The Trafficked

48

Shrimp turned to look over at David White who was slumped against the wall behind, doubled over in pain, White glanced up and raised a hand as if to say that he was all right, just winded. Shrimp studied him for a few seconds to reassure himself that was the case before he looked back at his two assailants. They had landed a few metres apart. One was now doing his best to stand and crawl back towards the Centrepoint exit, dragging his right leg where Shrimp had delivered a sweeping kick that had smashed his ankle bones. Blood ran freely from a ragged wound on the side of his shaven skull where there was still a clear outline of Shrimp’s boot. The other man lay still with his eyes shut, his chest barely rising and falling.

Shrimp made a move towards White and helped him stand upright. He looked shaken but not hurt, thought Shrimp. Shrimp looked down at himself and instinctively brushed the debris from his new jeans. He looked both ways of the tunnel. There were footsteps coming from the Centrepoint end but they were small strides, slow pace-not threatening. He looked to the other end of the gloomy tunnel that stank of wee. The three small groups of rough sleepers blinked back in the gloom.

Shrimp steered White towards Tottenham Court road tube. A drunk stood swaying as they passed

‘Hey you…’ He waved his bottle in Shrimp’s direction. ‘You put up one hell of a fight, so you did…’ he grinned.

Shrimp looked back over his shoulder to make sure there would be no more fighting needed that day. One of his assailants had already made it out of sight; the other was just trying to stand. ‘Fucking good fight, I said.’ The drunk’s words followed them down the corridor as the rough sleepers mumbled their agreement and turned to watch them go.