Chapter 58

Khadija felt terrified in Paris. She had made an excuse to separate from her group, not daring to reveal she was meeting a friend—least of all a lesbian friend. She could barely say the word to herself.

She found it hard to hear Miriam on the phone and instead relied on texts, directing her to a late-night ice cream parlour. Sitting alone, the concerned owners approached her.

“You don’t look like the kind of girl who should be alone this late at night,” the owner gently asked.

“No, my cousin is coming, honestly,” Khadija smiled nervously. When would Miriam arrive? Her nerves at being alone in this dangerous-seeming city was compounded by her nerves about meeting Miriam. What if they both wanted to leave after two minutes? Well, she could just go back to her friends or the hotel; it wasn’t far.

Outside the parlour, there was a prominent sign for a bowling alley up the road. She had noticed it as she walked in and now stared at it again; it dominated the view.

It was getting late, and she was worried she was being stood up. Was Miriam a fantasy? A joke? Or a girl like her who had just got cold feet, thinking she couldn’t go on a date with a girl? Khadija felt dirty for daring to think this could happen with another girl like her, religious. Of course, it wouldn’t—this was against her religion. It would humiliate her family to know. She began crying to herself and was about to get up and go when she got a call. It was Miriam.

“Hi Khadija, sorry I’m late!”

“Miriam, hi!” Khadija was excited and heard the sound of bowling balls in the background. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the bowling alley up the street. I thought we could meet here instead. It’s quieter and less crowded.”

A thousand miles away, Konrad Fischer was running the soundtrack of a bowling alley in the background as he desperately typed in voice commands to match the voice of Miriam Ben-Ali. The autistic pervert was not the best mind to seduce young lesbian girls but he was doing his best. He also had to keep up with the text messages from Pembroke constantly updating him as to his progress and location and Khadija’s location.

On the floor next to him, the real Miriam sat in tears, listening to Khadija’s voice—the hope, the life in it. She cursed herself for not having the courage to shout a warning, if it could be heard, or anything, to prevent Khadija from soon entering the same miserable slave existence as she.

“Hi Khadija, I think I see you. Do you see the sign? If you just walk across the car park, it’s fairly safe even if it’s dark. Trust me, I can see across it from where I am. Just come over and into the red door, and I’m there!” Khadija’s heart was racing as she looked across the dark car park. Miriam had already seen her! She tried to fix her clothes and walk tall and statuesque. She noticed a group of young men approaching and held back, waiting for them to pass. Once the coast was clear, she strode across the car park, trying to appear calm and casual, rehearsing her first lines and imagining how she would greet Miriam—a kiss on the cheek, a quick salam...

“Khadija?” a male voice called from her left side.

“What ... who...” Khadija began, turning towards the voice. Before she could react, a black figure emerged from the shadows, and an arm stretched out. She felt a rod prod against her side, and suddenly, it felt like her insides were shaking with electricity. Her body convulsed, her eyesight blurred, and everything went dark and silent.

Pembroke tensed as he tried to drive the old Fiat Panda he had rented at late notice that evening. The car rattled with every bump, and the brakes squeaked ominously. The deposit of 500 euros was more than the car was worth, but it was better than supplying ID, and he did not have any intention of returning it anyway.

He drove back near his hotel, parking the old Fiat Panda inconspicuously. Awkwardly, he changed from his black parka, trousers, boots, and woolly hat into a more casual evening suit and shoes. Locking the car, he nervously glanced at the trunk, thinking of the tightly bound female captive within, gagged and blindfolded, immobilized inside a sack. It would be a bad time to have his car stolen with such precious cargo inside, he thought ruefully as he made his way back to the hotel.

Inside, he enjoyed a drink at the hotel bar to calm his nerves and provide an alibi. Sipping his martini and admiring the beautiful young piano player, he felt a pang of pity for Khadija—a good girl undone by her trusting nature. He made a silent toast to Konrad, who at that moment was mauling and brutally raping Miriam in triumph. He had earned it; dozens of hours had finally yielded a result.

