THE TRADE - Chapter 4

The fourth chapter of my unpublished international thriller, set in Bolivia.

Chapter 04

‘Hello?’

She turned the water off, the rusty tap creaking.

‘Is someone there?’ she called out again, folding her arms across her chest. Ears pricking, she swallowed.

She heard something in her room. Didn’t she? The walls were paper thin — it could have been next door. She shrugged it off, taking a few steamy breaths.

She cursed, nearly slipping on the slick tiles next to the tub. She swore again, steadying herself and reaching for a towel. She held it against her body, shuffling to the door on the ice rink floor. She cracked it and peaked out. Nothing moved. The wardrobe was stacked up with shelves, and there were blinds, not curtains, on the window - nowhere to hide. The door was closed too. She approached slowly and paused, looking at the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the handle. Swaying. Barely. But swaying. Her jaw locked and twitched. She shivered.

Her bags. Laptop, purse, phone, passport - it was all still there. She hadn’t been robbed, which was something. Maybe a maid had let themselves in thinking she was out, and then realised and left. She’d check with reception. The door was definitely locked, wasn’t it? She shook her head and sighed. She couldn’t remember. She’d been obsessing over the conversation with Marisabel and everything else was fog.

She towelled off and dressed. When she left, she doubled checked the door was locked. Nothing was missing, true. But the sense of invasion was unshakeable. Someone’d run their fingers over everything. She could feel it. But without proof, it was basically just paranoia. She remembered something she’d read once in a crime novel and arranged some of her things in a specific way. She took a photo of it for comparison. Maybe she’d spooked whoever had been in there and they’d slipped out before she caught them. Maybe they were watching her leave right now. With her phone, wallet, and passport in her jeans pocket, the best they’d get their hands on was a four year old Toshiba laptop and a camera that needed replacing anyway. And if they weren’t there to steal, then the photo would serve to tell her what they touched. If it was cash they were looking for, they’d be shit out of luck. If they wanted the laptop, they’d find nothing on it of any worth, and as for the camera; good riddance. Then again, if they were just after her delicates… She smirked as she entered the lift. It was forty degrees the entire time she was at the plantation and she’d spent the day bouncing round on the leather passenger seat of a Toyota. So if they were - good riddance to them too.

Her smile faded as the reality set in. The lift grounded and she stepped out, brow furrowed.

The reception desk was empty. She dang the bell and an older man appeared. No sign of the pothead.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Hi, was-’

‘Hello,’ he interrupted.

‘Yes, hi. Was s-’

‘What can I do for you?’ he cut in again, not rudely, but as though there was some strange relay delay, like a journalist in a different country crossing lines with the studio host.

‘Was there someone in my room?’ Andrea blurted out before he could clip her.

He grinned blankly. ‘Before you arrived, you mean? We have many guests staying here all year round…’

She cocked an eyebrow. ‘No, not before I got here. Before I got here, to this desk. Just now.’

‘You were in your room, yes?’ He wasn’t getting it.

‘Yes, I was in my own room. Was there someone else there?’

‘We don’t prohibit that sort of thing, and if you’d like, I could try to arrange…’ He began to move his hands in a strange circular motion.

Andrea closed her eyes, hoping he’d stop trying to offer her a prostitute. This was obviously a lost cause. ‘You know what, nevermind.’

He shrugged.

She sighed and looked around. ‘What time do the maids service the rooms?’

‘Between ten and two in the afternoon,’ he answered, pleased with himself for understanding this time.

‘And never otherwise?’

‘No.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Why?’

She clenched her jaw again and looked down. She’d not get anything useful out of him. ‘Never mind.’

‘Is there anything else I can do for you? Dinner perhaps? Our restaurant has just opened. We have fresh fish today.’ He beamed, the long grey hairs hanging out of his nose looking like spider legs.

