Ana thought of him as the doctor with the brown eyes. It was the first thing  that entered her head when she caught him watching her one morning, unusual  in itself as barely anyone ever noticed her moving about the place. She’d been  mopping the corridor on the paediatric phlebotomy ward and looked up for a  moment to shake her fringe out of her eyes. He was standing by the check-in  area, a pen pressed to his lip, regarding her quite frankly, a slight frown troubling  his brow. She looked over her shoulder, she remembered, but there was no one  behind her. By the time she looked back, his expression had changed to  something cooler. He blinked and went back to writing on the clipboard in his  hand.  

She might have imagined it; she was so tired. That initial time it was early  evening. She’d been working ten hours with only fifteen minutes’ break for a cup of tea and some bread. First the bank, then the nightclub and finally the hospital.  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d hallucinated through exhaustion. Once, she’d seen her mother’s face on a stranger, concerned and fiercely loving. Ana had  only just stopped herself calling, reaching out. Still, she looked for him after that,  whenever she was at the hospital, and pretty soon she knew it hadn’t been a trick  of the mind. 

The next time, he was coming out of the staff changing rooms as she was  going in. They almost collided and he had to do an awkward backwards two-step  to avoid tipping head-first over the mop trolly. 

‘Woah,’ he barked, leaning his torso sideways in a posture of exaggerated  defence. 

She looked up, fear of possible consequences already prickling down her  spine but, as their eyes locked, she saw recognition bloom. He made a noise,  like a laugh through his nose, and nodded at her. Retreating along the corridor,  he didn’t break her gaze.  

The doctor with the brown eyes. She thought about him for the rest of the day,  as she scrubbed stained grouting, hooked soap-clotted hair from shower drains  and bleached toilet bowls. Over and over, the doctor with the brown eyes. He  could see her. When he looked her way, she existed and, afterwards, she  clutched that knowledge close as a reminder. She was a person, not merely an  object of utility. A slave.

Of course, he might not be a doctor. Hospitals needed other skills, she knew.  Accounts people and HR staff. Nurses and porters. He had the bearing of a  doctor though, the polish. She didn’t recall what he was wearing those first times,  but every time since, he’d been wearing a suit, shoes that had been shined. And  he did have brown eyes, round and fathomless.  

Whenever she came upon him, it gave her a jolt. There’d be a shift in the air  between them, a rebalancing. One time, when she was polishing a Perspex  window in the Haematology waiting area, he appeared on the other side, head  bent over a sheaf of papers. Her hand, still gripping the cloth, ceased motion and  she froze in place, one arm raised above her head. The doctor with the brown  eyes also stilled, with just his neck turning very slowly until his face was almost in  line with hers. He smiled without meeting her eye, then threw his shoulders back  and said something to the admin women at the desk that made them both laugh. 

Over the course of a few weeks, the doctor with the brown eyes became  monumental in Ana’s life. At night, when she finally crumpled onto her allocation  of floor and gloried in the blackness of closed eyelids, it was him she saw. At  least, in the few moments before her tired body surrendered to sleep. Over what  passed for breakfast, huddled in the back of the van, as they passed around the  thermos and the packet of biscuits, when one of the others asked her the English  word for something, she would take pride, imagining how surprised he’d be when  the time came for them to speak. She knew his language. 

She was twenty-six and her life was pain and struggle. No freedom, no  possessions. She slept pressed against other impotent bodies. It hadn’t always  been like that, back before the men from the agency who offered her work  abroad. A new life and enough money to pay for her mother’s medicine, her  younger sisters’ schooling. No, it hadn’t always been like that and now she could  believe that it might not be so forever.

* 

Let’s just camp, Marcus said, when they couldn’t get any kind of room. Not a  cheap B&B or fancy hotel. Nothing. Somehow, incredibly, Meg found herself  agreeing, despite the fact that she hadn’t camped since university and, even  then, only the once which she’d absolutely hated. What was wrong with her? It  wasn’t as if she particularly wanted to go on this weekend. A history festival! It  was Marcus’s thing, not hers, and yet here she was, labouring over a packing list  when she ought to be working. It really must be love. 

