Chapter 42

Pembroke parked as close to the arrivals as he could, but it was still a long way away. Everything was ready, the pre payment cards to pay the parking, the new taser gun, the box, and restraints. His white van was pristine but was a white van, what would Darya think?

And what would happen if Yasmin actually got through? For one thing he should probably use more fake passports and make proper money from this venture, he chuckled. He would then just have to deal with the consequences that Yasmin would be on British soil arguing with immigration authorities here and demanding that her missing daughter be dealt with.

He also had a portable modem and his laptop. Everything about his fake organization would soon be taken offline once he had Darya taken care of.

Sophie sat in her cell, unable to concentrate on her new book, Far From the Madding Crowd. She looked at the obscene costume and wondered how her life would change, from relative quiet and solitutde to having to share everything with another human, including all of Pembroke’s depravity. She had almost wanted to beg her ‘daddy’ to keep her alone and not bring another girl into their world.

But her darkest fear was that something would happen on his ‘mission’, he would never return and she might be trapped down here, starving to death, for weeks if no one else knew she was here!

Pembroke checked himself in the mirror, the fake beard, the glasses, the expensive and elaborate suit would all serve to impress Darya, and hide his identity from any CCTV footage.

Darya had been terrified about taking off on her first flight. The plane was full of people from all over the world, and she marveled at mingling with individuals she imagined to be rich and famous. As the plane descended, she looked out at the green countryside of England. She felt a rush of excitement about the future and was thrilled to be in this new and foreign land. She only wished her mother was still with her, and hoped she would have the same feelings she did.

Darya’s stomach was a knot of nerves as she used Linda Hillal’s passport to get through security. She thought she looked nothing like this girl though there were similarities. Outside, Pembroke sat in his van, hoping that she would not be stopped and deported. Ironically the immigration authorities’ investigation might be much more effective in tracking him down than any missing child hunt.

Pembroke eventually walked to the departures area, holding up a sign that read “Linda Hillal” as agreed. He felt incredibly vulnerable; the sign could identify him if the police were looking for someone connected to the stolen passport, or alert anyone who might recognize him and later link him to Darya.

He was starting to sweat, and tried to imagine how he would talk to Darya, and allay her concerns, trying to remember the basic Kurdish phrases he would use as an introduction.

Darya felt a weight lifted off her shoulders as she was waved through with Linda’s passport. She walked down the corridor, realizing there would be no more security checks from now on, and she soaked in the atmosphere of cheerful homecomings and excited tourists in the arrivals lounge.

Pembroke had already spotted a few candidates who might be Darya, but they all walked past him. Then he saw Darya walking towards him. He held up the sign and his breath as she came closer.

Barely a wisp of a girl, her beauty was untouched by the trials she’d endured. Her dark eyes, framed by impossibly long lashes, sparkled with a nervous energy that only heightened her charm. When she smiled, a pair of adorable dimples dented her cheeks, transforming her hopeful gaze into pure sunshine. A simple olive green headscarf, artfully draped to reveal a single glossy raven-colored curl cascading down her forehead, framed her heart-shaped face. The worn leather satchel swung lightly at her hip, the only companion on her trek to a new beginning. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, scanned the bustling crowd, searching for the welcoming face that signified a new life. She spotted his sign saying “Linda Hillal,” waved, and came over, her face radiating happiness as she recognized the kind benefactor who had helped her family.

“Mr. Farquahar?” Darya’s voice, lilting with a foreign accent, rang out across the arrivals hall. Her eyes, the color of melted chocolate, shone with a happiness that seemed to defy the long journey she’d just endured.

“Yes, Darya, it is I!” A kind smile creased Pembroke’s face. “I am so very pleased to meet you. Welcome to England!”

Darya couldn’t contain a shy smile. The cacophony of the airport—the rhythmic rumble of luggage carts, the multilingual announcements, the excited chatter of fellow arrivals—somehow felt like a welcoming symphony. It was a far cry from the tense silence that shrouded her life in the freezing camp. Here, in this bustling, safe world, possibilities bloomed like vibrant flowers. She felt a sense of security settle over her, a stark contrast to the constant fear that had become her norm. And Mr Farquahar seemed like the epitome of the kind English gentleman, whom she had only seen in movies, like a kindly grandfather or uncle.

“Bi xêr hatî Engilistanê.” Pembroke struggled to pronounce the welcome and Darya giggled. “Is OK, I speak English a little!”

“Excellent, haha but do not worry we have interpreters nearby at the centre, have you been stopped by the police?”

“No, they allow me enter, no problem!”

“Good, good, well we can now go to the center nearby where we will meet the rest of our staff, and then we will wait for your mother, she should be here later this evening and we can approach the police together to make a request for asylum. I do hope your mother’s trip goes smoothly!”

“Can I talk with my mother?”

“Yes, yes! Let us go to our transport first, walk with me please!”

Darya, with a newfound lightness in her step, followed her Mr Farquahar out of the airport, her heart brimming with hope for the future.