They were four hours from the Pacific. Andrea wondered what they regarded as ‘fresh’. She’d not eaten since midday, when she’d wolfed down a half a cheese sandwich Yuri had dredged out of a cooler behind his seat. By the time she’d gotten to the second half, Yuri stomped on the brake and turned off the access road, flinging it from her hands. She watched in the wing mirror as birds circled and finished her meal amongst the shrubs.

‘Sure. Dinner sounds good.’

‘Right this way.’ The clerk proffered her a set of double doors and followed her in.

The restaurant was an empty canteen. No one else was there, and most of the tables were stacked up against the back wall. A fan spun lazily overhead and a fly buzzed around the zapper behind the sad looking bar. Coarse spanish spilt out of the open kitchen, along with the smell of cooking meat.

‘Are you sure you can fit me in?’ She turned to the receptionist. The joke was lost.

The man lowered his bushy eyebrows until they covered his eyes. ‘Yes. We have many available seats. Here?’ He pointed at a table.

‘Looks perfect.’

The receptionist pulled the chair out, and then mumbled off towards the kitchen. The Spanish stopped and a guy came out, shirt untucked, waistcoat unbuttoned. He approached sullenly, stinking of tobacco and sweat. He moved behind the bar and stood there expressionless. ‘Service at bar,’ he called brokenly through yellow teeth.

She turned to face him, twisting over the back of the chair. ‘I don’t even have a menu yet.’

‘Menu at the bar.’

Andrea looked down at the dirty table and sighed. ‘Of course it is.’

She peeled one off the bar, glanced at it once, and decided she’d do what she always did when she was eating in places that didn’t concern themselves with hygiene. She ordered the thing that was least likely to make her sick, which meant no white meat, fish, and under no circumstances would she ever order shellfish. She’d learnt that lesson already, and once was enough.

‘Uh… La carne de vaca?’

He rolled his eyes at her and made a drinking motion with his open hand.

She nodded. ‘Water? Agua? Embotellado, por favor.’

He rolled his eyes again. She wasn’t sure how much English he spoke, but rudeness translated perfectly. He slapped a warm bottle on the top and she took it, electing to leave the dusty glass where it was.

She went back to her table, but even with her back turned, she could feel his eyes.

The food came slowly. Burnt sliced beef and frozen-in-the-middle veg. She pushed it away after a few mouthfuls and reserved herself to raiding the mini-bar in her room later, if there was one.

The older man with the bushy eyebrows appeared and picked up her plate. ‘Good?’ he grinned, not looking at the plateful of inedible tidbits.

‘No,’ she smiled back. ‘Not really.’

He nodded to her, and then left. She sighed and threw down her napkin, rubbing her eyes. With any luck, she’d be at the plantation just another few days. She already had enough to close the lid on Vasquez’s hopes of approval, but there were boxes to check and due diligence to be done. Shit-canning his hopes of international trade was one thing - gathering evidence of the mistreatment of his workers was another. She just had to be smart about it.

A glass hit the table. Dark liquid swirled in it. Dark fingers, tobacco stained and grubby, gripped it. She looked up into the sunkern eyes of the bartender.

‘What’s this?’

‘Singani.’

‘Singani?’

‘Bolivian Brandy,’ he said dully.

A forced smile flickered on her lips. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

He hung his head back and sighed. ‘El gerente say give drink English woman. Food bad. I give drink. You don’t want drink. El gerente not happy with me.’

The food was god awful, it was true. She watched as the liquid settled, legs thick on the dirty glass. She took a deep breath. She’d be stuck here with these people, in this place, for a while longer. Eating the slop. Sleeping in the bed. There was food to be handled, sheets to be changed. If the meal was them trying, she’d hate to see what they’d do if she made enemies of them. The sooner she drank it, the sooner she could get up.

‘No sip.’ He made a tipping motion with his hand. ‘Burn. Better, just-’ he made the motion again and she stifled a grimace.

She lifted it, ignoring the burn in her nose, and tossed it back. It stung, sliding down her throat like tar. She coughed into her hand, the stench lingering on her tongue,

The bartender snatched the glass from her and turned away.

