At the back door of Baba’s Bites I put my ear up against the cool metal surface and listened. But there was nothing to hear. Tentatively I knocked twice. Instantly a knock was returned. She must have broken free of the pipe and was sitting on the other side of the door listening for my arrival.
Urgently I whispered, “Meera, is that you?” Instantly I felt stupid: It could hardly have been anyone else.
Her voice was light and sonorous and would have been beautiful to hear if it wasn’t packed with so much fear. “Yes, Richard, it’s me. I have broken the pipe, the kitchen is flooded.”
Looking down, I saw water seeping out from the bottom of the door. Metal began to clunk and rattle as she started undoing the bolts on her side of the door. I stepped back to slide open the ones on my side — and to my dismay saw they were secured with two heavy-duty padlocks. I shut my eyes and silently swore. I didn’t think Kaz would bother padlocking a door that was bolted shut from both the inside and out. But now it seemed an obvious precaution, especially considering the prisoner he kept inside. Meera’s trembling voice sounded through the thick barrier separating us. “I have done it. Can you open the door?”
“Meera,” I whispered. “He’s padlocked the bolts. I can’t unlock them.”
“You must,” she cried, now panic-stricken. “I must leave here!”
I needed a hacksaw; and nowhere would be open until morning. By then, our chance would be gone. Even if Kaz turned up late, I couldn’t stand there in broad daylight breaking into the back of a shop. “I’m so sorry, Meera, I need a hacksaw. I’ll get one later and come back the same time tomorrow.”
“No!” she pleaded. “I cannot be here when he comes. He will know what I have done.”
I looked at the tamper-proof screws protecting the door hinges: There was no way I could free her. I slapped the palm of my hand against the wall in frustration. “I’m sorry, Meera. I promise to come back.”
She began to sob, “He beat me for burning the rice. He said he will send me somewhere far worse than here if I do wrong again. Help me, Richard.”
Desperately I whispered back, “I will, tomorrow.”
I heard her slump against the door and start to cry. At the other end of the alley male voices were audible coming down the stairs of the massage parlour. Pressing my hands against the door, I could only whisper, “I’ll come back tomorrow night,” before quickly walking back out onto the street.
As soon as B&Q opened I was searching the place for hacksaws. An elderly assistant saw me scanning the aisles and took me to the correct section. “It’s a big padlock. The hasp is about a centimetre thick,” I told him.
“Well,” he said, rubbing his chin with one hand, “this will get through it in about five minutes.”
“Great,” I said, taking the saw from his hands and hurrying to the tills.
After that I went to the supermarket and bought a load of food, including a pile of fresh fruit and vegetables. I had already decided to insist that Meera stay at my place until she was sorted out with a job. I was confident I could get a place for her in Mr. Wing’s bakery, even if it would be for a pittance. Now, given what she had said about Kaz beating her, I wasn’t sure what sort of a state she might be in when I finally got that door open. I had formed an image of her face — long dark hair, fragile features, and large brown eyes. Picturing her now covered in bruises, I added bottles of ibuprofen and paracetamol to my trolley.
The rest of the day was spent dozing fitfully on my sofa. I kept waking up, my mind dwelling on what he’d do to her. He wouldn’t hurt her too badly, I reasoned. After all, he needed her to cook. But I’d seen the flash of his temper and an uneasy feeling sat heavy in my mind. Flicking the telly on, I caught the lunchtime news. The presenter was describing how a major ring peddling African children into the British sex trade had been broken up by the police. The implications of Kaz’s brother’s new business interest suddenly hit me like a slap in the face. Kaz himself had said she would end up somewhere far worse if she did anything wrong again. An image of a grimy bed in the Far Eastern Massage Parlour forced its way into my mind. Meera chained to it, a queue of punters at the door, pulses racing at the prospect of a new girl in her teens. I tried to push the thought away.
In Mr. Wing’s that night I sat staring at the Chinese calendar on the wall of his office. It was the Year of the Monkey, judging by the number of little primates adorning the pages. The relief I felt when the phone finally rang was instantly diminished when I heard Kaz’s voice. Sounding unsettled, he asked for double quantities of just about everything. He hadn’t had time to make it to the cash-‘n’-carry, he explained. At least I could now make a delivery and then sit at the counter and observe him. Try and gauge by his behaviour just what he might have done to her.
So, after dumping the trays at the back door and kicking it twice, I marched round to the front of the shop. As soon as I stepped inside it was obvious something was wrong. For a start, there was no lump of doner kebab turning on its vertical skewer in the corner. The fridge of canned drinks was almost empty — just cream soda and cans of shandy remained. People were waiting restlessly for their orders while Kaz hurried around behind the counter looking totally stressed out.
“Forget the chicken,” said one customer. “I haven’t got all night. How much are those things?” He pointed down at the skewers of sheek kebabs lined up under the counter.
“Two-fifty each, including pita bread and salad. How many?” asked Kaz, acknowledging me with a quick wave and passing a portion of lamb rogan josh through the hatch.
“Two,” the young man snapped, rapping a pound coin impatiently against the counter.
I took my corner seat, and after a longer wait than usual, my curry arrived. “You all right?” I asked as Kaz handed it to me over the counter.
“Yeah, staff problems, that’s all,” he replied distractedly. As I took the polystyrene tray I noticed a long scratch running across the back of his hand. Pretending I hadn’t seen it, I took my curry and sat back down. With the first forkful I knew it hadn’t been cooked by Meera. The sauce was watery, my extra garnish of coriander was missing, the lamb was burnt, and the rice had been left in the pan until the grains were bloated and soft. As soon as it entered my mouth it turned into something that resembled semolina. I struggled through it, wondering what this meant. Was Meera beaten so badly that she couldn’t cook? Or had she already been bundled up the alley and into the massage parlour?
Binning the container, I waited a few moments to try and ask Kaz where his usual cook was, but the shop had grown too busy again. Drunken men milled around at the counter, confused by the lack of doner kebab and settling reluctantly for the poorly prepared alternatives. Not wanting to arouse Kaz’s suspicions by lingering for too long, I slipped back out and returned to Mr. Wing’s.
As soon as the bakery shut, I said my goodnights and hurried along the street to my car.
Checking that the hacksaw was still safely stashed on the backseat, I set off straight back to Kaz’s. In the alleyway I picked my way through the debris, nose wrinkling at the fruity smell being given off by a tray of rotten bananas.