She wrote portable grill under sun cream, because if they had to camp, at  least they could have the pleasure of outdoor feasting – something more  appetising than wan hot dogs boiled over a gas ring. Seeing the words on paper  released a memory: a squat barbecue that her mum had given her back when  she and George were renovating their kitchen and were without the means to  cook. Not that they’d ever used it, preferring to order in or nip to the pub on the  corner for pie and chips. What had become of it? They wouldn’t have given it  away and she hadn’t taken it when she left, which meant it must still be in  George’s garage. Sitting at her desk, she squinted, trying to visualise the dusty  shelves full of unwanted crap that George refused to offload. Yes, she could see  it even now, sandwiched between an old drip coffee machine and a couple of  tennis rackets with broken strings. She hadn’t bothered checking the garage after 

the divorce. George was the hoarder, not her. Everything she wanted to take had  been within obvious reach. The barbecue wouldn’t have crossed her mind. Still, it was hers and it would save buying a new one. Next to portable grill she  wrote her ex-husband’s name and circled it. She’d call him later and ask when  was a good time to drop by. 

* 

It wasn’t until he cornered her one evening that she realised what a fool she’d  been. She was by the lifts, on her way down to meet the van, when she sensed  his presence beside her. Slouched against the wall, he waited until he had her  attention before grinning.  

‘I’ve been working up the courage to ask for your number,’ he said. It was immediate, terror descending over her like a cage. She couldn’t look  away, nor could she speak. His face was like a mirror and she saw that he read  her fright and understood at once the cause. ‘Oh,’ he blustered, looking about  them. ‘We can… I can…’ 

The lift arrived with a ping, he thrust out his arm but she flinched around him,  eyes on the floor. He didn’t try to detain her. 

All the way down in the lift, across the carpark, on the juddering drive back to  the cement box of a room, her heart thrashed in her throat. 

‘Anong problema, Ana?’ one of the women whispered to her as they shared a  cup of water at bedtime. “Anong nangyari?’ 

She shook her head; there were no words to explain. It wasn’t that she  thought anyone had seen them, just she knew too well what would happen if they  had. When he’d spoken to her so directly, acknowledging the silent thing that had  been building between them, she’d thought of her last glimpse of Gloria. Eyes  black, mouth bleeding, teeth missing. They’d never found out what Gloria had 

done, although Lani heard she’d been caught writing an SOS message on a flip  chart in one of the offices. Gloria had disappeared. It was possible she’d  managed to escape on a second try, but Ana couldn’t quite bring herself to  believe it. 

That night, in spite of bone-deep fatigue, her mind kept her from sleeping.  She’d been so stupid, and it wasn’t just what might happen to her. She pictured  her mother, bent over a wash tub on the floor, and her sisters in their worn and  patched school dresses, their stick legs and arms that would snap on impact.  Even that was naive. As if the agency men would hurt them; much more likely  they’d make use of them to work off Ana’s debt. A shudder gripped her body and  she set her teeth together hard.  

‘Anong problema?’ someone asked again. 

She must have slept because what felt like minutes later she was being  shaken awake by the one they called Payaso on account of his bushy orange  hair and backwards cap. The name was misleading though; there was nothing  

clownish about him. He wrenched Ana to her feet and she saw the last of the  others shuffling out. As she followed, he shoved her in the back and she  staggered to catch up. She didn’t want to do anything to single herself out. Not  now. Not when… It was too dangerous to even finish the thought. She knew by  now that there was no point hoping for a saviour. The doctor with the brown eyes 

was just another man and, whatever he thought he’d been doing with Ana, he’d  seen the truth in her face. 

She wasn’t taken to the hospital that day, instead her last stop was a home  full of old people, most of them sitting alone in their rooms, wearing night clothes,  not doing anything at all. The smell was bad: old food, stale carpets, bodies that  would never be properly clean again.  