‘So the meal goes on my room, or?’ she wheezed after him, throat tight.

He ignored her and disappeared into the kitchen.

You can forget the tip.

She got up and headed back towards the lobby. The hotel was deserted, the front desk unmanned. There was no sign of any other employees, or guests. She stopped at reception with a question, but the receptionist, who she guessed was also el gerenete, was still in the kitchen. She paused for a moment, but then the question was gone. Her mind stuttered and lurched, and suddenly, she was moving again. She shrugged. It could wait until morning. She jabbed the elevator button. It took two attempts to hit it.

Her fingers flexed numbly and her eyes moved in and out of focus. Christ, you could run a car on that brandy. Her stomach was practically empty. That’s all it was. Bed. A lie down.

The doors opened and she sailed in, planting her hands on the mirror across the back to save her face. It swam in the glass. She swung in circles like an ear of corn. The doors opened and the corridor blinked by in a strobe. She jammed the key against the lock and scraped it around until it slid in. She was breathing hard.

She hit the bed face down and bounced. A corkscrew of nausea twisted in her stomach and something her dad had told her the day he dropped her off at university rang in her head.

If you think you’re going to be sick in your sleep, lie on your side. That way you won’t choke to death on it. The Griersons are famously bad drinkers, trust me.

She did then. And she still did now. But this wasn’t like those times. This was something else.

She forced herself onto her side, and after that, it was darkness.

It was night when she stirred. Her eyes flickered open and her heart hammered against her chest. She could feel all her muscles twitching. Adrenaline pumped in her chest, but she couldn’t move. Something had jolted her. She could taste fear in her throat. She looked around, face pinned to the bed, half pressed in a puddle of drool. She was powerless. She couldn’t move. She wanted to. Needed to. But she couldn’t. She was stuck. Paralysed. She tried to speak, to make noise, but all that came out was a guttural moan. She bleated and something moved in the darkness.

A figure loomed, cut out against the faded wallpaper. It turned and the unbuttoned waistcoat swung in the gloom. She tried to swallow and almost choked on the dryness of her own tongue.

The stink of Singani assaulted her and she wretched.

The bartender stood at the foot of her bed, rifling through her rucksack. He looked up at her for a second, but didn’t stop.

She tried to scream but only managed a strange mix of growled vowels.

He tossed what he wanted onto the bed. Her emergency travel wallet with a couple hundred Bolivano in it, a satellite phone she always carried, an electronic translator, the laptop, her camera.

He screwed his face up, beard bristling. She watched as he circled the bed. He’d not found what he wanted. He pushed her roughly onto her back, her arms flopping like sleeves. He ran his fingers over her thighs, searching for her pockets. He jammed his hands in without saying a word and stripped them out. Her wallet. Her phone. Her passport.

His eyes lingered at her belt, at her stomach showing under her ridden up shirt. He bit his lip. She could hear his breath.

He pushed the belongings into his pocket and let his eyes slither up her body. Her frantically bellowing chest. Her exposed throat. Her quivering lips. The tears running over her cheeks.

If she had the strength she would have vomited. She would have done more. But not even that luxury was within her grasp. She was a doll.

He must have been the one in her room before. He mustn’t have known she was back. He’d come in, heard her in the shower, and gotten spooked. He needed time. The Singani. Just a bullshit story about the free drink. He needed her out of action. Her mind sputtered like a seized engine. The cogs would not turn. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t.

A sickening wave of heat exploded on her skin as his eyes gave him away. Her muscles shivered and twitched, but wouldn’t move. She flopped as best she could, willing life into her body. But all she managed was to take two handfuls of bedclothes, but nothing more.

The bartender smirked. She stared at him through tears.

She watched his fat fingers walk over his belly, feeling unhurriedly for his buckle. It clinked open, and he began to unbutton his shirt. A triangle of stained underwear shone through the his open trousers.

