Chapter 2
Chapter Two
F iona
They’re at it again and won’t stop until they’ve taken everything from me. They’re destructive, self-serving, thinking only of their own needs, killing everything in their path. They take what they want and dinnae think of anyone but themselves.
Evil weevils.
I sweat and toil, the hot sun bringing smatterings of freckles to my cheeks, my fingers sore from work. Yet here the little buggers are, all over my broad beans, happily nibbling away, unaware of the sacrifices I’ve made to grow their snack. I hold the pod between my fingers, inspecting it one last time before tossing it into the soil of my raised bed.
Tomorrow, I’ll line the soil with unwrapped bars of soap to chase off those bugs.
I run my fingers over the broad, waxy leaf of a plump head of cabbage. I’m not fond of the smell, but I grew it for the professor. You can find him most days at our small, local university toiling over his one true love: the dwindling codfish population of our wee island.
Luckily, years ago, the Scottish Funding Council invested enough money to build a university on the island. Otherwise, I don’t know if I’d have been allowed to pursue further education.
With my conservative parents, the city was not an option for me.
The professor spends so much time alone researching that he’s taken me on to help him part-time, and in his solitude, my little heart just has to find ways to brighten his day.
Hence, the cabbage.
He makes a soup from it, swearing the nutrients in the overcooked, stinky broth keep his mind as sharp as a fisherman’s hook. Without me there to remind him to eat, he’d probably live off a diet of microwaved coffee and dusty air.
I should be shelving books for our professor today, with the scent of paper and leather to calm me as I work. Instead, I’ve taken the day off to care for Dad. Torn between caring for the two lonely men, I wonder if I should have gone to work late.
Dad woke looking peely-wally and said he wasn’t feeling well but then seemed agitated?—
The sound of the sliding glass door at the back of the house draws my attention. Was I so focused on gardening that I didn’t hear visitors pull up in front of the house ?
I know everyone on the island, and thanks to the Golden Girls—the church choir members who are over sixty—who fill me in at practice on Thursday nights, I know who’s expecting visitors.
Besides Marta, who mentioned to Greta that she had to hoover the entire house and make a batch of her famous scones to please her grandkids, no one else mentioned guests. And I certainly would have remembered if one of the island’s Golden Girls boasted about expecting their mafia to arrive by the ferry this week.
My heart hitches into my throat as dangerous-looking men, men I don’t recognize, file toward me, their large, muscular frames enveloped in an array of dark leather and denim. Tattoos, beards, and heavy boots round out their fashion-forward crime style.
Intimidating. Massive. Strangers.
They march straight toward me with a determined gait, their eyes locked like predators closing in on their prey. My fingernails dig into the cabbage leaf before I stand and back up, my heart pounding so loudly I can barely hear anything else. Each step I take sinks deeper, the soft earth beneath my feet feeling like quicksand pulling me down as I desperately try to escape their looming presence.
They’re coming closer.
What kind of trouble has my father gotten himself into now?
And what will it take to send them away?
There’s nothing of value for them here. Other than Mam’s pale blue mixing bowl, and that’s of value only to me for the cherished memories it holds .
My heart races as the intimidating men approach me, their determined stride telling me they aren't here for a friendly visit. My mind races with questions, trying to figure out what my father’s done this time.
I take another step back, the soft earth closing around my feet. I'm starting to panic now, fear clawing at my chest as I try to devise a plan to get away from these strangers.
The lead man stops in front of me. He’s the only one without facial hair, his shaved head as hairless as his wide chin. A half smile rises on the broad face.
Do I run? Heave a cabbage head at them, a cannonball of potassium and vitamin C? Or do I welcome them?
I find politeness runs through my body involuntarily. I can’t refuse. Mam instilled manners in all her children. Offering a cup of tea to visitors is no different than a reflex, a heartbeat, or a blink.
Still, I’d be better off holding a weapon. Wrapping my hands around the cool head of cabbage, I pluck it from the earth, cradling it over my belly. “Hello there. I don’t believe I’ve seen you men around before. What brings you out to our beautiful island?”
The depths of his voice weakens my knees. “We’ve got a matter of business to take care of.”
