What fantasies are these? It’s ridiculous. Yet her certainty has the conviction of a convert.
“Who put the babies inside you, Samira?”
“Allah.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“How did he do it?”
“The doctors helped him. They put the eggs inside me.”
She’s talking about IVF. The embryos were implanted. That’s why she’s having twins.
“Whose eggs were put inside you?”
Samira raises her eyes to the question. I know the answer already. Cate had twelve viable embryos. According to Dr. Banerjee there were five IVF procedures using two eggs per treatment. That leaves two eggs unaccounted for. Cate must have carried them to Amsterdam. She arranged a surrogacy.
That’s why she had to fake her pregnancy. She was going to give Felix his
“Please leave,” says Samira. Tears are close.
“Why are you so frightened?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Just tell me why you’re doing this.”
She pushes back her hair with her thumb and forefinger. Her wide eyes hold mine until the precise moment that it becomes uncomfortable. She is strong-willed. Defiant.
“Did someone pay you money? How much? Did Cate pay you?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead she turns her face away, gazing at the window, a dark square against a dark wall.
“Is that how you know my name? Cate gave it to you. She said that if anything happened, if anything went wrong, you had to contact me. Is that right?”
She nods.
“I need to know why you’re doing this. What did they offer you?”
“Freedom.”
“From what?”
She looks at me as though I’ll never understand. “Slavery.”
I kneel down, taking her hand, which is surprisingly cool. There is a speck of sleep in the corner of her eye. “I need you to tell me exactly what happened. What were you told? What were you promised?”
There is a noise from the corridor. Zala reappears. Terror paints her face and her head swings from side to side, looking for somewhere to hide.
Samira motions for her to stay in the kitchen and turns to face the door. Waiting. A brittle scratching. A key in the lock. My nerve ends are twitching.
The door opens. A thin man with pink-rimmed eyes and bad teeth seems to spasm at the sight of me. His right hand reaches into a zipped nylon jacket.
“Wie bent u?” he barks.
I think he’s asking who I am.
“I’m a nurse,” I say.
He looks at Samira. She nods.
“Dr. Beyer asked me to drop by and check on Samira on my way home. I live not far from here.”
The thin man makes a sucking sound with his tongue and his eyes dart about the room as though accusing the walls of being part of the deceit. He doesn’t believe me, but he’s not sure.
Samira turns toward me. “I have been having cramps. They keep me awake at night.”
“You are
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. English is the official language of the European Union.” I use my best Mary Poppins voice. Officious. Matter-of-fact. I don’t know how far I can push him.
“Where do you live?”
“Like I said, it’s just around the corner.”
“The address?”
I remember a cross street. “If you don’t mind I have an examination to conduct.”
He screws his mouth into a sneer. Something about his defiance hints at hidden depths of brutality. Whatever his relationship to Samira or Zala, he terrifies them. Samira mentioned slavery. Hassan had a property tattoo on his wrist. I don’t have all the answers but I have to get them away from here.
The thin man barks a question in Dutch.
Samira nods her head, lowering her eyes.
“Lieg niet tegen me, kutwijf. Ik vermoord je.”
His right hand is still in his jacket. Lithe and sinewy like a marathon runner, he weighs perhaps 180 pounds. With the element of surprise I could possibly take him.
“Please leave the room,” I tell him.
“No. I stay here.”
Zala is watching from the kitchen. I motion her toward me and then unfold a blanket, making her hold it like a curtain to give Samira some privacy.
Samira lies back on the couch and lifts her jumper, bunching it beneath her breasts. My hands are damp. Her thighs are smooth and a taut triangle of white cotton lies at the top of them. The skin of her swollen belly is like tracing paper, stretched so tightly I can see the faint blue veins beneath the surface.
The babies move. Her entire torso seems to ripple. An elbow or a knee creates a peak and then slips away. I can feel the outline of tiny bodies beneath her skin, hard little skulls and joints.
She lifts her knees and raises her hips, indicating I should remove her underwear. She has more of an idea of what to do than I have. Her minder is still at the door. Samira fixes him with a defiant glare as if to say: You want to see this?
He can’t hold her gaze. Instead he turns away and walks into the kitchen, lighting a cigarette.
“You lie so easily,” Samira whispers.
“So do you.”
“Who is he?”
“Yanus. He looks after us.”
I look around the room. “He’s not doing such a good job.”
“He brings food.”
Yanus is back at the doorway.
“Well the babies are in good position,” I say loudly. “They’re moving down. The cramps could be Braxton Hicks, which are like phantom contractions. Your blood pressure is a little higher than it has been.”
I don’t know where this information is coming from; some of it must be via verbal osmosis, having heard my mother’s graphic descriptions of my nieces and nephews arriving in the world. I know far more than I want to about mucus plugs, fundal measurements and crowning. In addition to this, I am a world authority on pain relief— epidurals, pethidine, Entonox, TENS machines and every homeopathic, mind-controlling family remedy in existence.
Yanus turns away again. I hear him punch keys on his mobile phone. He’s calling someone. Taking advice. Time is running out.
“You met a friend of mine. Cate Beaumont. Do you remember her?”
Samira nods.
“Do your babies belong to her?”
The same nod.
“Cate died last Sunday. She was run down and killed. Her husband is also dead.”
Samira doubles over as though her unborn have understood the news and are grieving already. Her eyes flood with a mixture of disbelief and knowing.
“I can help you,” I plead.
“Nobody can help me.”
