Limit of Exploitation (3 page)

Sat next to him in the back of the Merc and bored out of her mind is Miroslav's reluctant girlfriend Senka, a bottle blonde on the wrong side of forty. Senka is trying hard to hold onto her looks and wears too much make up for daytime, in a couple of years she'll be a hag. She fidgets about, pissing off Miroslav.

“Can't you just sit?”

Senka huffs away in her Dracula accent like the spoilt brat she is, “How long now? How long do we have to stay here?”

Miroslav gently strokes his chin with a gloved hand. He ignores her and speaks to the bulky occupant of the front passenger seat. “Belic, do these fucking Dutchmen have watches?” His eyes never leave the ship.

Aleksandor Belic digs around for his Mobile as Senka mutters to herself in Serbo-Croat.

With a greying military crew cut and a face looking like it was carved from granite, the powerfully built Alexandar Belic is Miroslav's number two in London, he and Miroslav go all the way back to the Tigers and the blood letting at Mostar. Any dramas involving Zemun Clan business in the UK and Belic is the guy you do not want to be discussing your bad news with.

“Hold on, this looks like Rudi now.”

Belic's giant head snaps up as a tall lanky figure in a black donkey jacket mooches towards the Merc.

Rudi's hands are thrust deep into his coat pockets, collar turned up against the wind whipping off the Thames. Under his black skull cap his unruly blonde mop spikes out in all directions.

The Merc's doors open and Serbia's finest step out, and these guys do not like to be kept waiting. Senka stays put with the driver, Marko.

Miroslav barks at Rudi. “Your late”.

Rudi, looking young enough to still be on his skateboard, shrugs his shoulders. “River Pilot taking us in stayed on board after docking, not my fault man.”

Belic cocks his head, his square features stern set. “Problems?”

“No, not at all, he just took his time with the fucking manifest. Checking this, checking that, never thought he would piss off.”

Miroslav nods. “So everything is okay Rudi? The cargo is ready for us eh?”

“Yeah man, a hundred percent, just like the last time.”

Belic keeps missile lock on Rudi with hard unblinking eyes. Miroslav keeps up the double act.

“Good Rudi, good. This is our second run with you now, your making a lot of money with us, right? A lot of money to make sure you're on FUCKING TIME! I don't give a shit about fucking River Pilots!”

Rudi looks nervously at both the Serbs; he knocks off the casual Dutch attitude. “Hey man, your getting your money's worth. If I get caught…” he pauses. “Fuck man, I don't wanna even think about getting caught. I'm here, the cargo is here, it's all good ok?”

“Caught? Yes that would be unfortunate for all concerned. But then, if you did get caught, maybe you could make a deal with the authorities eh? Maybe they would cut you some slack, eh? Maybe Belic here would have to tie up the loose ends?”

Rudi's face drops, he does not like the way the conversation is going. He likes Belic's glare even less, “Hey, guys, come on. What the fuck? I've got this whole thing taken care of, the plan is running like clockwork. A plan you guys approved of by the way.”

“Yes, that's true. But make sure you don't get complacent Rudi, don't get too…too…, what's the word Belic?”

Belic's lips barely move. “Cocky. Don't get too cocky.”

“Yes, that's it, that's the word I'm looking for. Don't get too cocky. That would be bad eh Belic? Bad for business?”

“Very bad.”

“Ok, ok, I get it. There's no problem, just a jobs-worth River Pilot that's all. Everything is on track; everything is one hundred percent, okay guys?”

“Okay Rudi, its good to hear all is as it should be, and its good to hear you're confident…not cocky eh?”

Miroslav turns for the Merc, his part played. Belic straightens his leather jacket and takes a menacing step closer to the wary Rudi.

“Your fee will be transferred in the usual way, When! We have our cargo, and only when we have it free and clear. Understood?”

Rudi just nods, he wants to get the fuck away from here as soon as possible. “If we detect any surveillance or Police activity then we shall have to drop all association with the china…and that wont please us, understood?”

“Yes man, understood.”

With a nod Belic jumps in the Merc and Marko powers away in a cloud of gravel dust leaving Rudi alone in the growing mountains on the quayside. He lets out a sigh of relief.

