she wrote out his order given bluntly, the tone bullying.

With drooped shoulders she passed the order to the kitchen. Thomas was observing a vignette played out daily, he thought. Beneath her mask of disinterest there was an intangible quality that excited him, his heart thumped rapidly at the prospect of meeting her.

The youth brought his breakfast, rice bread and baobab juice and coffee. Thomas picked away at it and struggled to concentrate on the map. Pages were missing and grease smudges covered much of it. The woman in the shop where he had bought it commented that few asked for maps these days. When the waitress came close, Thomas hid behind its pages. Once he peeked over the top and saw her looking at him. She didn’t speak but there was a smile, a trace of longing. He caught the bright red of his flushed face in a cracked mirror. The youth smirked.

The next day, Thomas returned to the same table. Disappointed that she wasn’t there, he called the youth across. Having taken his order Thomas asked him about the waitress from yesterday.

‘She don’t come today.’

‘Lives around here?’

‘Upriver. Arrives with Leech.’

‘Leech?’

‘Yeah, boss, Lekan, but we call him Leech. He limps. Limpy Leech get it. He thought this funny, slapped his thigh. ‘Her minder. Best not cross him, short temper.’

‘Thanks. In tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, rest of the week.’

As the youth poured coffee, Thomas asked if he’d heard of a man called Santino. The youth’s hand shook noticeably as he kept pouring the coffee onto the floor. ‘Better go, man. Now.’ The relief of the youth was obvious as Thomas left the table. No smirk today. Thomas looked back from the street to see a man limping from the kitchen towards the boy who was mopping up the spilt coffee.

The reaction from people when Thomas mentioned Santino was consistent and alarming. How does one go about breaking down the barrier preventing him talking to the waitress? She was frightened but proud, the boy was just frightened when he mentioned Santino. Not even his presence, just his name had disrupted Thomas’s dream of learning more about this bewitching woman with her secrets kept close behind tormented eyes. There was a disconnect between the waitress and the shoddy café. The boy fitted the scene.

With his camera bag slung over his shoulder, Thomas walked on a well-trodden path that led out of town to the river, a path he was to travel frequently over the next few weeks, though this was unknown to him at the time. Often, he would reflect on the woman in the café whom he suspected had hidden talents and a past life, different to the café work.

With Masika’s hopes for him fresh in his mind, Thomas surprised a boat owner by asking if he would take him onto the river. Thomas had learned not to mention Santino and the boatman readily took his money. He filmed the town and the people walking along the river path. Though warned of a depressed community, he often heard lively chat as the natives carried their goods, women impressing Thomas as they balanced their pots on their heads. Were Masika’s words playing with his mind or were there fewer men than women? After further exploring the small town he hired a bicycle and travelled into the foothills to the edge of the jungle, looking for photo opportunities. Each day, he would pass by the shop, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

Sometimes she looked out and he rushed by. Try as he might, Thomas couldn’t expel her from his mind, his café girl.

He had been in the town a week or more and this was drawing more negative responses. People walked away to avoid meeting him. Thomas had not seen another foreigner. One time, his friendly bike rider who had given Thomas a lift followed him back to the hotel. He looked up and down the street before he approached Thomas.

‘Better move on. Santino’s heard your looking for him.’ With that the rider peddled quickly away.

Angry at this unrequested advice, stubbornly Thomas changed into fresh clothes and went to the shop. He took a different route, using back streets where the smell from small groups of drug addicts tainted the air. Photographing them brought little response, though one man tried to throw a can at him, but it fell short, hitting his neighbour’s back. If he was to leave and he knew there was little more to do in this town, he would make one more attempt to see her. The creaking door complained as dust followed him to the table. Clouds were building. Was rain on its way?

With a frightened look the youth faked a slight limp and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head? Thomas glared at him and he looked away. She came across. He stuffed the camera back into his backpack and wouldn’t know till later when he developed the film if he’d caught her brief smile.

Her clothes and the grime from her work flagged a life of drudgery. Her face was unnaturally thin, though still her beauty captured Thomas. The graceful way she moved was different to the folk of this town with its culture of poverty. What was that something that set her apart from these struggling survivors? He was cross with himself for doubting his instincts and not returning sooner, a wasted week in which he had not found proof of slavery other than the frightened looks from people he approached.

Her skin was light olive, a mixture of native and European heritage, he thought. Her straight black hair, shoulder-length, was clean but unkempt. There was a small scar near her nose, and she covered it when Thomas looked at her. She wore canvas shoes. She stood by his table, her elegant hands covered with washer-women’s skin, ready to work her pencil.

