Page 15 of Savage Warrior

I count seventeen other women, all aged between late teens and about thirty years old. Most refuse to speak at all, but I learn that one or two were abducted like me, from clubs and bars. Some have been held for weeks, waiting for transport to God knows where.

“It’ll be Western Europe,” one of my companions guesses. “Germany, or the UK.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s where the money is,” she asserts. “The best profit.”

I’ve given up protesting at the injustice of it all. Somehow, the prospect of being sold like cattle to the highest bidder seems less outrageous the longer I think about it. That does nothing to diminish my determination to escape, though. The first chance I get.

Hours stretch into days, discernible only by the slivers of light piercing the damp planks of the hull which gradually fade as night falls. The vessel rocks and sways, and my stomach heaves. For several hours our rickety little ship lurches violently when we are caught in a storm. We are all tossed around in our dark, wet prison, rolling from one side of the ship to the other. Never one for prayer, I actually beg a higher power to keep this flimsy craft afloat. And I’m not alone. Between the weeping and screaming, more than a few of the women join me in pleading for deliverance.

Perhaps God is actually listening. The sea calms, and we have only the endless sickness to contend with again. And so it goes on. We alternate between abject nausea and mind-numbing fear, while our loathsome journey continues.

It ends with a jolt. The hull collides with something solid, and the decrepit boat shudders, scraping the length of the bow. The motion ceases. Men shout overhead, their thundering footsteps echoing in the darkness. We all cower, silent, dreading whatever fate awaits us. The voyage was awful. The agonising anticipation is worse.

We are left in the hold for another day, all of us tensing at every sound from overhead. Eventually, the hatch above us is thrown open, and late afternoon daylight floods our watery tomb. I blink and cover my eyes, then curl into a ball.

It does no good.

“All of you, out!”

The harsh command is uttered in English, which I understand because I learned a little of it at school. Not fluent by any means, but I can get by which is more than most of the others, it would seem.

The man drops down into the hold and kicks the woman closest to him. “Get up, bitch,” he snarls.

She scrambles to her feet, and he strides to the next cowering prisoner to repeat the procedure. It works, so he marches on, laying into any woman who doesn’t move quickly enough.

I’m on my feet by the time he reaches me, but he shoves me towards the ladder anyway. “Get up there.”

Lack of food and inactivity have left me weak. I struggle to climb the few feet onto the deck, but I emerge into the chilly daylight then hurry to join the rest of the group who have gathered into a shivering huddle. I glance around, try to take in my surroundings. Where am I?

We’re moored in a small port. Several more weather-beaten craft are bobbing at anchor. By the look of the vessels themselves, and the various pots, nets, and other paraphernalia on the quayside, this is a fishing village, probably chosen for its lack of officialdom or border control. No harbour master arrives to check any documents, and no questions are asked as we disembark onto the harbour itself. Our captors herd us all into the backs of waiting vehicles, and within minutes I am bouncing around in the back of yet another Ford Transit with five other women.

There’s no point asking where we are or where we are going, so I don’t bother. I do, though, manoeuvre myself close to the rear doors where there are two small windows and I have a view of my surroundings, including the road signs we pass as our van leaves the harbour behind. My rudimentary English is enough for me to piece together that we have seemingly landed at a place called Mevagissey. I’ve never heard of it, nor any of the other villages and town we pass through. It’s not until we’ve been on the road for a couple of hours that a spot a name I recognise. Bristol.

So, we are in the UK, then. And headed north, apparently. This is confirmed when we reach the motorway and more miles of endless tarmac snake away behind us. From time to time, the van pulls off the main road and makes a brief stop for us to get out, relieve ourselves, then clamber back inside. We never stop for more than a few minutes, and always somewhere isolated. Woodland, perhaps, or an empty car park. If we’re lucky, we might be given food, and on one occasion a flask of lukewarm coffee to share.

It’s pitch-dark by the time we stop in what appears to be an industrial area north of Birmingham. The driver pulls up inside a huge warehouse smelling of engine oil where we are joined by another van transporting more women. Five more captive females are shoved into the Transit with us. It’s a squash, but we all shove up to make room.

I’m long past any desire to socialise or talk to my companions, but when one of the newcomers pressed up close beside me whispers that her name is Lucy, I grunt a reply.

“Arina,” I mutter.

“Oh. You’re not English…”

My accent must be awful. “Belarus,” I explain. “Where are you from?”

“Londn,” she whispers. “I was abducted. Working at a pub.”

“A pub?”

Her tale seems similar to mine, and I’d say she was about the same age as me. I’m not entirely certain what a pub is and opt not to ask.

“I’m a musician,” she clarifies, clearly eager to talk. “Guitar. It was a party. I was tricked…”

“I see,” I reply, not really interested in anyone else’s tale of woe. “Do you know where we’re going?”

“I heard them talking about Inverness…”

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