One shrivelled woman – bone and veins in a pink nightdress – started  whispering urgently as Ana knocked and entered her room.  

SorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry over and over. Behind the plastic door to  the washroom, Ana saw the woman had missed the toilet and wet the floor. Ana  turned back, tried to show with her face that it was fine, that spilled urine was  nothing to her, but the woman wouldn’t stop, just chanted with greater speed and  ferocity. I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry. 

It was the only time Ana could remember feeling sorry for someone other than  herself and those in her situation. As she scrubbed at the grime in the rim of the  rubber moulded sink, she chose to feel the strength in her young muscles.  Hungry as she was, broken as she was, she was still alive. 

It had only been a coincidence about the hospital; no one suspected anything  and she was back there the next day, all her senses alert for the presence of the  doctor. Still, it was a surprise when he passed by her in the corridor, muttering  something she didn’t catch. She stood and watched him breeze on and around the corner, never slowing or looking her way. Only when she blinked herself back  to the moment and returned her attention to the mop did she see a folded piece  of blue paper by her foot. 

* 

Meg called him as she walked home from the tube but it rang for ages before  finally going to voicemail. She hung up, oddly reluctant to offer him a recording of  her voice. She was being ridiculous, but still, old habits and all that.  

She bought some milk in the garage Tesco on the corner before turning into  their street. She realised that she’d prefer to speak to him before she got home. It  wasn’t that Marcus would mind her talking to her ex; it was just… It was just  what? She thought about it, trying to pinpoint the discomfort. It was the edge she  knew she’d hear in George’s voice. He’d sense Marcus in the background and  get all brittle and terse. That was part of it anyway, but there was something else.  Perhaps it didn’t do to overthink it. 

She slowed her pace and pressed the green phone symbol again. This time it  took only three rings before the message kicked in. She’d texted him that  morning too. Perhaps he was screening. Some passive aggressive power play.  Could that be possible? Even now? It had been three years and she was getting  remarried, for god’s sake.  

According to Charlotte, she and Mikey had tried to set him up a couple of  times in the last few months, but each time he’d done something weird and  intense to put the girl off. Well, of course he had. Weird and intense was his  brand. One of the women was apparently a knockout; a trainer from Mikey’s gym. 

Meg had fogged out the details but she remembered something about an  excruciating double-date. 

Arriving at her own front door she found the barrel lock already open, meaning  Marcus was home ahead of her, and felt an unexpected wash of relief.

* 

Following the directions in the note, Ana found a store room tucked away on  the fifth floor. She pushed through the double doors, squinting in the gloom. At  first, she didn’t see the doctor with the brown eyes, but he was there, leaning  against a cupboard. He stayed where he was and raised both palms, a gesture of  reassurance. Now she was here, Ana didn’t know what to say. She checked in  with her heartbeat, her breathing; they were normal. No fear. She didn’t think this  man was a threat, but she also knew Payaso or one of the others could show up  at any point to check on them. She didn’t have time to just stand here in the dark.  Before she could do or say anything though, the man straightened and took two  slow steps towards her, hands still held visible. 

‘I’m going to help you,’ he said. ‘Can you trust me?’

* 

‘We don’t need it,’ Marcus said, tipping a colander of drained pasta back into  the saucepan and giving it a shake. ‘There are food places at the festival site or  we’ll find a pub. It’s just something else to lug with us.’ 

The idea was fixed though. Meg wanted the mini barbecue back and this was  as good a time as any to retrieve it.  

‘But that’s the only bit of camping I like,’ she said, standing behind Marcus,  snaking her arms around his waist as he tipped a jar of sun-dried tomatoes into  the pan. ‘The al fresco cooking.’ 

Marcus snorted. ‘Right. You’ll be the one doing the actual cooking then, will  you?’ He squeezed her arms against him with his elbows and wriggled out of her  embrace. ‘Can you pass me that cheese?’ 

‘I help,’ she said. ‘You always say I’m a good commi chef.’ 