God she really was naive, Pembroke thought, but this must be so reassuring for her, all these police, and of course she was traveling on a fake passport! She must fear the police more than anyone, especially after her experiences in Syria. Little did she know that she should be screaming at them to help her, he smiled to himself.

He struggled to think how Leyla the older sister could have been so educated and yet her mother and her sister so clueless, even if Darya was only fourteen.

They walked out to the car park and for the first time, young Darya felt some unease. Pembroke’s initial legal jargon had run out of steam and she wondered why he was alone. They were far from the airport crowds and the white van looked just like the vans driven around her native Syria. It did have some coverings and a stick-on picture of children playing with the slogan “Protect the Refugees.” She had expected a limousine or something more substantial. But she could still see people everywhere, carrying suitcases and families babbling to each other.

Darya had very few frames of reference, she could run back to the people or get in the van.

Pembroke sensed her unease and brought out his phone, with pre-paid credit. “Why don’t you call your mother while I drive you to the centre, it’s just over there...” and he pointed to a building vaguely in the distance.

Darya was grateful to speak to her mother, remembered her fear of the boats taking the refugees on the oceans, and climbed in to the van.

“Here, try this!”

He drove off, and let Darya work her phone. She looked around the van, it looked clean but sparse. There was an empty wooden box in the back and she wondered what was going on.

Pembroke listened to the babbling Kurdish as he drove off, through the parking area, and onto the main road. He noticed Darya was guarded, and obviously her mother was telling her to be careful, but she was also distracted enough to not notice they were not going towards the building he had gestured to.

As Pembroke drove along out of the airport, he took the first side road he knew of which was quiet, comprising only of stockyards empty on a Saturday. He tried to hide his nerves, he could sense the girl getting more suspicious by the second. He scanned behind him and in front of the lay-by, there was no one there.

He had given her limited credit and patiently waited for the phone call to end as he drove around. When he heard the beeps, signalling the call had ended, he expressed concern.

“Wait, I will put in more credit.”

He drove to his selected spot, and slowed the van to a halt.

He reached into his side pocket pretending to look for credit for the phone. “Can you pass me the phone?”

Darya, preoccupied with thoughts of what she was going to say to her mother before the call was cut off, handed the phone over without much thought. Her mother had been discussing an aunt in London who had just contacted her, offering to meet Darya at the airport. The aunt, an elderly woman, had missed earlier messages because she was on holiday and had told Yasmin she would meet them at the airport as she did not trust these refugee people. Darya was about to inform her mother that they were heading to a refugee center and the aunt could meet them there. Her mother, concerned, had been asking who else was with Mr. Farquahar and was about to warn her to be cautious when the credit ran out.

As Darya handed over the phone absentmindedly, she saw Mr. Farquahar pull out another device. He took the phone in one hand while his other hand aimed the device at her stomach. Darya looked at it curiously, but before she could react, a violent jolt of electricity surged through her body, sending her into convulsions.

Her muscles contracted uncontrollably as pain and panic overwhelmed her senses. Her vision blurred, and she fought to understand what was happening. Pembroke’s face remained impassive as he continued to press the taser against her. Her screams were choked off by the electric shocks coursing through her.

Pembroke had practiced this move with Sophie, watching her crumple to the ground. He had felt sorry for her and tried to limit the practice, but it was vital to test the taser on another human being. The last thing he wanted was to have to physically fight Darya to subdue her.

Pembroke looked around again and saw no one approaching. Satisfied that they were alone, he pulled back Darya’s seat and dragged her limp body into the back of the van.

As she began to regain consciousness and scream, he swiftly cuffed her hands and ankles. Panic surged through Darya, but before she could react further, Pembroke grabbed her by the throat and held a knife inches from her face.

“Eger tu deng derdixînî, tu dimire,” he hissed. “You make a sound, and you die.”

Darya initially hadn’t known what had happened. She had thought she was having a heart attack—was this what it felt like? She blacked out and came to, finding her wrists and ankles tied in the back of the van. Farquahar was no longer the besuited gentleman she had trusted. His suit and shirt were disheveled, and he was sweating as he forced a gag into her mouth. His face, previously gentle and polite, was now twisted into the red visage of evil.

The knife glinted menacingly before her eyes, and she stared at it, terrified.

Darya’s heart pounded in her chest, fear coursing through her veins. She could feel the roughness of the gag against her lips, the cuffs biting into her skin. Pembroke’s cold eyes bore into hers, devoid of the kindness they once held.

Her mind flashed back to the moments before the attack, the brief phone call with her mother, the mention of her aunt in London. Pembroke’s earlier politeness had been a facade, a mask to lure her into a false sense of security. She was kidnapped!

With his prey immobilized, Pembroke returned to the front of the van and pulled back the curtain. He saw a group of workmen approaching. Quickly, he grabbed his phone and pretended to argue with someone on the other end. He could hear the muffled murmurs of Darya in the back, and prayed the men wouldn’t notice anything amiss, given his disheveled appearance and the fake beard that was about to fall off.