Andrea watched, unable to shut her eyes. Unable to look away. Her heart throbbed in her throat. She could feel the moisture of the sheet against her cheek. She could feel the tears on her skin. She could feel the bedclothes in her fingers, the cotton pulling back against her nails. She could feel the label on her shirt, scratching against her ribs. She could feel her jeans pulled high against her hips. She couldn’t move. But she could feel everything. She would feel everything.

She whimpered.

He took a step forward.

The door opened.

He froze and span, his hands leaping to his crotch. His voice echoed in her head like she was underwater. She couldn’t make out his words over the rush of blood and she couldn’t see anything around his sweat stained back. He stepped towards the door. Stopped, and lifted his hands. She heard voices. Two. More? Less? They echoed and the nausea came back. She wretched again but nothing came up. Her eyes blurred, her heart thrummed.

Something boomed. The bartender staggered, his arms flailing, and then he fell. He dropped like a curtain and dark shapes swam in the ether behind him like ghosts painted black on the light from the corridor. She dragged in ragged lungfuls of air, the darkness pulsing against her eyes. They hurt. They wanted to close.

She caught a snatch of conversation in the air. Two voiced. Different. Distinct. Spanish. And something else. Russian.

Yuri’s legs swam into view and his veined forearms reached out.

She grunted in protest, but he didn’t stop. He hauled her off the bed and took her in his arms, carrying her over the body of the bartender. His cheek was split and his eye already swollen. Yuri had not needed a club, or bludgeon. His bony fist had done just fine. Andrea’s head lolled over the crook of his arm and she stared at the body, not sure whether he was out cold or dead. And then, it was gone. Another body moved past her and she caught the smell of cologne. A flurry of black clothing ruffled by and she watched one of Vasquez’s minders approach the bartender.

She watched him limply, unaware of the third presence.

Vasquez tutted, his brow broken, mouth concerned. He floated around Yuri and tilted his head to catch her eye. She felt his soft touch on her cheek as he brushed a tear away with his thumb. She felt the warmth of his fingers circling her nape of her neck and supporting her head. He lifted it, massaging the soft patch of flesh behind her ear with his thumb.

‘Miss Grierson,’ he mumbled slowly, shaking his head. ‘Thank goodness you’re alright. It’s ok,’ he smiled. ‘You’re safe now. I shudder to think what would have happened if we’d not arrived when we did.’

He hung his head and closed his eyes, drawing a long breath. ‘I told the manager he was to keep an eye on you. He telephoned me and said that he’d seen you stumble to the elevator, but that he’d not seen you drink at dinner.’ He weighed his hand in the air. ‘I had to make a call. And good thing I did. I told you what this place was like. I pleaded with you to not stay here, and now look what happened.’ He let her head drop back and it dangled on her neck as he gestured around the room. He took it again, holding his other hand to his mouth, clasped in a loose fist. ‘But, the important thing is that you’re safe, and that we’ll keep you that way. We’ll speak more tomorrow, but for now…’ he smiled again and looked at Yuri.

Andrea bleated as her head fell from his grasp once more. Yuri moved unhindered through the doorway and took off down the corridor. Andrea peered around his elbow at the doorway to the Presidential Suite. Vasquez hung half out of it, watching her. He lifted his hand in salutation and Andrea mewled incomprehensibly.

Vasquez’s hand closed and he smiled broadly. Yuri pushed the button for the elevator and she felt herself swing around. She stared up at him, but he didn’t look down. His face was carved in stone. She didn’t know what was happening. The darkness continued to pulse. This wasn’t right either, but the bartender was worse. The door closed and the box rode down.

Safe. She was safe, at least. Vasquez needed her. She was safe. She closed her eyes and drowned in that thought. It gave her comfort. So much so that when she tried to open them again, they refused.

She heard the elevator ding. She heard the roar of the cicadas. She felt the cool wash of air conditioning and heard the door thud shut.

She heard smooth jazz, and quiet humming.

And then, there was nothing.