As the Merc sweeps out the Wharf's front gates it passes a large blue and white sign-board that screams EASTERN LOGISTICS.

In the Merc Miroslav relaxes, peels off his gloves and drops them into his lap. He sends a sideways glance at the sulking Senka. “And how is our house guest?”

“Emma? Complaining, bewildered, scared and generally a pain the ass. Do we really have to have this problem?”

“Don't worry, the problem wont be around much longer.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we are soon be rid of her”

Senka is dismayed. She has been many things in her life but an accomplice to violence and murder isn't on her CV.

“You're going to kill her? Why would you do that? If you need to kill someone then why not the thieving mother? That little girl has done nothing, why would you want to kill a small child?”

Marko's dark eye's flick between the road and the rear view mirror as he eyeballs Senka.

“Kill her? I have no intention of killing her; she's no use to me dead. No, I'm going to use her in a business transaction, throw her in with the next Ukrainian deal, would certainly sweeten things no?”

“Are you fucking kidding me, is that why you took her? You would really do that? This is London Miroslav not Lithuania, you can't just traffic a child here!”

“Can't I? Too much like old times eh Senka? Now shut your mouth.”

Senka catches Marko's eyes scrutinizing her, reading her. Miroslav changes the subject; he's had enough of Senka's shit for one day. “Marko head over to the lab, we'll discuss the Afghan shipment there.”

Marko floors it past the O2 Arena and the Merc sweeps into the Blackwall Tunnel.

Illumination from the tunnel lights strobe yellow blobs over the Merc's shiny bodywork. Daylight is snapped out.

Nestled high in the arid foothills of the Sangin valley, Forward Operating Base Eagle resembled a large freakishly fortified Alpine Lodge. Smothered in reinforced HESCO blast walls and concertina wire, it is home to the Paratroopers of Strike Company Alpha. Along the dusty perimeter walls fortified positions, known as Sangers, provide a commanding view over all approach routes. The Company, and John Logan, are all booked in for a nice six-month stay.

In a cramped internal room that serves as an office, John pesters Taff, the overweight company administrative clerk into letting him use an official laptop. Taff is not keen and the two of them sit on green nylon army camp cots shooting the shit.

“Come on Taff, just five minutes so I can check my email's mate.” Military equipment lies about and Taff's ancient iPod quietly plays the Manic Street Preachers on a pair of battered portable speakers.

“Can't John man, you know that. Its a fucking secure laptop man, you trying to get me jailed or something?” Taff holds onto a Panasonic Tuff Book like its a new-born baby. John scratches at his crew cut. “Well if its so fucking secure then there's no problem is there. Look, I promise, just five minutes, no porn and no Facebook, Ok?”

“Why can't you use one of the pool PC's man? Your not even on facebook, who writes to you anyway?”

“Because there's a fucking queue a mile long that's why. And never mind who writes to me fat boy”

Taff pauses as a cheeky grin spreads over his chubby face. “Is it that nurse from Bastion? Is it? Fucking hell John man, I'd fucking do her ya know butt”

John snorts and shakes his head at the schoolboy antics. “Yeah, yeah OK, its the nurse alright? And she's emailing some photos, if ya know what I mean…”

“Photos? Ya mean -?” With his right hand Taff makes the outline of a woman's breasts against his body.

“Yes, that's exactly what I mean”

“Fucking hell butt! Like a right fucking Swansea girl that one eh?” Sniggers all round.

“So five minutes?”

At last Taff relents, “OK, I'm off for a shite. But give us a squint at those piccies when I'm back eh man? Deal? Eh?”

“OK no prob's, you're a star. A fat fucker sure, but still a star.”

Grinning, Taff surrenders the Tuff Book. He grabs a roll of toilet paper kept in a polythene bag on shelving made from old ration boxes, and quickly departs to the nearest Portaloo.

