Emily Taylor - The Slave Girl



  Emily Taylor Book 2

  The Slave Girl

  ©2010 Vi Grim.

  1st September 2015 Edition

  Published by Vi Grim

  Cover photo©Dreamtime

  Inside cover illustration ©Lulu

  All Rights Reserved Worldwide

  Warning: Contains swearing and oblique sexual reference

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please download an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Also published by Vi Grim

  Emily Taylor Book 1- Abducted

  Emily Taylor Book 3 – The Apprentice

  Emily Taylor Book 4 – The Teenage Mum

  [email protected]

  1.

  Cockadoddledo.

  It was still dark when Emily woke up. She pushed against Zula, soaking up his warm for a precious minute, then another, and another. She felt safe in his arms; no one could get her.

  Cockadoddledo.

  Day was near. She had to go. She didn’t want to. She wanted to stay with him forever.

  She must run. She must escape. Giving Zula a squeeze and a gentle kiss, she extracted herself from his arms and slipped away into the darkness, pussy footing from shadow to shadow. There wasn’t much time; it’d be light soon.

  She stood on someone. They let out a grunt and stirred. She scarpered, running her fastest, tripping over fallen palms as she crashed through the bushes.

  Whoa, stop! Get your act together girl! thought Emily.

  She was acting like an idiot; she’d never escape charging around like a mad hippo. She needed to be cunning, to tread lightly and stealthily, like a fox. She stayed dead still for a minute, breathing deeply until she stopped puffing. All was quiet.

  Cockadoddledo.

  She jumped out of her skin. The rooster was right next to her.

  Gathering her wits, she tippy-toed towards the loom of the city lights.

  In the murky light of dawn, she found a rough track. She ran, trying to put some distance between the camp and her. After the cool, soft sand, the stones were sharp on her feet. She needed to hide before it got light, but hadn’t gone far enough; they’d find her for sure. She kept running. Just a bit further and she’d be free.

  Emily heard hooves approaching. A Desert Rider was coming at the gallop, a dark shadow in the half-light. She ducked and dodged, running zigzag so he couldn’t get her.

  Strong hands plucked her off her feet and she was on her way back to camp, shivering in the cool morning air.

  Bollocks! It’s like snakes and ladders. Just as I reach up to climb the ladder to freedom, I stand on a snake and are slippy-sliding down its scaly skin towards a life of slavery.

  Plonking her down next to a roaring fire, the Desert Rider dismounted and washed and bandaged Emily’s bleeding knees. He didn’t say anything; he just smiled sadly at her, gave her an affectionate pat on the back and was gone.

  Zula handed her a cup of hot tea and some dry bread and threw a couple of branches on the fire, then sat down beside her and poked at the fire with a stick, sending showers of sparks chasing skywards.

  Warm tears ran down Emily’s cheeks, tasting salty on her lips.

  Zula pulled her close, gently stroking her hair. ‘Shhhh,’ he said. ‘We did it, we crossed the desert. Whatever happens now, no one can take that from us.’

  Like always, he was right, but it didn’t help Emily any.

  It’s okay for him, he’s got the caravan; he ain’t being sold like a can of baked beans.

  2.

  At dawn an open-back truck roared into the campsite. It dodged between tents and sleeping camels, coming to a grinding halt in a cloud of dust. Teenage girls, all chocolate skin and long legs, jumped down and stood in a nervous group. Scruffy soldiers spilled out of the cab and slouched on their weapons, eyeing the girls hungrily.

  Honking madly, a beat up Mercedes bounced across the rough ground and stopped beside them. A couple of thugs wearing desert camouflage jumped out onto the red sand, waving stubby guns around menacingly. The bullet-ridden back door creaked open and a big man extracted himself and stood swaying like a grizzly bear. Wearing a red and white Arab headdress and an immaculate flowing white robe, he looked like the man with the big lips that was on tele; Yassa Ara-fat.

  ‘It’s Abdullah, our agent,’ whispered Zula.

  Emily snuggled up close to him. He gave her a squeeze, then jumping up and pulling her to her feet said, ‘It’s time for you to go.’