He turned, tilted his head. ‘Seriously though, Meg, do you really want to see  him? After everything?’ 

After everything. She didn’t react. It was her fault really. She’d never gone into  detail about the end of the relationship and his imagination had filled in the  blanks, no doubt exaggerating how bad things had been. It was all such a long  time ago; she didn’t have the energy to try and explain now.

Besides, if she were being honest with herself, the need to have the barbecue  back had grown more urgent with the unanswered calls. She felt sure George  was avoiding her. Absurdly, she felt he must somehow know she what she  wanted and be trying to frustrate her efforts. Talk about paranoid, but that was  what thinking of George did to people. To her, at least.

* 

The man – his name was George – had it all worked out. He told her he  understood everything, that he’d read about crooked agencies and gangs who  trafficked people into this kind of life, or worse. He had a dress for her to put on,  a jacket and a baseball cap. He said he’d take her out of the hospital a back way,  right now, and she could come home with him and then they’d figure out the rest. ‘They have my passport. A contract.’ 

Even as she said it, she knew she would leave with him anyway. He was a  stranger and she had no reason to believe his intentions were good, except what  could be as bad as how she was already living? Except, he had those eyes. ‘Once you’re safe, we’ll call the police,’ he said.  

‘They know where my family live. I have sisters.’ 

She hadn’t seen her mother or the girls for years. They could be anywhere by  now. How did she know the gang hadn’t already reached them? Years before  even. Once she was on that first plane, they could have gone back for Marta.  These were not men of their word. As she had the thought, she realised it had  been lurking there all the time. 

George took two more steps toward her and the light bleeding from between  the doors cut a diagonal line across his face. She didn’t want him to come too  close; she knew she must smell bad, her own stench and that of the other unwashed. Her hair was dirty. One icy shower every week, a nub of soap to  share.  

Home. She felt the word he’d spoken sitting unsaid in her own mouth. Hot  water and clean towels. There were moments she would have committed great  crimes for the sake of a private bathroom and a pillow. 

‘Yes,’ she said and he smiled. It made him look like a boy.  

The room smelled of disinfectant and floors that had been washed with water  that wasn’t fresh. Ana felt again the rush of life in her young muscles that she’d  experienced cleaning the woman’s sink. She reached out to take the carrier bag  with the clothes for her disguise.

* 

It was some ungodly hour of the morning when Meg startled awake and  remembered she still had a key. Assuming George hadn’t changed the locks, she  could just let herself in. Yes, technically it was probably trespass, but it had been  her house. Once. And it was her property she was fetching.  

She wouldn’t tell Marcus; there was really no need. She’d go at lunchtime on  Friday. It was a work-from-home day anyway. George would likely be at the  hospital but she’d ring the doorbell first, just in case. She turned over in bed,  smiling to herself at the idea of getting in and out of the house on Aveline Avenue  without him ever realising. Would he notice the barbecue was missing? Probably  not, although it was delicious to imagine him standing in the garage staring at the  spot where it had formerly been and scratching his head. Perhaps she’d leave  something utterly random in its place to further confound him. A birdwatching  magazine or an empty can of deodorant. As she was falling back to sleep she  had the passing thought that he might be living with someone new, but she  dismissed it. No, no one would be that gullible. Not unless they were a child – which was pretty much what she’d been – or utterly desperate.

* 

Even before he started talking about papers and legalities, she knew. She  knew when she took from him the bag of clothes and changed while he stood  with his back turned and arms folded, just centimetres from her. Even though the  underwear he’d provided was plain, functional, the kind of bra you’d use for  exercise and soft pink bikini briefs with not a scrap of lace, no frills or bows. She  knew before his repeated assurances – he would look after her, she was safe  now, her torment was over.  

He held her arm as they navigated the ground floor of the hospital, her hair  hidden in a baseball cap, her eyes on the floor. Outside, there was a taxi,  prearranged. He bundled her into the back seat, buckled himself in beside her.  The mingled smells of sweat, body spray and artificial pine forced their way up  her nose and into her mouth. She pressed her face against the fabric of his  shirtsleeve to make it stop. 

