BooksBarbecue
Back The Dead Line
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. By the Same Author
  3. Dedication Page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Also Available by Holly Watt
  87. The Hunt and the Kill

A wall of blue corrugated iron, 15 feet high, ran right the way round the factory. Casey tried to peer through, but couldn’t make out any of the factory’s features. The Land Cruiser was there though, parked up right next to the entrance.

‘What’s the factory called?’ Casey couldn’t read the Bengali alphabet.

‘Arakny . . .’ Hessa struggled with the word. ‘Incorporated. It doesn’t mean anything, I don’t think. It’s just a word.’

The company’s logo was a stylised oak leaf. Casey photographed it, just in case. ‘I wonder if this is where the red skirt and your grey velvet jacket were made.’

They were sitting in a rainbow-painted tuk-tuk. The grille that fitted around the passengers was closed up. The grilles were usually shut to deter bag-snatchers, who preyed on the traffic as it slowed, but it shielded them well here. Pink plastic flowers with big green leaves were twined through the steel mesh.

‘The women might be in there,’ said Casey.

‘They might,’ agreed Hessa.

The tuk-tuk’s driver was staring into space, exhausted by a night of driving across the city.

‘Do you think you can . . .’ Casey began.

You have to choose.

‘Of course,’ and Hessa’s eyes slanted into a smile.

35

35

Two hours later, Hessa was at the gate to the factory. The workers had crowded in by then, flooding through the door in their hundreds. One woman sat close to the gate, hands out in the international gesture of desperation. Her face had been terribly burned, the skin pulled tight, her mouth a slit. She turned blank eyes at the sound of Hessa’s steps. Please, please, help me.

Hessa was wearing an old blue sari, bought in a dusty shop a few roads away. She had a pale orange shawl wrapped around her head, and fraying grey sandals on her feet.

‘What do you want?’ The door clanged open and a man stared her up and down.

‘A job,’ Hessa said quietly. Talk quietly, Casey had taught her. It’s harder to pin down an accent from a whisper.

‘This is not how we employ people here,’ the man said. ‘We have proper agents.’

Not the voice, Hessa thought. You are not the voice on the telephone.

The man moved to close the gate.

‘I beg you.’ Hessa put a choke into her voice.

The man paused. He made a show of staring at his watch, and gave a long sigh. ‘All right,’ he stood aside. ‘Maybe it is possible, this once. We may have some vacancies.’

They walked towards the factory. There were no other buildings in this compound. Rust stains ran down the white walls from cheap windows, like red tears. Rubbish blew in circles, chased by a hot wind.

‘You have skills?’

Hessa bowed her head.

‘Where are you from?’

‘A little village near Sylhet,’ whispered Hessa. ‘You wouldn’t know it.’