Chapter 8

It was late on Friday evening when the train pulled into Ashford International, the last stop before it would plunge under the English Channel, re-emerging in France on its way to Paris.

Sarah Saad took a deep breath. She had just ended another phone call with her father, telling him the train was about to enter the tunnel and that she would call him once she was in France. But she had no intention of doing that.

She replayed Ms. Pembroke’s last message in her mind, her teacher’s voice clear in her thoughts. Following the instructions to the letter, she uninstalled the encrypted messaging app, left her phone switched on but tucked underneath her seat, and removed her abaya, folding it neatly before leaving it on the luggage rack. Now, dressed in jeans, a sweater, a hoodie, trainers, and a baseball cap, she grabbed nothing but herself and stepped off the train onto the platform at Ashford International.

She struggled to breathe. She had done it. She had disobeyed her father. No Paris. No flight to Egypt. No forced marriage.

But now she had a new problem: She had no phone. No luggage. No one to call.

Sarah stood frozen for a moment, heart hammering. What does a thirteen-year-old do when she’s suddenly alone in the world without a phone?

She kept her baseball cap pulled low, her hands jammed into her hoodie pockets, and forced herself to move. She had to find the exit. Find Ms. Pembroke.

Her throat tightened as she stepped past the police. They terrified her. She knew they weren’t really on her father’s side—but what if they were? What if they stopped her? What if they asked why she was alone?

She swallowed hard and slipped past them, scanning the terminal for the path Ms. Pembroke had made her memorize.

Outside, the car park stretched before her, a sea of vehicles gleaming under the overhead lights. Her chest tightened. How was she supposed to find her?

She thought about approaching a security guard. Maybe she could say she was waiting for her teacher? Maybe she could tell the truth—about her father. About the forced marriage. She spotted a friendly-looking man in uniform and took a step toward him— Then she stopped, as she heard a voice behind her.

“Hello there.”

A tall figure in a heavy coat, baseball cap, and scarf stepped toward her, wearing a covid mask and glasses, rendering him inscrutable.

Sarah’s stomach clenched. Who was this man? She took a step back, panic rising— Then the voice shifted, to a more feminine tone.

“It’s me, silly!” The tall figure pulled the mask down just enough to reveal Ms. Pembroke’s face.

Sarah gasped. “Ms. Pembroke!”

“Shhh, darling.” Ms. Pembroke placed a firm hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Did you leave your luggage and phone on the train? Are you alone?”

Sarah nodded. “Yes, Ms. Pembroke.”

Her teacher smiled. “Good girl. Now, listen carefully.” She squeezed Sarah’s shoulder.

“I need you to follow me—ten paces behind. Don’t talk. Just walk. Understand?”

Sarah swallowed, nodding quickly. She obeyed, trailing behind Ms. Pembroke through the dimly lit parking area. They reached a nondescript car.

It wasn’t the one Sarah remembered her teacher driving. The back windows were tinted. Ms. Pembroke opened the door.

“Get in the back, Sarah.”

Sarah climbed in. The car smelled clean, like it was new, or rented.

As soon as the door shut, Ms. Pembroke let out a laugh of triumph. She pulled off her coat and hat, replaced it with another, then removed her glasses and mask.

“Well, that was exciting!” She grinned. “No cameras. No fuss. We got away with it.”

Sarah let out a shaky breath. “No cameras? What do you mean? Do you think my dad could be watching...?”

Ms. Pembroke’s smile froze for a fraction of a second—barely noticeable, but enough. Then she let out a forced little laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, nothing—never mind.”

Ms. Pembroke turned on the car, classical music playing on the stereo.

“Back to mine for now.”

Sarah frowned. “But—what about the next step?”

Ms. Pembroke’s eyes flicked to her in the rearview mirror. “Tomorrow, we’ll figure that out.”

Sarah realised she would be spending the night at Ms Pembroke, she felt a little uneasy, but also thrilled.

Ms. Pembroke’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “Now, tell me just to remind me—did you post the journal to the police station?”