My heart races as I confront the intimidating wall of muscle blocking my path. My hands tremble as I force myself to walk past them toward the looming house ahead. "Let's go inside and discuss this matter with my father," I manage to mutter, trying to sound confident.
As I pass the first few men, I plaster on a smile. "Would you care for some tea? I just baked a batch of scones this morning. They may not be as good as Ms. Marta's famous recipe, but there's plenty to go around. Please, join me."
I can see a flicker of surprise in his eyes at my offer, but it quickly disappears behind a stern response. "We’re not here for tea."
Breathe, Fiona. Breathe. Looking back at the leader, I lift my hand, waggling my fingers for him to follow. “Right this way. I’ll happily make coffee if you’d rather!”
“Like I said, we’re here on business.” His words linger in the tense air like a looming threat. With lightning speed, he’s caught up to me and his enormous hand engulfs my upper arm, squeezing with a bone-crushing force as he emphasizes his point. I can feel my muscles strain against his grip as his dark eyes bore into mine with a ferocity that sends chills down my spine. "And you," he spits out, his voice dripping with malice and authority, "are the business matter we're here to take care of."
My heart stops in my chest. “Me?”
“Aye. You, lass.”
But I know I’ve done nothing wrong. Unless volunteering too many hours counts as a crime, it must be my father’s trouble that has me being marched up to my house by this bald stranger.
The man pushes me back, entering the sliding glass door first. I follow, my knees weak, throat tightening by the second. The moment my ballet flats hit the familiar linoleum I shakily go into detective mode. I glance through the kitchen to the living room at my dad’s worn leather armchair by the front window .
My dad is nowhere to be seen. Panic threatens to overtake me as I frantically search for any sign of him in our small but cozy home. My eyes dart around the room, taking in every detail and trying to piece together what could possibly be happening.
He’s not here.
Has he left me alone to clean up his mess? Or have they taken him somewhere?
“Where is he?” I finally manage to blurt out, my voice trembling with fear.
The man shrugs carelessly. “He’s no concern of yours, now.” His grip on my arm is still tight as he guides me away from the sliding door. “But he’s safe. Just out of the way for now.”
Lord let this man be telling the truth.
I stand there, a prisoner in my home, as the darkly dressed men move like ants over the property. I catch a glimpse out the front window at the men spreading out, and a few go over to a large black van I now see parked on our front lawn. They return with stacks of flat brown shipping boxes in their arms.
The large bald man doesn’t leave my side. Finally, he at last releases my arm. I shrug away the urge to rub my skin. He crosses his arms over his chest, watching me with hawk-like eyes as I move deeper into the kitchen, leaning on the counter's edge for support.
A small woman alone, five massive men in my house, my father nowhere to be seen. What else can I do other than make tea ?
“Right. Let’s put the kettle on. Shall we?” My hands waver as I reach for the tea kettle, dropping the lid onto the counter with a quiet clang when I remove it. I scoop it up, setting it beside me as I fill the kettle with water from the faucet.
I feel slightly more settled with the kettle warming on the gas stovetop, enough to ask, “So. What business do you have with me?”
The man with the grip says, “That’s for the boss to discuss with you. We’re just here to collect.”
“Who is your boss?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. His men now stand at the edge of the kitchen, their arms loaded with boxes, waiting for his command.
He gives them a nod. “Start in here. Pack whatever she wants.”
I’m surprised by respectful eyes turning toward me, waiting for instructions. “It would help if I knew where I was going,” I say.
“All you need to know,” he says, “is if it’s something you want to see again, it goes in a box.”
Politely, I offer tea and snacks to the men. They crowd around the small table, seeming to enjoy the treat. Afterward, I clean the dishes and wipe the table while instructing them what to pack.
Everything necessary to me in the kitchen, all items from my room, and anything that belonged to my mom.
The rest, I leave .
I watch the men as they pack up my belongings; my father is still missing.
The lead man looks up at the top of the fridge at the one item I’ve not had them pack. I wouldn’t trust anyone with my most prized possession. Mam’s big bowl. “What about that?”
“I’ll carry that myself, please.”
