iAlba Prentice wakes up naked, disoriented, and terrified, but it doesn't take long for her to piece together what has happened when she takes in her surroundings. Bodies are huddled against walls, against other bodies, wherever they can find space to be, as quarters are cramped. Her head feels achy and fuzzy, and there's a funny taste in her mouth, which feels like it's been stuffed full of cotton balls soaked in petrol. She's never been to one of these places in person, but she's heard them described in the sort of stories that are not in history books, but are none the less accepted as truth. Stories about girls (and sometimes boys as well) who have disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again. Usually these teenagers and young adults were the loved ones of someone who couldn't pay rent or a gambling debt, or owed money to a pimp or drug dealer. Andrea Prentice had been late with the rent again that month, and it seems they had finally decided to deal her the consequences by taking her only daughter and selling her on the black market.
A young girl holding a wicker basket full of tiny bars of orange blossom-scented soap is passing them out to the people in the room. The girl next to Alba just stares at the soap as though it were a piece of raw meat when the girl hands it to her. Alba takes a tiny bar of soap from the girl's grubby fingers, and swallows hard. Two stern looking women and one man with a gun usher them all into a haphazard line, and then file them out of the room and down a long hallway that has no windows and only one single, flickering light bulb. She can't help but wonder if she is walking to her death.
At the end of the impossibly long passage they separate the boys and girls and send them into rooms on opposite sides of the hall. Alba tightly clutches her soap like a talisman, holding it against her chest as she walks through the doorway. Inside the room it is dark and damp, but it looks mostly look a gym locker room, which feels very inappropriate given the graveness of the situation. Bottles of shampoo and conditioner sit in recessed cubbies in the tiled walls, and towels are stacked up in neat piles in the corner of the room. She doesn't understand at first, but when she stops to think about it she supposes it makes perfect sense. They don't want to put filthy, disgusting merchandise out on display, so they're having them all shower first.
Alba fiddles with knobs and dials, attempting to get the water to turn on, but nothing happens. She stands around lamely, trying not to look at the faces or eyes of the other naked women pressed in around her. Eventually, the water gushes on, seemingly of its own accord. It starts out warm, but becomes steaming hot in a matter of minutes. She thinks of her mother, her bed, and her home as she showers, going through the motions even if she isn't exactly certain why. When the water shuts off again she takes a towel and dries herself off, and then stands, pink-skinned and waiting with the rest of the girls.
Another guard, stocky and impassive, stands at the back door of the room. They are instructed to leave their towels in the bin by the guard as they exit. Alba is reluctant to lose the small measure of security the threadbare swath of fabric provides, but when she hesitates in its surrender the guard seizes it from her with great delight, leaving her naked and shivering, the reality of her situation becoming that much more apparent to her. When she doesn't move right away, the guard further adds insult to injury by placing his hands on her bare bum and shoving her out the door, into another chilly hallway. More men with guns stand watch where the freshly showered men and women are reconvening in yet another line.
"You are about to enter what we call the 'show room'. Here, potential buyers will walk around and inspect the merchandise. They might touch you, and you will let them. You will speak only if spoken to. You no longer have personal autonomy, so do not bother trying to fight. Are we clear?" a tall, close-shaven man with steely eyes instructs them.
"No!" a lone voice rings out, and the rest of them all suck in their breath. Alba gathers that this isn't the first time some of them have been through one of the slave exchanges, because some of the women and men are staring at the girl who cried out expectantly and with dread, as though they're waiting for something to happen.
"No?" the man asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. He stops in front of the girl, a skinny thing with dark hair and huge grey eyes. "No what?"
Suddenly the girl is attacking, throwing herself at him with a snarl. He reacts quickly, but not quickly enough as she attempts to hook her nails into his eyes. She draws them across his forehead instead, flaying the skin wide open. Blood begins pouring into his eyes and he curses, calling her the sorts of words you'd only expect to hear in a whorehouse or drug den. He backhands the girl, sending her flying into the wall.
A dazed look on her face, the girl slides to the floor and sits there, blood dripping from her lip where his open hand split it open. The tall, angry-looking man is staring at her now, his chest heaving up and down. He shoves his trousers down over his waist, down around his ankles and out of the way. Underneath he is naked and hard, and Alba can barely bring herself to watch as he advances on the naked and bleeding girl, his erect cock in one hand and his knife in the other. He forces her to stand against the wall with her legs spread, and he begins to rape her, holding his knife pressed against her throat the entire time. Whenever the girls cries escalate, he presses the knife against her pale flesh even harder. Alba looks away, but she can still hear the girl crying softly in protest. When the man finishes he slits the poor girl's throat and tosses her body to the floor, and now Alba is choking back the scream that has lodged itself in her own throat.
He was parading up and down the hall now, his eyes wild. "Does anyone else have any comments or complaints? Anyone? ANYONE? No? I didn't fucking think so, maggots. Remember, if you were worth shit to yourself or anyone, you wouldn't have ended up here. Any time you get to thinking that you might like to try and escape, any time you think you might be more clever or faster than us, well just stop thinking those things. Because you aren't. You aren't faster, you aren't more clever, you're just useless as tits on a warthog until a buyer says otherwise. So you go in there, you look pretty, and you keep your goddamn gobs shut unless one of those lovely rich people asks you a question. Now move your arses!"