  Emily smashed her teacup into the fire. It hissed and complained, sending angry sparks spiralling upward.

  Saleem strode up to Abdullah, gave him a big hug and kissed him on both fleshy cheeks.

  Yuck. Gross!

  ‘Abdullah, you old rogue,’ said Saleem, extracting himself from the bear’s grasp. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Saleem my friend, it is always such a pleasure to see you too,’ said Abdullah.

  Nodding his head towards the gun-toting thugs, Saleem said, ‘Expecting trouble?’

  ‘You can’t be too careful these days!’ Abdullah replied, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked around as if he was searching for something. ‘So where is it then?’

  Saleem whistled and two men, wearing indigo blue tents, arrived leading his camel. Unloading the elephant’s trunk off its back, they placed it on the ground in front of Abdullah and unrolled the crinkly grey bedding to reveal a gleaming missile.

  So that’s Saleem’s special merchandise.

  One of the thugs checked it carefully; matching up the serial numbers with those written on the back of his hand, then ran a click-o-meter over it. It clicked slowly then made a whirring noise. He nodded to Abdullah.

  The big man tapped out a quick text, his phone buried in his fleshy palm. A minute later it beeped back. He checked the message then shook hands again with Saleem and gave him another hug. ‘As always, it’s good doing business with you,’ he said. ‘The land has been transferred into your tribe’s name.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment then continued, ‘It’s a shame about Gamel. When people pay that sort of money there’s always funny business going on. Good to see that you got through alive. What happened in the desert?’

  ‘Carnage. I don’t know where you get your clients from Abdullah,’ said Saleem, spreading his arms wide and sending a despairing glance to the heavens, ‘but this is the last time!’

  The missile was rolled back up in its blanket and loaded into the boot of the beat up Mercedes, poking through into the back seat.

  Looking around and seeing a lock of blond hair, Abdullah waddled over to Emily and said, ‘So you’re the one, quite a celebrity, such a delicate face.’ He rubbed fat fingers roughly across her cheek.

  She spat at him.

  Abdullah batted her down with the back of his hand. ‘Feisty,’ he said, wiping his hand and leaving a smear of blood across his spotless robe. ‘You’re worth your weight in gold.’

  Emily kicked sand at him from where she lay on the ground.

  Zula charged at him, swinging wild punches. Abdullah pushed him clear, sending him tumbling backwards on top of Emily.

  Pointing at the group of teenagers, Abdullah said, ‘Twenty for her. They’re young, fit and good-looking. They’ll fetch a good price.’

  ‘They will,’ said Saleem, ‘but that’s not what we agreed. The girl can stay will us.’

  I climb up a ladder.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ said Abdullah, scuffing his feet in the dust as he walked back to the car. He grabbed a silver suitcase from the front s
eat and handed it to Saleem.

  Flicking it open and running his fingers over the bundles of green notes inside, Saleem said, ‘That’s more like it. Treat her well.’

  I slide down a snake.

  Clicking the case shut, Saleem helped Emily to her feet and gave her a big hug. ‘Tsul,’ he said, ‘don’t worry; the gods will look after you.’

  Emily was sure she saw a tear in his eye.

  She was led to the Mercedes, struggling and twisting as she tried to catch a last glimpse of Zula. He was being held back by Saleem and Zam. The grizzly squeezed in beside her, and the car shot off, bumping along the dusty track past date palms and camel poo houses, taking Emily towards the city and slavery.

  3.

  Sitting on top of the hard missile, Emily had a good view of the river as they crossed a serpentine bridge, arching its back like the Loch Ness Monster. Abdullah pointed out the meeting of the Blue and White Niles. She could see the different colours, clear as.

  The driver fought through the traffic, honking his horn wildly as he veered across the potholed road looking for gaps to squeeze through. Emily shut her eyes as they shot across a busy intersection, dodging between the cars and missing a big yellow bus by inches.

  There were people everywhere: women, backs straight, balancing plastic jerry cans of water on their heads; street hawkers selling melons in the middle of the road; old men riding donkeys; and veiled men on camels, pulling ancient carts piled high with straw.