With care, he reaches up, retrieves it, and respectfully hands it to me. “Me mum’s got her favorite big bowl as well. Fed the lot of us out of it just about every night.”
“My mother taught me to bake with this bowl,” I offer.
He takes my arm, more gently now, and guides me to the front door. I take my messenger-style patchwork quilted bag, which I sewed myself, hoisting the strap over my shoulder as we go.
As I climb into the black van, I take a moment to stare at the brick-style ranch that has always been my home.
Will I ever be back here again?
Having no idea where I’m going or who I’m to meet, I try to be brave as I settle back in my seat. The bald man who has made himself my bodyguard sits beside me. We hit a bump, and I tighten my hold around Mam’s big blue bowl on my lap.
I fondly remember baking beside my mother, using her wooden spoon, and stirring up sticky dough for dumplings and buttery cookies. Just looking at the bowl where it sat on top of the fridge made me feel close to her. Now, with the weight of its thick glass resting against me, I dig down, gathering her strength .
A deep ache tears at my belly. I quickly swipe away the incoming tear. She would never have let this happen.
“May I ask,” I say casually, forcing myself to eye each man surrounding me in the cargo van, “where we are going?”
As I expect, no one answers me. I pinch my quilted purse tighter against my body with my elbow, hold my bowl in my hands, and wait.
The most pressing question of all—why am I involved? What do I have to do with my father’s business payments?
What value am I to anyone?
A shy bookworm whose friends have all moved on to city life after school. I only have two friends left that stayed behind on our island: my best friend from primary school, Carol Ann, and newlywed Kitt, who is currently on an extended honeymoon, traveling the world with the love of her life.
Here I am, a hopeless virgin. No boyfriend. With a degree in ecology. A part-time job researching fish. And I care for my father.
My skills are in homemaking. And saving the island’s dwindling codfish population. I have nothing to offer someone in payment. I’m sure it’s Dad’s gambling debts again. He promised me he’d stopped, but I can’t watch him every moment. I have to work, and I have to sleep. I think of the worst, and my stomach turns.
Who is the boss?
Have I been sold to a people-trafficking ring? Last year, there was talk of such things, about men who call themselves the Hoax, who would kidnap young women, take them to the city of Glasgow, then sell them into slavery. Using them for… I can’t even think about it. I had no idea such things existed in this world. Heat rushes from my belly to my cheeks, causing a blush I know the men can see spreading across my face. It’s unthinkable. I’ll break, falling into heavy sobs if I think like this.
Everyone on the island knows my strengths. A maid. That’s it. I’m being taken somewhere to cook, clean, and work off my father’s debts—a modern-day indentured servant.
I settle back in my seat, my nerves calming as I dive deeper into the idea. Yes. That makes sense. Hopefully, I’m going to a family. A lovely family, maybe even with a few sweet children I can tend to. Maybe the Stewart family. The one that recently moved into the greenhouse by the cliffs. The one with the twins.
I’ll care for the home, mind the children, and be home in a jiff. My abduction will finally teach my father the lesson he needs. And all will be well…
“We’re here.”
So entrenched in my thoughts, I’ve not been watching out the window. Glancing up, my breath catches in my throat. “No,” I gasp. “It can’t be.”
The ferry boat sits at the dock.
My heart lurches in my chest. I clutch Mam’s blue bowl tighter in my lap. I am twenty-three years old, and I don’t travel much other than going to the nearest town to go clothes shopping, or to visit the movie theater, or my favorite memory of when Carol Ann and I went to the airport last summer to pick up Kitt, a fellow intern from America. We were shocked by her normal appearance, expecting her to look like the LA Real Housewives from our late-night reality television binges.
I know we’ll be going to none of those places today.
Dread hangs heavy in my stomach. I stare out the window, the grassy green hills rolling into the vastness of the sea. “We’re leaving the island.”
I think of the Hoax, the people-trafficking ring based out of the city.
“We’re going to Glasgow. Aren’t we?”
The large bald man who hasn’t yet found it necessary to tell me his name but who is slowly becoming a fixture at my side grunts, confirming that our destination is, in fact, Glasgow.
Who will be waiting for me on the shores?
And… what will these evil men do to me?