Sarah nodded. “Yes, yesterday.”

“And you deleted the app?”

“Yes.”

Ms. Pembroke’s lips curled. “And you haven’t mentioned me at all? Not in the journal? Not to anyone?”

Sarah shook her head. “No, Miss. Don’t worry! And—thank you for everything!”

Sarah meant it. But she had no idea of the sinister undertone behind her teacher’s smile.

“Excellent.”

Ms. Pembroke relaxed into her seat, turning up the music.

“Now, sit back, Sarah. You’ve done everything right. Now—let me take over.”

----------- A few hours later, Mohammed Saad stood in Gare du Nord, Paris, pacing anxiously as he gripped his phone. His brother, Karim, was on the other end of the line, speaking from their house in Willowbridge, England.

“She’s not answering her phone. She’s not here at the station. Where the hell is she?”

Mohammed’s voice was tight with frustration, but Karim was furious. His daughter had vanished. She had obviously gone back on the agreement. Where the hell had she gone? To the police? To some friend? Who knows what she might say or do?

He needed to think—fast. Calling the police was too risky. Not yet. He had to be careful, had to spin the right story. If it came to it, he would claim she had run away from their home in Willowbridge.

But for now, he needed to stay quiet. He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face.

“Don’t worry, brother,” Mohammed muttered. “She’ll turn up eventually. I just need to sweet-talk her. Let’s lay low for now. But keep an eye out at the station. Keep waiting.”

---------- It was nearly ten o’clock when Edith Pembroke pulled up to her large townhouse in Willowbridge. It was dark, and quiet, no one would notice her rental car pulling in and parking and the young passenger in the back.

She killed the engine and sat in silence for a moment, gripping the steering wheel. Turning to the back seat, Ms. Pembroke flashed a smile, though her voice remained calm and measured. “Here we are, Sarah. Home sweet home.”

Sarah hesitated before unbuckling her seatbelt. The thrill of escape had faded, replaced by an odd, creeping unease. The car ride had been quiet, the conversation fading as the hours had passed. And now, as she sat in the passenger seat of Ms. Pembroke’s car, it struck her—they had nothing to talk about.

She had always admired Ms. Pembroke in class, and the online messaging had been exciting. But now, sitting here in the dark with a woman old enough to be her mother, she felt a strange, disorienting detachment.

Sarah had spent so much time idolizing her teacher, but now she wasn’t sure why. The woman sitting next to her wasn’t the clever, warm teacher from English lessons. She was just a fifty-year-old woman Sarah barely knew.

Who was she, really? Why was she so happy to help her and why had she been so keen to avoid involving anyone else?

Still, she had helped her. She couldn’t ignore the fact that she might be on a plane to Egypt right now if it weren’t for Ms. Pembroke.

She smiled back at the older woman. Then, without another word, she followed her up the steps and through the heavy, forbidding door.

It shut behind them with a quiet but definite click.

--------- Sarah was struck by the interior of the house. She had known Ms. Pembroke must be well-off, but this? This was something else.

The inside was huge, almost overwhelming. High ceilings, polished floors, and furniture that looked like it had never been touched. Everything was neat, elegant, expensive—so much nicer than her father’s small flat, and nothing like her mother’s cramped apartment.

“Err ... Miss Pembroke, do I sleep here tonight? And then somewhere else tomorrow?”

“Yes, dear. Just have a seat on the sofa first!”

Ms. Pembroke’s voice floated in from another room. Sarah could hear her moving things around.

Sarah sat down, sinking into the plush sofa, feeling both overawed and out of place.

Then Ms. Pembroke returned. Sarah’s eyes widened as she took in the very different looking woman in front of her.

Her usually neatly tied white hair now hung loose over her shoulders, framing her face in an unfamiliar way. She had shed her black trousers and sweater, her feet now bare against the polished wooden floor. She wore only a loose purple T-shirt, the neckline slipping off one shoulder, revealing a pale stretch of skin and a white bra strap. The shirt hung low, reaching mid-thigh, leaving her long bare legs exposed. In her hand, she carried a large glass of red wine.

