Fearless

Eighteen

"Hello?"

The muted background noise of the crowded basement facility continued unabated. Mica realised a little more volume may be required.

"Hello, anybody?" Still nothing. She gave the wall of her cubicle a tentative knock. "Is there anybody there?"

The response, when it came, was so soft she wondered whether she might have imagined it.

"Yes."

She directed her voice at the open roof of her cell. "Hello there. My name is Mica. What's yours?"

"I...I'm Eva."

The uncertainty—the fear—in the voice was clear, despite its lack of volume. "What a lovely name. Nice to meet you, Eva." Mica considered what to say next, sensing the slightest misstep could spook her new acquaintance. "Where are you from?"

"Me? I'm from Caracas."

Venezuela? Mica at once realised how foolish it was to have assumed her fellow inmates would be Filipino, as she was. If anyone knew just how large a shadow the Syndicate cast, it was her. Doubtless there were many nations represented among the lost souls gathered in this place. A half-stifled sob came from next-door before the voice went on.

"But I left there many weeks ago."

Mica waited, however Eva seemed disinclined to continue. "Yes?" she encouraged. "How was it you came to leave your home?"

"There was a man." Her unseen neighbour paused to sniff. "He spoke of work. Of a good job, in hospitality, with training and travel and good money—enough that I could send some back to my family. I...I wanted to believe him. I know it was foolish, but there was nothing for me there. So I went with him. There were other girls, so at first I thought he must be telling the truth, but...but he wasn't. Other men came. They...they took us...and..." The soft words faded away.

"Oh, Eva." It will be alright, Mica longed to say. You will be alright. Soon you will be free of this place, of these people, free to return home to your life and to your family. The world is not all lies and deception, not all darkness and pain. There are good people out there—people you can trust, people who can help you. There is hope.

But she couldn't. She couldn't say that, at least not without adding to the lies already inflicted upon this poor girl. Not so long ago, she would have counted herself among those who could help, and yet here she was—just one more victim, one more name to add to the numberless list of the lost, grist to the ever-hungry mill of the human-traffickers. Her only solace lay in the belief that for her at least, it would soon be over.

For her, but not for Eva. Who knew what horrors lay in wait for the young Venezuelan, to add to those she had already endured? And there was not a single thing Mica could do to help her. Not her, nor any of the hundreds of others incarcerated in this concrete netherworld. For a time, she had clung to the hope that Nick may have escaped, that help could be on its way—and yet, here she was. Another hope dashed.

All of her determination, her good intentions, all her years of education were now as nothing, all rendered valueless by the four grey walls that surrounded her, and the thugs with guns who patrolled above.

No longer a saviour, no longer a crusader for the rights of the exploited, no longer anybody other than just another female, weak and defenceless, waiting for the next indignity to be inflicted upon her, the next cruelty, waiting—hoping—for the end.

Nameless, faceless, just one more nobody among a multitude.

No. She rose from the low, bare bunk that was the only furniture her cell contained. No. She was not nobody. She moved to the centre of the small area. She looked up.