‘What will it be?’

Her voice, still grey-toned, was intense. Thomas choked while he stared over her shoulder at a distant point. Her face tightened. With rushed words, she asked again,

‘Your order, what do you want?’

‘Sorry, I had to see you again. Do you mind?’

She smiled. Thomas reached for his backpack, but she shook her head and mouthed no. He repeated his order from before. He picked at his shirt buttons. Her smile had gone, but her eyes were a little brighter as she turned and walked towards the kitchen. Had she thought Thomas offered escape from her bondage. She placed his order and in that unguarded moment, the cracked mirror reflected her despair, the reality replacing the dream.

There was a thin man with a scar across his left cheek standing at the kitchen window.  He had receding dark hair and brown flaky skin. He looked angry and stared at Thomas. With glistening eyes, the tears not yet spilling onto her cheeks, she gave Thomas his food and quickly moved away. He ate hurriedly and left. There was strong chemistry between them, stronger than any he had experienced with other women. Certainly, he felt it.

Thomas was tantalised by her beauty and intelligent face which showed clearly through her misery. Confounded by her working in the café, while walking to the river he searched for reasons. He conjured up dark thoughts about her skinny companion, her minder, the boy had said. Arriving at the jetty not having found answers to his questions, he photographed children with their fishing lines dangling from thin arms into the river before sitting amongst them, his legs also swinging under the decking until he felt pressure to the small of his back. He looked around to see a large bare-chested black man grinning under a cloth hat shading his eyes. He had a fishing rod and an unsheathed long bladed knife, its tip scraping Thomas’s right shoulder as it hung from a rope belt holding torn trousers in place. The children bunched away from the man and Thomas rolled into the space as the man’s foot swished past his thigh. The man took Thomas’s space and the children giggled.

Chapter Three

Thomas was not well. Shivering, he walked to the shop but found it closed. It was late in the day and the oppressive heat drained him of his reserves as he collapsed onto his hotel bed. Sleep shut out the thin man’s pockmarked face, her moist eyes, and the grinning man with the uncovered blade.

He was bedridden for three days. When the worst of the illness had passed, he stepped into bright sunshine that made him squint. Nothing had changed. Anything that moved did so at the same pace as before. Still weak from his sickness but strong with determination he walked unsteadily towards her shop with the peeling paint.

His breathing grew faster and shallower until dizziness blurred his vision and he collapsed outside the creaking door. When he woke, there were people chatting while they watched the woman from the café hold his head in her lap. Thomas stirred and they moved on, their printed dresses swaying as they disappeared around the corner.

The warmth of her body, different to the sticky heat of the day, gave him comfort and he gazed up at a loving face, a radiant smile and sparkling eyes. His chest tightened. Humming a nursery rhyme she stroked his hair while rocking back and forth. Was she copying her mother’s soothing ways? Certainly, Thomas was remembering his mother swinging the hammock as she worked to diffuse his anxiety. Thomas clasped her hand and held it still against his cheek.

‘As soon as I saw you, I knew you didn’t belong here.’

Hatred flashed across her face and her body stiffened as the shop door slammed shut. The thin man quickly limped towards them; his baton raised. Was this Lekan? She squeezed his hand, stroked his face, and ran her fingers through his hair one more time, pulling it gently. As they stood, Thomas drew her close.

‘We must meet again.’

‘It’s not possible.’

Her voice was clear, the words allowing no room for argument. She stepped away and she was again the abused café girl. Thomas walked towards his hotel. He turned back but she was gone. Two days later, now completely free of his fever, he went back for breakfast. There were few there. The youth started across, but she cut him off.

‘You look better. Were you sick?’ Darting glances over her shoulder she pushed her words.

‘Just a short time. I hadn’t eaten.’

Both animated, they gazed at each other, shutting out the shop and Leech until Thomas saw him rapidly limping towards them. Her eyes followed Thomas’s, as he rushed his question.

‘He’s not your man? Your minder, I’m told. She shuddered. ‘I’m not allowed to speak, just take orders. We can’t meet again. Give me your order.’

What power did this wasted man hold over her? Not family, a companion of sorts? And who was Santino, his boss? He asked her, ‘do you know Santino?’

She gave a sharp cry and fainted, her pen and pad skidding along the floor. Limping Leech whacked her with his baton and dragged her by the collar towards the kitchen as she stumbled to stand. Leech turned and with baton raised took a pace towards Thomas who was already on his way out. As much