“Oh, what a day!” Ms. Pembroke sighed theatrically, sinking into the sofa beside Sarah with a deliberate heaviness. She leaned back, crossing her legs slowly, her wine glass tilting idly in her hand as she took a sip.

Sarah stiffened, suddenly unsure where to put her hands, where to look, as she caught a glimpse of white knickers between the long crossed thighs under the purple t shirt.

“So ... I sleep here tonight? And we go somewhere tomorrow?”

Sarah kept her eyes on the floor. She felt silly repeating herself, but with each passing second, her nervousness grew.

“Yes,” Ms. Pembroke murmured, her voice distant. She didn’t elaborate. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the mirror in front of them, and looked at Sarah in it.

Sarah followed her line of sight to their reflections and took in Ms Pembroke’s figure, white hair loose around her shoulders, a mature face framed in soft lamplight, bare legs stretched out beneath her oversized shirt. And beside her, Sarah’s own reflection—small, wide-eyed, unsure.

She looked at the older woman’s eyes, and blushed as she caught them staring at her.

“For now, you have to remember,” Ms. Pembroke said, taking a slow sip of wine, her lips staining a deep red, “that your father might already be looking for you.”

She turned the wine glass in her fingers, watching the liquid swirl before finishing her thought.

“And ... I could get into trouble if the police get involved too early. So, I have to ... hide you a little. Just until tomorrow. Then, yes, we’ll move on to something else.”

She didn’t say what. Sarah swallowed. She felt boxed in, and her shoulders hunched in discomfort as the older woman recrossed her long thighs next to her, the white flash of her panties appearing like a flash of gunshot in the mirror reflection.

Sarah forced her voice to stay even. “Can I use the bathroom, Miss?”

“Of course, darling. Let me show you where it is.”

Ms. Pembroke uncrossed her legs, slowly lifting them—her bare thighs seeming giant next to Sarah’s slim legs in jeans. She planted her feet firmly on the ground and rose to her full six-foot height. Turning to Sarah, she held out her hand, her thighs now level with Sarah’s eyes, smiling down at the nervous girl, whose big brown eyes flickered up at her before quickly looking away, trying not to look up the T shirt between those thighs.

Sarah took her hand nervously, feeling the contrast—Ms. Pembroke’s hand was larger, firmer, the skin slightly calloused, almost swallowing her own small fingers like a glove. With a gentle but steady pull, Ms. Pembroke hoisted her up, and suddenly, Sarah found herself face-to-face with her teacher’s chest, her cheek awkwardly pressing against the soft fabric of her shirt.

“Come, follow me,” Ms. Pembroke said, keeping a firm hold on Sarah’s hand as they walked down the hall, their fingers still intertwined. When they reached the bathroom, she finally released her grip, gesturing toward the door. “Through here, darling.”

Sarah stepped into the bathroom. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she exhaled sharply, her breath unsteady. She turned the lock, twisting it twice, just to be sure. For the first time since meeting Ms. Pembroke at the station hours earlier, she was alone. But barely alone. Only a thin door separated her from the older woman. A small window was set high on the wall, its frosted glass reinforced with wire mesh. Not the kind that opened easily.

She hesitated, then finally moved toward the toilet.

As she pulled down her jeans and knickers and sat, she realized her hands were shaking. She tried to steady them, telling herself that this was just an unusual situation, she was free from her father, free from Egypt, that was the main thing. She would get through this night.

The sound of her own urination filled the otherwise silent bathroom, the noise embarrassingly loud. She bit her lip harder, feeling exposed, as if Ms. Pembroke could somehow hear her through the door.

Sarah finished quickly, wiping her pussy, seeing that her period had just started with all this stress, and pulled her knickers and jeans up with hurried movements. She turned on the tap, letting the cool water run over her hands, trying to steady her breath.