Alba looks over her shoulder at the crumpled form on the floor, and wonders sadly whose daughter or sister or mother she might have been. All over, just like that, all because she had been afraid. And who wouldn't be? Although if she were honest, some of the other captives seemed more apathetic than terrified or anxious, which she couldn't understand at all. She supposed if she had been through here more than once herself, maybe it would've taken the fear and fight out of her as well. She hoped she would never have to find out either way.
The show room is a vast and empty space, cold, white and utilitarian. Women in bustiers and tight skirts sashay around the room, handing flutes of champagne to men dressed in business suits. Trays of finger sandwiches and other hors d'oeuvres are also being passed around by the scantily clad ladies, and the incongruity of it all makes a tiny, hysterical little laugh bubble up in her throat. One of the other girls gives her an incredulous look, as though she can't believe Alba is laughing after what has happened in the last ten minutes. She can't believe it either, actually, but she is almost unable to stop herself, so instead she crams her fingers in her mouth and bites down until the pain flares and one of the guard's is guiding her by the shoulder up onto a little ledge that goes around the perimeter of the room. This is where she and the other captives will stand on display, and for the first time she really stops and thinks about what is happening to her.
Alba's mother couldn't make the rent on time, not even with her helping out by working in the shops, and now she is being sold like livestock to pay the price. There is a very real and pressing possibility that when she does leave here, it will be to go to her death. That was a part of the stories, too. Many of the people who ended up here were destined for new lives of servitude, either in the home or the bedroom. She thought she was attractive enough that the latter was a distinct possibility, and she gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of any of these greasy, grimey men running their paws over her. Still, she'd rather that than the other alternatives. For years the police had suspected the New London Ripper of using the black market slave exchange to buy 'practice' victims. Every now and then a missing person would show up carved up like a Christmas ham, each one with more precision than the last. The victims were almost always poor and disadvantaged, exactly the type who usually ended up in the slave exchanges.
The men in suits are walking around the room now, eating and drinking and laughing with each other, as though they were at a cocktail party and not in the middle of a human trafficking nightmare. Alba makes it her personal goal to remain strong and stoic, even when hands are creeping up her thighs, pinching her nipples, cupping her arse or breasts, fingering her hair.
"Too skinny," one man remarks, crushing her body against his. "I'd break her in half!" He and his mates laugh at this, but leave her in peace otherwise. She is subjected to other indignities, and though there are moments when the tears actually do spill over her cheeks, still she remains silent.
There is one man though who is not part of the larger group, and he is staring at her like he thinks he recognizes her. She knows that cannot be though, because she is certain she would remember having met so handsome a stranger. He is tall, perhaps even a bit gangly, but the pinstriped suit he is wearing fits him like a glove, and his dark brown eyes peer out seriously from behind a pair of tortoise shell glasses. His hair, like his eyes, is brown and stands up in every which direction, which she sees is a result of him pulling his fingers through it and making it stand up in every which direction. He is anxious about something, but he overall has the air of someone who is uncomfortable and out of place, and she can relate to that.
"So why are you here?" he finally asks, stepping close enough to her that she can feel the edge of his suit jacket brush against the bare skin of her belly. His voice is soft, not at all like the brash man who'd felt the need to fondle her in front of all his mates before declaring her too skinny.
"I don't know for certain, but if I were a betting girl I'd say my Mum was probably late paying the rent. Again," she replies.
"Can you cook? Clean?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Can you do those things well, or are you the type who burns toast and might accidentally make chlorine gas while cleaning the bathroom?"
This time she does laugh. "Do I look like I grew up with a maid? I had to clean my own loo growing up, I know better than to mix bleach and ammonia. I might not have my A-levels mate, but I'm not stupid," she says, only realizing how impertinent it sounds after the words have already left her lips. She waits for his reaction in trepidation, unconsciously biting her lower lip as she does. He seems to be watching her do this, and his own lips are slightly parted. Finally, he smiles back at her and she breathes an internal sigh of relief.
"Feisty, aren't you?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at her. She swallows, but says nothing as he waves his arm and flags down one of the women with a tray of champagne, a redhead. He takes two flutes from her tray and whispers something in her ear.
"Very good, Mr. Smith," the redhead says, bowing her head at him and heading to the other side of the room, where a cluster of the armed guards are standing.
With shock, Alba realizes that the man is handing her one of the champagne flutes, indicating she should drink with him. She does, and the champagne is sweet and bubbly. It hits her empty stomach hard though, and it makes her feel woozy-giddy. When she starts to sways, he reaches out and grabs her by the elbow to steady her.
"Now then dear, do you have a name?" he whispers, his breath warm on her ear.
"Alba," she tells him, feeling her heart pounding against her chest like it's a prisoner trying to break free.
"Alba," he repeats after her, that amused gleam in his eye again. "So were you conceived in Scotland, born at the dawn, or did one of your parents just love flowers?"
"I don't know," she admits. "Mum loves flowers, but I don't know where I was conceived. She hates haggis though, so it probably wasn't Scotland. And I was born in the evening."
"Alba born in the evening, conceived in a land unknown. Well Alba, I think a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. You'll be coming home with me," he says, tracing the curve of her lips with his fingers.
She barely has a moment to react to this though, as two of the armed guards are pulling her arms behind her back and one of them is holding a bag to cover her face with. She would scream, but there's the quick, sharp pain of a needle in the crook of her elbow and then there is only the darkness./i