CHAPTER 94: The Virgin’s Summer, Part 34
“Go wherever you want, Charlotte,” says Haswell. “See everything.”
I trail behind surveyors and engineers, following their tracks, trying to interpret groundworks, and transform them in my head into the soaring city I saw in the model.
Bulldozers are shifting huge tracts of rubble, crushing and flattening it, to lay the groundwork for the next phase of the building works. The old road layout is all but gone. Only because I know where I am, is any of it recognisable.
Feeling like a spare part, I wander around a bit, before coming to something I recognise; the remains of a timber sign, a notice board. Half smashed, and the paint peeling away, I can still read the letters ‘Blessingm...’ Half an image of a cartoon meadow, with butterflies and birds flitting about with fake cartoon smiles, rots off the surface of the timber.
Shivering, I fight down nausea.
There is a hand on my shoulder, and I startle violently. Spinning to face it, it is my Master, holding up both hands, apologetically, almost warding me off. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
He looks down at the board by my feet, his expression disturbed.
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
“Yes.” But the words stick in my throat.
Tell him.
He waits, then, “When you’re ready, Charlotte.”
He hooks an arm around my waist, his head resting close to mine.
“Charlotte, there’s something I want to ask you, and I promise, that no matter what your answer, I will not be angry with you, nor will I think less of you. But, I do want to ask this.”
“Master?”
“I’ve been reading the reports on those ‘scandals’ about the home…”
I freeze in his arms.
“... That day, when you and I first met, when I bought you, were you really a virgin?”
The tension drains from me... I twist in his arms to face him.
“Yes Master, I was. You were my first, truly.”
His face floods with relief, but also, puzzlement. “But… how? I’ve read those reports.”
What do I say?
Tell him the truth...
But my words die stillborn, unformed.
Tell him.
My voice faltering, I try to get something out, to give him a reply. “I didn’t look like this then, Master. I was just a skinny, ginger kid.”
My throat seizes up, and my Master, looking at me, eyes soft, simply holds me tight. He knows I’ve not told him everything.
Tell him.
“I’m surprised you didn’t run away,” he says.
Forcing out every word, “I did, several times. The first time, I was eight, but there were others. Every time, I got caught, and the police took me back.”
My throat tightens again. “The beatings got harder each time. The last one put me in the infirmary. When the social worker came by, they said I’d been drinking and had fallen down the stairs.”
He rocks me to and fro. “You’re safe now.”
Am I?
“You want to go?” he asks.
“In a while.”
I don’t know what I want. I wander up and down, kicking stones, hugging myself. My Master watches me calmly, unspeaking.
There is a girl, standing off the roadway, by the rubble and ruin, scantily dressed in cheap finery. Her skirt is very short, her top, too low-cut to be subtle. She walks up and down the same ten yards, over and again, posing as cars come past.
As I watch, a car pulls up and a man leans out. The two talk quietly for a moment, then she gets into the car and they drive off.
As I turn away, I see that my Master has been watching me, his expression unreadable.
“Something bothering you?”
“What’s the difference, Master?”
“Difference?”
“When it comes down to it, what is the difference between what she is doing, and what I did?”
He looks down at me, eyes askance. “The difference, Charlotte, is that she has a return ticket. In an hour or so, she’ll be back on that road corner, touting for business. You bought yourself a one-way passage out of here. And... that passage brought you to me. When you did, finally, return here, it was on your own terms, and by your own choice.”
I don’t know how to express myself. Something inside me needs to break out.
“He called me a gutter rat.”
“He was wrong,” replies my Master, calmly.
I wave over the rubble. “This is where I came from.”
“There’s no shame in coming from the gutter. Only in wanting to stay there. And you have your eyes fixed on the stars. Besides, this is not where you came from. You came from somewhere else. You were simply trapped here while you were a child. Do you know anything about your parents?”
I shake my head.
“You remember them at all?”
“No.”
There is a shout. “Hey, Jenny! Jennifer Conners...”
I don’t want to look, but the shouting continues.
“Hey, Jenny, over here.”
A figure comes running up, panting. He is perhaps my age, but small for that age, wearing cheap, worn-out clothes. His face has that pinched look that often accompanies poverty, and his skin is ageing early; dry, grey, wrinkling.
As he comes close, he stops, looking apologetic. “Oh! Sorry. My mistake, lady. Thought you were someone else.”
“That’s alright,” I say.
He shrugs and walks away.
My Master’s face is unreadable. “Someone you know?”
“Jenny once knew him. I’m Charlotte.”
Back at the office, Haswell calls me in. “You too please, James.”
“Did you enjoy your trip out?” he asks, as Francis serves us coffee.
“It was very interesting. It... gave me a lot to think about.”
“Charlotte, there is something else I would like to ask you, and…” Haswell swipes a hand through his hair, “…please take this question as it is intended, not as it might come out sounding.”
“Sir?”
“Is there anything else I need to know about you? I am running a multi-billion-dollar corporation here and, if we accept you as a trainee, you,” he points a long finger at me, “will be representing it. You will be one of our ambassadors. Do you have any more surprises to spring on me? I don’t want to learn of anything else after this, that might make my life difficult.”
Freezing over, I droop my head.
Breathe... Breathe...
“Charlotte! What’s the matter? You’ve gone white as a sheet.” My Master’s voice is sharp.
“Charlotte?” Haswell sits back in his chair, hands folded, watching me carefully. “What is it? Whatever it is, now is the time to tell me.”
I try to speak, but my mouth is dry. I gulp down a mouthful of the coffee.
My voice is small. I can hardly speak the words. “I killed a man.”