She was exchanging one kind of bondage for another, she understood, but  this one would have clean sheets and pillows, soap and hot baths. She found  him attractive, there was that. It might not last, of course, but for now it would do.  She didn’t think he would be unkind, physically brutal. There had been a man – men – right at the start, at the agency. No, perhaps not then but a little after. In  Kuwait? It wasn’t clear in her memory. It felt years ago and she’d tried to forget.  And Karl – or was it Carlo? – at the house in London with his beer breath, his gut and the inflamed patches on his scalp. She mustn’t think about that. Moment by  moment, that was the key. 

Beside her, the doctor with the brown eyes, George, held himself straight and  stiff. It occurred to her that, just as she was doing with the smells in the car, he  might be trying not to breathe her in. It didn’t matter, soon she could wash. There  would be shampoo. She focussed on that, on the thought of cutting, perhaps  even filing her torn, jagged fingernails. There would be food. Bread with butter,  tea with sugar. Bananas and biscuits and cake. She would have to control  herself, take small bites, remembering her stomach had shrunk. Subtly, she  clenched her hand in her lap, looked at it. A lifetime ago someone had told her  that a person’s stomach is only the size of their fist. By now, hers wouldn’t even  be that big. She thought of Marta when last she’d seen her, aged what? Six or  seven. Dirty knees below the hem of Isa’s hand-me-down school uniform. One of  Marta’s balled-up baby hands, that was probably more like it. As if responding to  the notion of food, Ana’s stomach turned over inside her and she clenched in  case it made a noise. 

‘There’s road works this end,’ George said to the driver. ‘You’ll need to go  around the block.’ 

They were close now, then. Ana couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen  herself naked. She was never alone so she tried not to look down at her own body, changing or crushed with one or two others under the limp jet of the hose.  She didn’t think it mattered; it wasn’t her problem.  

‘Right here,’ he said, as he unclipped his seatbelt and sat forwards. ’This is  fine. What do I owe you?’ 

Ana let her head lift a little and saw a garden gate, a path, a red-painted door  with brass digits. The house number was number 24. That was her birthday.  June 24. A good omen then. She had made a choice; this would be better. Much  better. Besides, what could happen to her now that was worse? She almost  laughed out loud. 

* 

For reasons she didn’t interrogate, Meg parked in an adjacent street and  slunk her way to George’s house in a sort of zig-zag movement, crossing and  recrossing the road while looking out for anyone who might be loitering. There  was no one. At eleven in the morning on a weekday, Averline Avenue was  deserted. She told herself for the umpteenth time that she wasn’t doing anything  wrong, at least in the sense that she wasn’t going to cause damage or harm. She  had a key, which he’d never asked her to return, and was simply going to fetch  something. Something that belonged to her anyway.  

Approaching from the opposite pavement, she saw the door had been painted  chilli pepper red. When had that happened? She tried to imagine George  unscrewing the hinges, setting the door on a workbench in the garden, sanding  off the old peeling black gloss and failed. Who had done it then? Could he have  sold up and moved? Surely not; Charlotte would have told her. Best not to think  about it and just get on with the business in hand. 

Meg climbed the stone steps and, with an affected air of authority, leant her  palm against the bell for a good five seconds. Then she put her hands into the  pockets of her jeans and let out a breath, feeling herself conspicuous against the  livid front door. She was unaccountably thirsty, her throat dry. It was doubtless  nerves. After a minute or so, she pressed the bell again and heard the sound echo through the house. There was no other noise. On instinct, she stepped  back, down onto the pavement and into the street. As she looked up, squinting  into the bright morning, she saw a curtain swish closed in the master bedroom.  

That riled her. It was bad enough that he was screening calls, but if he was  also pretending not to be home in order to avoid her, he was even stranger and  more pathetic than she’d thought. Without further reflection she fished the key  from her pocket and bounded back up the steps. 

