Alyshia was still asleep. The noise from the next room woke her. The fear came alive in her as soon as she saw the cabbie. The whites of her eyes quivered at the edges as she looked at the door. The animal noise of a terrible struggle came through it. She started as something thudded against the other side. The cabbie held onto his head with both hands, looking at the ceiling.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, her voice barely audible.
The cabbie didn’t answer. Through the grunting and gasping of effort came the noise of heels clawing against lino. Then a rigid, pent-up silence, followed by a collapse. The cabbie let his hands drop to his sides, shook his head. Alyshia, back against the wall, stared unblinking at the door. No sound.
‘All right,’ said the cabbie, who couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’
He opened the door. The room had filled with a shocking stink.
‘Not yet, you fucking moron,’ said Skin.
Alyshia saw the hooded men, looked down at the dead illegals’ swollen faces, their new horror masks. She vomited. The cabbie pulled her back into the room.
‘Get her cleaned up,’ said Skin. ‘Got anything we can roll these two up in?’
‘In the garage,’ said the cabbie. ‘There’s some plastic tarps.’
Dan left the room, staggered to the garage, dazed by what he’d just done. He came back with the tarpaulins. They rolled the illegals into them, secured them at both ends, coughing against the stink in the room. They took them into the garage. Dan went out the back and down the side of the house, checked the street. Empty. He tapped on the garage, opened the rear of the transit. They lifted the bodies into the back, closed the doors, went back for the girl.
The cabbie had opened the window in the room and the stink was leaving, but slowly, because of the thickness of the blinds.
‘Shouldn’t have done that ’n’ all,’ said Skin. ‘You’re not paying attention to the fucking instructions.’
‘Yes, well, I didn’t know that was on the cards, did I?’ said the cabbie. ‘You got my money?’
Skin handed him a fat envelope. They went into the bedroom. Alyshia’s skirt and blouse were on the floor, streaked with vomit and topped by a brown blur of tights. She looked up from the bed in bra and knickers, the fear streaming out of her.
‘You got the alarm code to her flat?’ asked Dan.
The cabbie shook his head, counting the money. Skin and Dan looked to Alyshia. She gave them the code. Skin made a call, gave the number, hung up.
‘Get us a plastic bag for her things,’ said Dan.
The cabbie went to the kitchen, came back with a bag, put Alyshia’s discarded clothes in it. Dan removed a small black box from his pocket, took out a capped syringe filled with a clear liquid. Alyshia pressed herself against the wall and whimpered as he flicked the air out of it, eased off the cap.
‘You done this before?’ asked the cabbie, looking over Dan’s shoulder.
‘First time,’ said Dan, rolling his eyes.
‘I’ll be quiet,’ said Alyshia. ‘Just don’t...’
‘This’ll keep you nice and relaxed,’ said Dan, and then to the cabbie, who was now looking at him intently: ‘You fancy a vodkatini ’n’ all?’
‘Who’s going to clean this shit up?’
‘There wouldn’t have been any shit to clear up,’ said Skin, hooded face up close to the cabbie’s, ‘if you’d done what you was fucking told.’
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About the Author
ROBERT WILSON is the author of numerous novels, including A Small Death in Lisbon and The Company of Strangers. A graduate of Oxford University, he has worked in shipping, advertising, and trading in Africa, and has lived in Greece and West Africa.
Footnotes
* Nongovernmental Organization
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* oyinbo—white man
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* half-caste
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* white man
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Robert Wilson, Blood Is Dirt
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