Alone at last, John powers up the Tuff Book and logs into Hotmail. He flicks through a ton of Nigerian junk mail, but can't find the email from the obliging Nurse in Camp Bastion. He find's something else instead, one from London and its not good news. He sits in silence; his face-hardens and his jaw muscles work overtime as he takes in Paula's email. Hate burns in his eyes. Other guys get letters and emails from wives and girlfriends, John gets a cry for help from a fucked up sister half a world away telling him that at home, the shit has well and truly hit the fan. He lets out a long sigh and rubs at the stubble on his chin. After all this time and he's still dealing with Paula and her dramas. Ever since John could remember he'd been pulling her out the shit, and here she was again, years later and still dragging him back into her world. But this time it was different, this wasn't just a shop lifting fine or a gobby boyfriend that needed sorting out, this time Paula had well and truly excelled herself.

Pulling a poncho to one side that acts as a makeshift door, Taff blusters back into the room. “Fucking hell man, nearly split me in half that fucker!” He Catches John's mood. “John? Everything OK Man?”

“How much leave do I have left Taff?”

“Leave? You OK butt? I never heard of you asking for leave before. Get some bad news boy?” The Manics on Taff's iPod are the only thing breaking the silence.

“Yeah, ya could say that. How much Taff?”

“Well there's no problem if it's a compassionate case mind, like ya mother dying or something.” Taff rubs his face, “But you John, you haven't got a mother, or a father. You've got the Army boy, and fuck all else.”

“What, so that's it?”

“What's this all about John?”

John paces the room, not wanting to go into too much detail. “I have a sister in London” He pauses. “Taff, I need to get to London ASAP.”

“A sister? I see, and we all thought you came in a box.” Taff thinks aloud. “Is she dying?”

“No mate, its a different kind of problem.”

“OK, well she's dying now boy, understand?”

“Eh?”

“Fuck me you Para's; thick as a mud fence. Well unless the firemen go back on strike that's the only way you'll get out of here boy”. He takes a pace closer to make his point. “A compassionate leave is for a family member about to pop their clogs, get it?”

The penny drops. “Right, got it. Well let's get to it then mate, I don't have long.”

“OK, I'm on it. This must be important mind?”

John pauses at the Poncho. “Yeah, yeah it is mate. Listen; just keep this between us yeah?”

“Go on, fuck off man.” Then he remembers, “So no tit pics then eh?”

“Sorry mate.”

As John disappears Taff places the still running Tuff Book on his knees. Looking down at the screen he can't help but read Paula's still open email. As his eyes scan the words he blows a low whistle and whispers to himself. “Jesus christ man.”

Senka exits a graffiti daubed lift and clip-clops her way along the grimy balcony walkway of Paula's block. Well dressed in a designer tan trench coat and heels, she feels strangely conspicuous and out of place in the urban decay.

Doors to flats that were once painted in bright pastel colours are now tatty and peeling with age. Once a modern marvel, the depressing grey monolith is now an embarrassment and a haven for junkies and illegal immigrants. Far below in a playground kid's screech on climbing frames and swings.

Senka finds Paula's flat and gives the doorbell a ring. She nervously checks around as she waits, she knows she is taking a big risk coming here. From behind the front door she hears movement; muffled swearing and she can see a figure coming to the door through a frosted pane of wired glass. An irate Paula wrenches the door open. “I thought I fucking told you –”

Chavtastic in tracksuit and T-Shirt, she looks plain and pale compared to the made-up, faked tanned Senka.

“Sorry” She blurts, “I thought you were someone else.”

Senka raises a plucked eyebrow, “I'm glad I am. I think perhaps you and I should have a little chat.”

Paula immediately picks up on Senka's Dracula accent and her mood changes. “Oh yeah? Are you one of those fucking immigrants that's got my daughter?”

“Do you want to discuss this on your doorstep, or are you going to invite me into your shit hole?” She peers past Paula, “I take it you are alone in there?”

Nodding, Paula turns, stamps off down the dingy hallway leaving the door open for Senka who enters and closes it behind her.

Senka casts an eye over Paula's front room, she's not impressed. The ancient TV in the corner silently plays an episode of
Eastenders
; an absent child's toys are neatly arranged in one-corner.

“Where's Emma? When can I have her back? What's going on with her? Where is she?” Paula is trying to play it tough but her emotions are in shreds, tears of anger start running down her cheeks. “What the fuck have you people done to her?”