‘George,’ she called, as she let herself in, aiming for a commanding tone.  ‘George, it’s me, Meg.’ 

The hallway was dim, with the dining and sitting room doors both closed and  the only light coming from the kitchen at the back of the house. It was the same,  but also entirely alien. She looked about and jumped at a ghostly face, which  settled into her own reflection. Where there’d once been a console table and  shelf for the post, there was now a full-length mirror. 

‘Jesus,’ she said out loud, hand to her chest, and, under her breath, ‘What the  actual?’  

When her heartbeat settled, she stayed still, absorbing a sense of the place.  The air felt thin, the house unlived-in. No real smell, just the citrusy after-tang of  floor cleaner or washing-up liquid. Had it always been so sterile? It was probably  difficult to pinpoint the scent of your own home, like that of your own body, but she had a notion that the flat she shared with Marcus smelled of coffee. Of  cinnamon toast and Persil. Welcoming, wholesome. 

‘George?’ There was a tremble in her voice now. ‘George, come out please. I  know you’re here.’ 

It would be the work of three minutes to head for the kitchen, through the door  to the garage and, if George hadn’t had an uncharacteristic clear-out, locate the  barbecue. She could be in the car before he made up his mind to come down. 

But what if something had happened? Something bad. Doreen, his mum, was  more than a little eccentric, she now remembered. Periodically agoraphobic and  suspicious of the neighbours, occasionally taking to her bed, refusing to eat.  What if he’d had some kind of breakdown and was huddled up there in the  bedroom going slowly mad? It wasn’t that much of a stretch; George always had  a suggestion of paranoia about him, just around the edges. Perhaps she should  about turn and leave. They could do without the barbecue, or buy a cheap one  from Argos. This had all been a mistake.  

She heard a creaking overhead. A soft footfall and then another. ‘George? What the hell is going on?’  

She ought to leave. Immediately. Nothing about this felt good. Except she  couldn’t, not having come inside and felt the oddness of the place.  Not minding how much noise she made now, Meg ascended the stairs.  ‘George,’ she called. ‘George, I’m coming up.’

He’d better not be naked, she thought as she reached the master bedroom,  because full monty George was the last thing she needed.  

The familiar doorknob turned but the door itself didn’t budge. Meg tried again  and then raised her gaze. A little above head-height was a bolt. She looked down  and, sure enough, there was another at the bottom.  

She stepped back, her head ringing with thoughts she couldn’t keep hold of.  What the fuck?, was the only one that stuck. 

‘George?’ But, of course, it couldn’t be him in there. ‘Hello, can you her me?’ No sound came from behind the door, just a loaded silence in which Meg  heard the echo of a long ago conversation she’d thought buried. You can’t leave,  Megan. You mustn’t. You know, if I wanted to, I could stop you. There’s just the  two of us here… 

He hadn’t meant it, of course. He’d let her go, eventually. Still her heart  thundered at the memory. Him standing in the hall, arms stretched to block her  path. 

She could walk away now, not tell Marcus anything. Or she could leave and  call the police from the end of the road, hang around and wait for them to arrive.  Either one was perfectly reasonable but she did neither. The bolts slid open  easily. Meg didn’t go in, remained on the threshold, gripping the doorframe.  There was a woman sitting on the end of the bed. She was lost inside an oversized white bathrobe and could have been a child but for the lines round her  eyes and the entire lifetime written on her face. 

‘Hello,’ Meg said, because no other words came. 

The woman inclined her head as if in answer but made no move. Meg tried to  read her expression for fear or gratitude but saw only an absence of surprise.  Neither of them could look away.  

‘Well,’ Meg said, after a minute, perhaps longer. ‘What now?’ 

She waited for her thoughts to gather, as she knew they would, for a plan to  take shape, and felt a sense of relief. She didn’t need the barbecue after all.  They wouldn’t be going to the history festival, would they? They couldn’t. Not  now. 

By Louisa Scott

Editor's Pick online fiction short fiction