When she asked me which city she was in, tears sprang to my eyes. She arrived late at night and was led up the stinking alley, marched through the back door, and chained to the sink pipes. She had enough slack to get around the kitchen and reach the toilet and sink in a tiny room at the back. She slept on a camp bed in the corner and hadn’t seen daylight since arriving; the nearest she got to that was when the back door was opened up to take in deliveries. But she was made to hide in the toilet when that happened. After cooking from lunchtime to the early hours, she would clean the kitchen. Once Kaz had bolted the back door, he left by the front of the shop, padlocking the metal shutters behind him. Then he went round to the alley and bolted the back door from the outside, too. Once he was gone, she was able to grab a few hours’ sleep before he or his brother returned late morning. Then she would be preparing food — including my curries — until the shop raised its shutters once again at lunchtime.
In one of my first ever replies to her I offered to go straight to the police. But she wouldn’t let me. If any officials were involved, she reasoned, deportation would inevitably follow. She needed to remain in Britain, working in a job that paid her cash to send home to her family. All she wanted to do was escape from Kaz’s kitchen. She told me that the pipe she was chained to was old and flimsy; she was confident that she could bend or even break it. What she needed me to do was slide the bolts back on the outside of the back door; she would do the same to the ones on the inside of the door, and then she would be free. She didn’t want any more help than that.
The situation she was in made me feel sick — and outraged at Kaz. I agreed to help her, and we arranged that the next time Kaz rang, I was to put a note in the tray of breads confirming that tonight was the night. A previous note she sent me had stressed the importance of successfully getting her out; she was terrified of what Kaz would do if she tried to escape and failed. I wished she had room on the piece of paper to elaborate, but I reasoned we would soon have plenty of opportunity to talk face to face.
Friday night and I was sitting in the office, fan directed straight at my face, trying to learn the main aspects of insurance law relating to groups travelling abroad (one of the less glamorous modules of my course). At 10:43 the phone’s ring put a welcome end to my study.
Pushing the door shut, I picked up the receiver and said, “Mr. Wing’s Bakery.”
“Rick? It’s Kaz here.”
By keeping to our established patter, I was able to hide the revulsion in my voice. “Kaz, how’s business, mate?”
“Busy, my friend. Very busy. I need six dozen more pitas, two dozen naans, and one dozen peshwari naans.”
“No problem. Any extras?”
“Just naans, my friend. All you can get.”
“Coming right up. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Twenty-six minutes later I pulled up outside Baba’s Bites. The place was heaving. A couple were sitting on the pavement outside, he finishing off a burger while she rested her head on her knees and moaned about how pissed she was. In the doorway, four boisterous lads were struggling over a pizza, each one trying to grab the quarter with the most pepperoni on. I rapped on the window and once Kaz caught sight of me, I pointed to the trays of bread balanced on my other arm, then set off round to the back door. As I picked my way between the debris in the alley I saw shadows moving in the glow of light shining from the massage-parlour doorway. Keeping in the shadows, I watched as two men emerged into the alley. Both smiling, they turned round to shake hands with the man who had escorted them to the bottom of the stairs and I realised with a shock that it was Kaz’s brother. He patted each man on the shoulder and, as they disappeared round the corner, he headed back up the stairs. So that was the new business interest.
I banged twice on the door and as I leaned down to place the trays on the step, noticed for the first time the bolt drawn back at its base. Looking up, I saw another at the top. They hadn’t been there a few weeks ago and, knowing the reason for their sudden appearance, anger surged through me — if a fire broke out at night Meera stood no chance of escape.
In Baba’s Bites I stood silently in the far corner and waited for the skinny man sitting on my stool to finish his curry. I knew my presence by his shoulder was unsettling him, but I didn’t back off. I even wanted him to say something; a confrontation might dissipate the ugly knot of aggression lodged in my chest. Alternatively, it might aggravate it further: Either way I didn’t care. Hurriedly the man wiped up the remains of his curry sauce with a piece of naan bread and popped it into his mouth. Glancing at me from the corner of his eye, he left the shop.
I sat down and scowled out the window at the people blundering past, all of their spirits lifted by the arrival of the weekend. I watched and wondered if any had the slightest concern for the army of anonymous workers slaving to keep them served with a plentiful supply of cheap takeaways and taxis. Sitting there, I began to think about other parts of the economy that were kept running by illegal immigrants. The people who deliver our pizzas, clean our offices, pick our fruit and vegetables, iron our shirts, and wash our soiled sheets. No one on the street outside looked as if they could care less. A minute later, Kaz called me over and handed me my curry. Hardly able to meet his eyes, I took it with a brief smile and reclaimed my seat.
Looking at the bright red curry I guessed that I’d put on a good half a stone over the past fortnight. It was as delicious as usual; Meera had explained in one note that it was Kashmiri rogan josh I was eating: She used fennel, cloves, and a pungent resin called asafetida. As I finished it off I saw the tiny scrap of greaseproof paper. Surreptitiously I unfolded it and saw she had just been able to scrawl the words, “Please do not fail me.”
Raising my voice unnecessarily, I said goodnight to Kaz, hoping Meera was able to hear me in the back kitchen. The bakery night shift finished just after four A.M. and immediately I drove back to Baba’s Bites.
Most of the clubs had shut around an hour before and now just a smattering of mini-cabs roamed the streets searching for their last fare of the night. The shutters at Baba’s Bites were drawn down and padlocked, the bin outside overflowing with the remains of that night’s sales. Polystyrene trays were thrown into the doorways of the neighbouring shops, chips dotted the pavement like pale fat slugs. I pulled up at the corner and quietly made my way up the alley. The council bin lorry came round every Sunday and Thursday — which meant the refuse had been cleared from the alley only last night. However, Fridays were probably the week’s busiest night and already the alleyway was piled with bags of rubbish, boxes, and packaging hurled from the back doors of the shops. At the other end, light shone from the massage parlour’s open door. It spilled across the narrow passageway, helping me pick my way forward. Up ahead, an enormous rat heard my approach. We looked at each other for a few seconds, then, to my relief, it casually crept back into the overflow of a nearby drain.