Belle drove over to the Clacton address next day. She checked the maps when she got there and then sat in the car, frowning and staring at what appeared to be a house set in a row of identical Victorian houses. She had expected a proper office on an industrial estate, but this was just a house.
She got out of the car and walked over. There was a small chequered black-and-white path leading up to a battered-looking front door with . . . what the hell? There was a mirror hanging on the outside of it.
Very odd.
She opened the little metal gate and walked up the path. There was a bell beside the door but it looked as if someone had wrenched it out of the wall. Undeterred, Belle knocked at the flaking wood.
Nothing.
She must have the wrong address.
But she knew she didn’t. She knew she had the right one.
She leaned in to knock again. As she did so, a tiny black-haired woman opened the door a crack and let loose a torrent of some foreign language at her.
‘I’m Belle Barton,’ said Belle loudly. ‘Is the manager here? Can I speak to the manager?’
What she should have done, she could see it now, was ask Dad if there was any work going in any of Charlie’s factories. But then, she was nervous of doing that: she knew Dad would only put her off. He’d tell her not to be silly. To enjoy herself. Didn’t she have a big enough allowance? And then she would have felt guilty, and awkward, and she would still be fed up and unsatisfied.
The woman stopped talking. She stood there, her eyes wide with alarm. A rabbit in the headlights. Getting annoyed at all this, Belle pushed forward. The woman was very slight, very small. She looked malnourished, really. It was easy to shove past her and go inside.
Now the woman started gabbling at her again, following behind her, touching nervously at the sleeve of Belle’s coat.
Belle walked along a shabby hallway. To her left there was an open doorway. Empty desks in there. Like a normal office. But no one about. She walked on and then pushed open another door. Once it had probably been a kitchen. But as she entered she saw no cosy domestic scene. There were men in here – they looked Chinese or Vietnamese, like the woman – and they were wearing facemasks and protective coveralls. Pots of bubbling liquid were all around. Steam and smoke was rising. There was an acrid scent in the air. Belle almost choked the minute she walked in. She stood there and stared. They stared right back at her. Then they erupted into movement and started shouting at her.
Alarmed, Belle backtracked. Suddenly they were all clustering around her, clutching at her, trying to either force her out or to stop her leaving, she didn’t know which. She ran along the hall, pushing past the woman and the men in their weird outfits, choking on something horrible, and she didn’t stop running until she was back at the car. Then quickly she put the key in the lock with a shaking hand. She got in and locked the door behind her. They were gathering out by the gate of the house, pointing and yelling. She wondered if they were actually going to come after her.
Gasping, panicking, she started the engine and quickly steered the car out into the traffic.
What the fuck?