The journey to Elephant and Castle is just six stops on the train from Kentish Town, past Farringdon and Blackfriars. The London landscape, something I rarely have a chance to relish, stretches out before me like a jigsaw in which some of the parts have been switched around so that I no longer recognise the picture.
Stepping out from the station onto the street, the smell of petrol hovers in the air. Everything is cranked up to the highest notch, the sound of cars swooping around the roundabout, the odour of burnt sugary meat.
Following the map on my phone through the clothes rails and stalls in the market that circle the shopping centre at ground level, past a group of elderly Jamaican men in smart clothes and brimmed hats immersed in a game of dominoes, at Walworth Road I pass the spectre of the old Heygate Estate, now gone.
Gordana’s house is several streets away – a purpose-built, one-up, one-down with yellow bricks and a nondescript front garden. On either side the houses are immaculate, the gardens planted with carnations and roses in bright pinks and reds; to the left an old lady scrapes a broom up and down a pristine path. I feel the old woman’s eyes follow me through the gate towards a dark brown door. If it wasn’t for her burning stare, I might have lost my nerve, but under her scrutiny, I find myself pressing the doorbell. When there is no answer, I look up and catch a curtain flickering in the upstairs room.
Invigorated by the sighting, I take up the knocker, this time banging hard, causing the old lady to start.
When there are no footsteps on the stairs I reach for the letterbox and push my mouth against the lightweight tin flap.
‘Hello?’ I clear my throat and then call out again. ‘Gordana?’
A moment later there is a shuffling in the hallway and the door pulls open a crack.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a journalist. Can I come in?’ I ask, though it is more of a statement than a question. ‘Or we could talk here.’
The woman’s eyes are like shards of glass. I feel the door press back against my toes as I try to work my way inside, but then Gordana spots the neighbour whose broom has slowed to a hovering position over a spotless front step.
‘Through here,’ she says, ushering me into the kitchen, which is sparsely furnished with a small table and three chairs, a blue highchair pushed into one corner.
Without taking her eyes off me, Gordana backs herself against the counter, pulling at the scarf framing her face.
‘Who are you?’ she says, her voice hard and wary.
When I don’t answer, she repeats herself. ‘I asked you a question. Who are you and what are you doing in my home?’
There is more than a hint of threat in her voice now, and I feel my hands clench. Gordana spots it, and glances warily at the clock above the sink.
‘Expecting someone?’ I ask.
Her eyes flash with a hint of amusement. ‘I’m curious. You are very brave coming to my house. Walking into the home of a perfect stranger. Whoever you are, you are very brave. Or very stupid.’
‘But that’s it, you see; you’re not a stranger to me, Gordana. There’s a lot I know about you. We have a mutual friend. A Gorani girl. Eva is her … sorry, was her name. You remember her, don’t you? I see from your face that you do. It’s admirable really,’ I say, raising my eyebrows. ‘Considering how many girls you’ve helped traffic into this country.’
Gordana hisses, ‘I would choose your words very carefully if I was you …’
There is a stinging silence and then I say, ‘All I want is to know where she went. Eva. I want to know where they sent her. I have no interest in you. Your name doesn’t even need to come up. Unless …’
Through the quiet, there is a baby’s cry from the next room.
I look at her and cock my head. ‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘Is that your baby? Oh dear, I wonder what will happen to it when the police …’
‘You have no idea what you’re getting involved in,’ Gordana says, shaking her head at me. ‘No idea.’
‘So tell me,’ I shrug. ‘Eva, where did they take her?’
‘There was a girl,’ she says at last, the baby’s wailing getting louder from the next room, though she makes no attempt to go to it. ‘Gorani, like you say.’
I wait, my breath tight.
‘She was going to live with her sister. That’s all I know.’ Her voice is quieter now, defeated. ‘Please, I need you to promise me my name won’t come up. They can’t know I told you.’ Gordana’s face is desperate. ‘Please. My son.’
I lean forward in my chair. ‘This sister. Where does she live?’