  Accelerating clear as street kids pushed their smiling faces against the car’s windows; they passed through a shantytown, skidded around a corner and shuddered to a halt to the screech of worn brakes. When the dust cleared, they were outside a beat up apartment block, its rough concrete finish streaked with rust and pockmarked with bullet and rocket holes. One or two apartments were missing. The charred and shattered columns holding up the floors above looked decidedly iffy, like the building was going to collapse at any moment. There was some glass left, but not much, most of the windows were covered with rusting steel shutters.

  Holy camoly, where are they taking me? What a hole!

  As Emily looked up at the building, a cooker was thrown out from one of the top floors. It sailed down and smashed into the rubbish that was piled up to the height of the first floor. Chickens flew squawking into the air in a cloud of feathers.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Saleem, ‘the gods will look after you.’ Fat chance of that, it looks like the fortune teller was right. I’m going to die.

  Dogs, pigs and goats picked over the old fridges, broken toilets, smashed TVs and piles of stinking rubbish, fighting over morsels of food. The only colour was bright laundry, flapping lazily outside apartments as it dried in the morning breeze.

  People live in this place!

  ‘Welcome to the flash end of town,’ said Abdullah with pride, as he waved his hand around in front of his face to keep the flies away. ‘Alton Towers, the finest apartment block this side of the Nile.’

  His guards clambered out and fired a few shots to scare away the rabid looking dogs.

  Emily squeezed into the lift with the henchmen, Abdullah and the missile. The bear stabbed a chubby finger at the 13 button.

  Emily had always been a bit funny about the number thirteen. Like when you’re walking down the footpath, she had that same feeling of impending doom as if she’d just stood on a crack. If her dad was here, he wouldn’t mind, he always said that thirteen is a number with oomph; that it’s got balls. Their house number was 13, not 12A but 13 and he was proud of it, just like Abdullah.

  ‘The Penthouse,’ said Abdullah, as the elevator lurched upwards in fits and starts, trying to keep time with the Arabian elevator music.

  As they entered the apartment, Abdullah batted Emily with his club-like hand, sending her sprawling across the orange carpet. He shouted after her, ‘Get up! Get on your feet and clean this place. I’ll get a good price for you. Until then, you earn your keep here. Clean this place now, you lazy tart! Now!’

  Tart, don’t call me tart!

  Emily gathered her wits, ‘How much will you get?’

  ‘A million and a half is the starting price.’

  ‘The newspapers will pay that, no questions asked. Today!’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, leering at her. ‘But there’s a catch, you’ve seen the missile, and…’ he paused while he scratched his balls, ‘and I need you to scratch my back!’

  He was fat, he was horrible; he burped and farted and smelled of anchovies. He was disgusting. Emily didn’t want to scratch his back; she didn’t want to put her hands anywhere near him. She might catch fat disease and turn into a balloon. If she did, she’d float home and eat fish and chips in the rain with her mum and dad.

  4.

  Abdullah said that he didn’t like the wine coloured tent that Emily was wearing; he wanted her to wear dresses. He wanted something that showed a bit of leg. Him and his guards rummaged through a big bag of rags and old clothes throwing things at her to try on. Emily ended up with a short dress, deep blue and covered with daisies. She liked it. It would have been perfect to wear on an English summer’s day but in the confines of Abdullah’s dingy penthouse she’d been much happier hiding in the safety her tent.

  Emily’s fingers were wrinkled and bleeding by the time she’d scrubbed the gungy brown layer of cigarette smoke, grease and mildew off the walls with strong cleaner. It took her ages and she could only reach up so high. The result was hideous 1970’s wallpaper, patterned with orange and lime-green ripples.

  ‘Takes me back to my youth,’ said a beaming Abdullah. ‘Them were the days. I used to be a footballer. Oh the parties we had!’

  It’s hard to imagine Abdullah on a football pitch; maybe he was goalie, standing there like a big grizzly guarding his cave.

  He had Emily balance on a chair with a mop so she could clean the walls all the way to the top. They took some blotchy paintings down and she scrubbed them in the bath using the toilet brush, revealing bullfight scenes and flamenco dancers, the pools of blood from the dying bulls matching the bright red of the dancers’ dresses.

