One of Us by Iain Rowan Page B

money I can, and I send back what I can to my sister, and I hope that some day he grows tired of me or the men do not want me any more, some new girl is on the scene, or I find a way to make enough money so I can get my boy and go where Corgan and his men cannot reach us. I have cousins in Canada, in Vancouver, he would not find me there. I can live with my son and we can begin our lives all over again.”
    If he grows tired of you, I thought, he will give you to the men who do this to you now, and tell them they can do what they like. I wanted to be sick. I can not work for this man, I thought. I can not work for a man who does this. I knew Corgan was a criminal, but I thought it was drugs, robberies, running girls who would be walking the streets anyway. I did not know that he was a seller of people. I have known such men. I could not work for him. Would not.
    “There must be a way,” I said. “There must.”
    “I know,” she said. “I say that every night.”
    I could not do this. Would not do this. I felt a rage well up inside me like I was going to vomit, a rage like I had not felt since I had fled my home. I had been scared, I had been frightened, I had been sad, I had been numb. But now, I was angry. I had known such men.
    ~
    I threw open the front door so hard that it bounced back from the wall and would have hit me if I had not been out of it so fast, and already storming down the path.
    Paul was leaning back in his seat in the car, engrossed in some magazine about computers. I slammed the flat of my hand down, hard, on the roof of the car, and he jumped, paper flying around him like he had just been hit by a tornado.
    He fought his way through it, and wound down his window.
    “Jesus. You trying to give me a heart attack, girl? Christ. Just tap on the fucking window next time. You done?”
    “Go get Corgan.”
    “What? Calm down.”
    “I will not. Go get Corgan. Get him, now. Tell him I want to talk to him.”
    A slow grin spread over his face. “Just like that, eh?”
    “Yes, like that,” I said, “Like this, like however, I do not care, just go and fucking get him.”
    The grin vanished. “Is she—is there something wrong with the girl?”
    I held his gaze for a long time before I answered. “Not more than there was when she came in,” I said, and he looked away.
    “So what is the problem here then?” he asked. “I’m not going to call Corgan just because—”
    I slapped my hand on the roof again. “You tell Corgan that I am not going to do what he asks, you tell him that.” Slap. “Phone him and tell him that now. Tell him Anna says he can take my papers back and fuck off. Tell him to come here, and I will tell him why to his face.” Slap.
    “You don’t want me to tell him that,” Paul said slowly. “And leave my fucking car alone.”
    “Yes, I do want you to tell him that. Tell him just that.”
    “No, love, you don’t understand. You want to think about that, and think about who he is, before you go mental shooting your mouth off about I must this, and you will that. Or you’ll end up like her. Be sensible, girl.”
    I crouched down so that I was looking right into the window. He moved back in his seat a little, then realised that he had done so, and moved forward again, closer to me, look at me, I’m not afraid. I could see why Corgan had Paul driving cars around and waiting for me. I do not think he was cut out for much more.
    “My risk,” I said. “Not yours. Tell him. Tell him I am here, waiting to talk to him.”
    “He won’t come,” Paul said. “And you don’t want him to, because you’ll regret it if he does.”
    “Tell him,” I said. “Tell him I do not work for men like him. He can stick his papers in his fucking arse.”
    He shrugged and started the car. “Well don’t say I didn’t warn you. No offence. But you’re fucking mental.” Then he wound up the window and pulled away with a screech, leaving me standing by the side of the road, breathing hard,