“Sarah, darling?” Ms. Pembroke’s voice drifted through the door—gentle, almost amused. “Don’t take too long, sweetheart. You don’t want me to worry, do you?”

The words were soft, affectionate even. Sarah closed her eyes and told herself, it was OK, she was her teacher, this was weird, but nothing bad was going to happen.

Sarah opened the door—and Ms. Pembroke was standing right there. One arm was casually braced against the wall, her posture relaxed, as if she’d been waiting the whole time. She was smiling.

“There you are, sweetheart,” she murmured, her eyes flicking over Sarah’s face. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“Hmmm ... no, I was just ... hmmm...” Sarah trailed off, struggling to find the right words.

“Having a pee?” Ms. Pembroke teased, her voice light, almost affectionate.

Sarah felt her face heat up, unsure if she should laugh along or feel embarrassed.

A long silence stretched between them. Ms. Pembroke looked down at Sarah, her expression shifting from amusement, to hunger, her lips parting and her tongue slowly emerging from within.

Then—she broke off suddenly, her tone light, almost airy.

“Oh! I’m forgetting my date for tonight! Goodness.” She laughed, brushing a hand through her hair as if shaking off a stray thought.

“Now, Sarah, let’s get you settled into your bedroom for the night, shall we?”

Ms. Pembroke grabbed Sarah’s hand again, her grip vice-like, possessive, fingers digging in just enough to make it clear—this wasn’t a request.

With an almost childlike skip, she led Sarah through the hallway, past other large, closed doors, until they stopped in front of a heavy, oak door. Without releasing Sarah’s hand, she reached into her shirt—deep inside her bra—and pulled out a key.

Sarah blinked as she watched the smiling face of the woman she had watched so many times, thinking how utterly different she was now, how different from her own ... fantasy of the upstanding almost grandmotherly woman she had thought of.

Ms. Pembroke smiled, as if there was nothing unusual about it, and slid the key into the lock, twisting it with a loud, metallic click.

The door creaked open. A narrow stairway stretched down into the shadows, the air beyond cooler, heavier.

“What ... why do I have to go down there? Is there a room down there?” Sarah’s voice came out smaller than she intended, almost squeaking out the words in fear.

Ms. Pembroke’s voice was light, reassuring - “Oh, it’s just as nice down here, darling. I’ve already laid out your bedclothes—everything’s taken care of. Now, come on down!”

She gave Sarah’s hand a small tug, and Sarah walked down in front of her, holding onto a small handrail, it didn’t look homely. Despite being in single file, Ms Pembroke’s hand kept its vice like grip on her hand from behind. They came to another door at the bottom.

“It’s like Fort Knox in here, haha!” Ms. Pembroke chuckled at her own joke, as she inserted another key into the lock. “You will be very safe in here, don’t worry.”

With a soft click, the door swung open, revealing a dimly lit chamber. The walls were stone—cold grey and unwelcoming. A single door loomed at the far end.

To the side, a row of cupboards, drawers, and shelves lined the wall, their contents hidden behind closed doors. Nearby, a toilet, sink, and set of showers sat in plain view, separated only by a low partition—offering little privacy.

Sarah’s stomach twisted as she took it all in. Something about this place felt wrong. She wished she could be back on the train, she could have alerted any security guard, how foolish to have relied on this woman...

“Come, let’s check out your bedroom!” Ms. Pembroke’s voice was light, almost cheerful, cutting through Sarah’s spiraling thoughts. “I wasn’t sure what teenagers’ bedrooms were like these days, but I did my best!” She laughed, leading the way. “It’s been over thirty years since I was your age!”

She spoke like they were sharing a joke—like this was all normal. But Sarah was about to throw up with stress, what was this ‘room’ going to look like?

Her mind raced as Ms. Pembroke unlocked the door with another soft click. Then—to her surprise—the door swung open to reveal a large, spacious bedroom. A double bed sat in the center, neatly made with white duvet, white pillows, white sheets. The walls were whitewashed, clean but bare, and the floor was polished wood, warm under the dim lighting.