  She vacuumed the orange shag pile carpet then emptied the bag out of a rocket hole in the kitchen wall and watched the cloud of dust float away in the breeze. Using an old garden rake, she arranged the carpet just like Abdullah wanted it, starting with a vortex under the mirror ball in the middle and working out to the walls in ever increasing spirals. One of the guards changed the light bulb and spun the mirror ball, sending little spots of coloured light dancing around the room.

  There were three huge sofas covered in crimson crushed velvet. Abdullah chased his wives off them so Emily could clean. Reaching down the back of one of them, she pulled out coins, lacy knickers and a generation’s worth of remote controls.

  Ouch!

  Something furry with sharp teeth bit her finger.

  I’m not putting my hand back down there!

  She sucked the rest of the cigarette butts and date stones out with the vacuum cleaner. In front of the sofas, sitting on zebra skin rugs was a low table. It sagged under the weight of mouldy coffee cups and overflowing ash trays, piled up against a bronze sculpture of lady with no clothes on. Not any knickers anyway. Maybe she’d lost them down the back of the sofa.

  I bet she’s Italian.

  Emily had studied Italy at school. All the sculptures in Italy are naked. It must be lovely and warm and no one bothers to put clothes on. In England the statues are all grumpy old men in uniforms. It’s so cold they’d all have goose bumps if they didn’t wear anything.

  5.

  Emily cleaned Abdullah’s bedroom. It was wallpapered with zebra stripes. The purple light bulbs made the white stripes glow and turned the spots on his mock leopard skin bedspread purple. There was a Jacuzzi sitting at the foot of his bed. It hissed and bubbled and steamed like a witch’s cauldron, purple vapours rising from the islands of frothy scum floating on the surface.

  She flicked on the main li
ghts. Catching a movement out of the corner of her eye, she looked around to see a girl looking at her. An eleven year-old girl. It was her. There were mirrors everywhere. There weren’t mirrors in the desert; you could see everyone else but not you. Here in Abdullah’s bedroom she was staring at herself from behind the bed, the wardrobe door, from the dresser and looking down from the ceiling. Everywhere she looked she was being watched.

  She was lily-white but her face was tanned brown. She went over to the wardrobe to have a closer look, to look into her eyes. They sparkled. She liked that, it gave her hope; there was life and mystery in depths of the blueness. She locked the door, took off her dress and stood there naked. She liked her body. It used to be wobbly, now it was healthy and firm. There was a flash of silver from the necklace that Ijju gave her and a splash of colour on her bum where her scorpion tattoo lived. He was so lifelike; she wished he would scurry off and hide in the sheets and sting Abdullah to death. She pictured the big bear wriggling and twisting as her scorpion stung him again and again.

  She was daydreaming. She pulled her dress back on, unlocked the door and straightened up the bed.

  Something moved under the covers. The angular head of a snake poked out, black eyes staring coldly, his tongue moving in and out tasting the air, tasting Emily. He slithered out from under the covers, his skin a mosaic of diamonds, and raised his head in an S, hissing at her. She hissed back and threw her duster at him, hitting him in the head. He pulled back for a moment then slithered towards her.

  She screamed and scarpered.

  She ran into Abdullah in the doorway. He laughed then pinched her bottom. She ducked around him and was gone.

  6.

  Abdullah said the snake was harmless. It was an African rock python called Robert Redford, Bob for short. The guards had bought him back from South Sudan as settlement for one of Abdullah’s dodgy deals.

  The wives said that Bob was just a young’un, but he was huge, like about fifteen feet long! When he arrived they had three cats. Not any more, they had disappeared inside Bob. The guards used to trap rats in a cage outside the building and let Bob hunt them around the apartment. He didn’t get them all. Now they drowned them in the bath first or brought back chickens or a small goat for him. It was chaotic when they let chickens go in the apartment. They would flap around in a flurry of squawking and feathers before joining the cats and the rats inside Bob. One escaped through the rocket hole in the kitchen and got eaten by the hungry dogs waiting below.