The Trafficked

44

Soho, London

Shrimp took a sip of Real Ale and decided it might grow on him, but probably not. He was sitting in the history-seeped wood-panelled surrounds of the Marquis pub on the corner of Rathbone Street, watching two Albanian pimps work the pub with their troupe of scruffy-looking girls, whilst a portrait of the young Dylan Thomas looked on. Outside, in Soho, the world ambled past, looking for restaurants and company.

It was eight thirty and the person he had agreed to meet was late. She was supposed to be here at eight. If she could tell him where Amy Tang was then it would be worth it. He tried to visualise her from the call she had made to the office that afternoon. She sounded young, and she spoke English with a European accent-maybe German, he thought. Now he was waiting, a slight figure sitting just inside the entrance to the pub at a dark and cosy corner table.

The Albanian pimp decided to try his luck, looked over at Shrimp, and took a step towards him, pushing a girl before him. The girl smiled at Shrimp. He looked at her face-the thick makeup did a poor job of disguising the beating she had taken. He shook his head apologetically. As they walked away the girl looked back at him and fixed her eyes on his face. It was a look, not in recognition of his sympathy or a look of anger at his rebuttal-it was a warning signal.

He watched the two Chinese men approach him from behind the girl and the pimp. Shrimp was on his feet and out of the door before they got within arm’s reach of the table. He dodged between the groups of meandering people as he sprinted down Percy Street. He looked behind him as he quickened his pace and headed out onto Tottenham Court Road and towards the landmark thirty-two floors of Centre Point building. He knew that marked the junction with Oxford Street. He thought he’d be safe there.

He tried to hop on a passing number 19 bus as the doors were closing, but didn’t make it and bounced off its side. All he had to do was run past the fountain at Centre Point, cross over, and he’d be swallowed up by the teeming mass of Oxford Street. That was the plan, but as he reached the fountain he saw David White emerging from the Centre Point subway that led to Tottenham Court Road tube. For a second Shrimp froze. He turned and saw the men barge through the crowds waiting outside the Dominion Theatre. He looked back at David White and knew in that instant that they had all seen each other and he had no choice. David White stood transfixed for a few seconds as he tried to make out what was happening and looked back and forth from Shrimp to his pursuers. Shrimp stopped dead in his tracks, then he turned and ran back towards David White-he had no choice, he pulled him back down the subway.

They ran down the dark and dingy corridor with its two runway strips of fluorescent lighting along the ceiling that gave off a green glow. The smell of urine was ever-present. They ran past the drunk and the desperate as rough sleepers prepared to bed down for the night. The eeriness in the tunnel was permeated by the sound of running feet. Shrimp could hear them gaining. David White’s legs were slowing. Shrimp realised he had no choice but to stand and fight. With his back to the wall and David White standing behind him, he prepared for the fight of his life.