Pembroke returned to his hotel room, quickly packed, and checked his messages and the whereabouts of Clare Carnot. But primarily, he noted that Dmitri and Nadim had landed in Paris. He prepared himself, gathered his things, and left the hotel. He felt much safer driving Khadija around Paris than leaving her parked on a side road.

Clare felt cleansed after writing her suicide note. She had poured out all her frustrations, anger, and childhood memories, even cutting her arm to let the blood stain the paper. But afterward, it was as if a spell had been lifted. She felt free.

She waited until her grandfather was asleep and the bleeding on her arm had stopped. Then she showered and changed into a bright red thong, slipping on a tiny black dress over it. She giggled at how the red of her thong peeked through if she bent to one side. She wore no bra—her perky breasts didn’t need one, and if her nipples showed through her black dress, so what? With high heels and a black leather jacket, she looked like a single girl ready to cause trouble. She let her red hair tumble down and painted her lips a vivid red, fingering her necklace and feeling a sense of renewal.

She left her phone at home and took only a small amount of cash. Boys would pay for her drinks. She crept out of her window, met the taxi she had ordered, and looked forward to a night of fun and dancing to see where it would take her.

Pembroke drove Nadim and Dmitri through the brightly lit streets of Paris, past clubs and bars still open well after midnight, witnessing fights, arguments, and police patrols. Pembroke couldn’t help but note the difference in kidnapping a conservative girl at an ice cream parlour at 10:30 PM and then having to wait for a party girl to leave a nightclub at 3 AM.

At the club, Clare danced with abandon, feeling the music pulse through her. She let the rhythm carry her away, her earlier darkness forgotten in the throbbing lights and pounding bass. Boys eagerly paid for her drinks, and she basked in the attention, reveling in the freedom she felt.

As the night wore on, Clare found herself in a daze, a mix of alcohol and euphoria blurring her senses. She stumbled slightly, catching herself on the bar, and laughed it off. A young man introduced himself, “Hi, I’m Rabah.” He was tall and cute, Clare thought, muscular and somewhat lizard-like, with an air of danger about him.

Rabah had his eyes on Clare all night and had waited until she seemed sufficiently drunk to make his move. Now, he approached the red-haired girl, who danced freely, her red panties showing under her black dress, her sweating thighs driving him mad with desire, her nipples pressing against the fabric of her dress. He wanted her.

“You’re cute,” slurred Clare, her eyes half-lidded with intoxication.

“Why don’t we go somewhere else, quieter?” Rabah suggested, leaning in close.

“Sure,” Clare stumbled, her vision blurring slightly as she tried to focus on him.

Rabah took her arm gently, guiding her through the throng of partygoers and outside.

Rabah was thrilled when Clare made no effort to fend off his hand as he ran it over her back and down to cup her buttocks as they walked down the road. He spotted an alleyway and a small park, guiding Clare in with him. She was so drunk he had to hold her up.

He took her behind some bushes and ran his hands up her skirt to her waist, digging his fingers into her panties while forcing his tongue into her mouth. Clare was too intoxicated to resist, her mind clouded and her body limp.

Rabah pulled her thong down her legs and bent her over. He hurriedly put a condom on, then forced himself into her, running his hands over her breasts as she could barely speak.

Suddenly, Rabah heard a voice. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

He froze, looking around. Three figures emerged from the shadows, one holding a camera pointed directly at him.

The tallest of the trio approached menacingly. “Wallet now, and phone!” he demanded.

Rabah stuttered, realizing he was surrounded. He fumbled for his wallet and phone, handing them over quickly.

The tallest man took the wallet and pocketed the phone. He glanced at the ID. “Rabah Bougherra,” he snapped, then held up the camera phone. “We have all the footage here, of you raping this girl.”

Rabah’s face went pale. “Please, I can explain—”

“Save it,” the man interrupted. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to disappear, and you’re never going to mention this to anyone. If you do, this footage goes straight to the police. Understand?”

Rabah nodded frantically. “I understand. I’ll disappear. Just don’t release the video.”