Page 49

Pulling the flimsy mask up over her mouth and nose, Viyan stumbled onwards, trying to ignore the pain that gripped every inch of her battered body.

She could scarcely credit that she was once more shuffling along the familiar corridors of the drug rehabilitation centre, put to work despite her grievous injuries, yet here she was.

As she’d clung to that awful pole last night, as the heavy chain had fallen on her time and again, Viyan had prayed first for deliverance, then for immolation, but neither had come.

Instead, her attacker had eventually tired of his assault, leaving Viyan a bloodied, broken mess on the ground.

Unable to move, Viyan had ‘hoped’ that she’d be dragged back to the dormitory, there to cry out her agony and despair.

To her horror, however, after lying in the yard for over an hour, her co-workers walking around her as they executed their duties, she’d had to crawl back to bed by herself, losing consciousness three times as her agony consumed her.

Worse was to follow, Viyan allowed only a few hours ‘rest’, before she was roughly hauled from her bed to begin another day’s work.

She was clearly unfit to do anything, could barely walk in fact, but her minders paid no heed to her protests.

Once her injuries were concealed beneath a face mask and tracksuit, she was good to go, her captors half-marching, half-dragging her to the awaiting vehicle.

Thrown around in the back of the van as they sped into the city, Viyan’s bitterness had steadily grown.

None of her co-workers spoke to her, or even looked at her, not one of them reaching out to her in her hour of need.

It was a miracle she was alive, her back mutilated, her ribs cracked, her breathing short, yet still no one was prepared to comfort her.

Her captors were worse still, abusing her, manhandling her, hurting her as they pulled her from the van, forcing her to limp down the quiet corridors, only relenting when a staff member came into view.

She was here to do a job and they would ensure that there was no shirking, despite her obvious discomfort.

‘No dawdling. Get on with it …’

As Naz’s harsh voice rang out, a firm hand slapped Viyan’s buttocks, propelling her forward.

Smarting, she refused to acknowledge the slight, instead limping into the waste disposal area and making for the large metal bin, levering the heavy lid open.

Immediately, her heart sank. A bulging yellow waste bag lay at the bottom, supposedly safe and sealed, but Viyan immediately clocked the two syringes that had punctured the thick plastic, pointing up at her accusingly.

She shuddered, unease stealing over her.

She understood why these places existed, a safe space where drug users could wean themselves off their addictions, but dealing with their detritus was something else.

She had no idea who these people were, what diseases or germs they might be carrying.

She didn’t want to judge anyone, but still it angered her that her own well being was of such scant interest to those who worked here, those who professed to be doing good.

The work done in this particular establishment was shoddy and reckless, placing Viyan and her co-workers in real danger.

Yet what thought was given to them? What thought for their future?

None, people seemingly happy to turn a blind eye to their predicament, as long as the used needles disappeared promptly every day.

Reaching into the bin, Viyan grasped the bag firmly, lifting it from the metal container.

Catching on the rim, the yellow bag swung precariously for a moment, one of the syringe ends darting towards Viyan’s exposed arm, but raising her elbow, she deftly avoided the danger.

She had no intention of getting sick, of dying even, thanks to her own carelessness.

Her minder, who had stuck closely to her throughout the morning, reacted immediately, backing away sharply.

Retreating to the doorway, he took up position there, a safe distance away, but with his eyes still glued to his charge, determined not to cut her any slack.

Sighing wearily, her ribs pulsing with pain as she reached into her pocket to pull out another heavy-duty liner, Viyan double-bagged the dangerous contents, before securing it firmly.

‘Right, let’s get that shit out to the van. Walk five metres ahead, but no more, OK? I’ll be watching you …’

Eyeballing her, Naz let his hand come to rest on the butt of his gun, carefully concealed beneath his leather jacket.

Viyan knew she had no choice but to comply, so gripping the bag, she exited, making her way slowly down the corridor, her shadow close behind.

Each step was pure agony, Viyan once more cursing herself for sleepwalking into this horrific ordeal.

If she’d had any inkling that this is what her life would become – harvesting human tissue, stained bandages and dirty syringes fourteen hours a day – she would have taken her chances in the refugee camp.

The whole enterprise was disgusting, immoral and cynical, a stain on everyone involved.

But it was those who had to load up the putrid bags, pushing down on them with their dirty Crocs to ensure no space remained in the shipping container, who had the worst of it.

Often the bags would bulge ominously, the taut plastic threatening to split.

When they did eventually erupt, the results were horrific, nauseating and often downright dangerous.

During her two years of anguish, Viyan had witnessed numerous injuries caused by blood-caked scalpels or used syringes.

Indeed, she was sure that three of her co-workers had succumbed to illnesses related to such injuries, though there was no way of knowing for sure, nor any point in complaining.

Their job was to handle the human tissue, dirty bandages and soiled utensils swiftly, efficiently and with good grace, whilst those who profited remained at a safe distance.

Even as this bitter reflection landed, a thought occurred to Viyan, one which suddenly filled her with excitement, even hope.

The task she and the others were asked to perform was disgusting.

They recoiled from it, just as their minders and guards recoiled from them .

This had always enraged Viyan, the way they were made to feel like lepers because of the work they were forced to do, but this morning it occurred to her that she might be able to use this to her advantage.

Their minders’ disgust was born of fear – fear of infection, contamination or injury.

So why not make use of this? Why not exploit this weak spot, this vulnerability, to help her escape?

If one of these heavy bags, with their viscous contents, were ‘accidentally’ to split open one day, soiling her captor whilst also creating a major hygiene incident, would this buy her the precious few seconds she needed to escape?

Could the very worst aspect of her existence actually hold the key to freeing her from this life of servitude?

It was an intoxicating idea, one which sent adrenaline flooding through her ailing body.

Which is why, even as she stumbled breathlessly towards the exit, labouring under her heavy load, Viyan felt a lightness in her step.

Had she accidentally stumbled upon a route out of her never-ending nightmare?