Episode Five: The First Hours

Verity's stomach was in knots.

It was nothing to do with the midday fast craft crossing from Cebu to Ormoc. That had been delightfully smooth – although it would have been better if the action movie they were showing on the TV at the front of the Tourist cabin would have had English subtitles instead of Spanish. Not that she minded too much. She had slept through most of it.

Neither was it because she had gratuitously over-eaten at breakfast. Although ‘gratuitously’ wasn’t a word she liked to use. She thought of it more as resistance training for her digestive system. After all, eating for her family was something of a national sport.

No, it was nerves. Anticipation. She had not been back home for years. She was planning to stay with her grandmother. Her mother was quite controlling. Her grandmother was the same, but on steroids.

And then there was the elephant in the room: her grandmother did not know about her job. She didn’t know about the fact that she'd left her job in Glasgow and had accepted a similar job in Ormoc. She didn’t even know what Verity did. Her family had collectively decided to keep it from her.

Journalists aren’t exactly flavour of the month in the Philippines.

That would not go down well.

And then there was the even bigger elephant in the room:

She was still single.

This might not be such a pleasant trip.

She spied the tip of the Camotes islands as the ship rounded them on its way to Ormoc.

If she could get off and stay there instead, she would really be tempted. Because right now it felt like her stomach was on spin cycle.

Charlotte gazed out of the window after Gloria had cleared the lunch table. Through the clanging and singing in the kitchen, which, like the bedroom, had an empty wooden cross and several inspirational posters on the wall, and the crickets and birdsong outside, she could hear faint diesel motors out to sea. And there it was, slicing its way serenely right past the window: an Oceanjet fast craft.

Interesting. She mused to herself. I wonder if they also stop anywhere near here.

Less than an hour later, at precisely two-thirty, the fast craft docked and Verity swapped the comfortable, air conditioned interior for a blast of scalding hot tropical air.

Ah, that smell of sweat and barbecue, she thought to herself, smiling. It could fix anything.

She adjusted her backpack, lifted her duffel bag higher and wandered out into the scorching heat, ignoring the chaotic gaggle of people trying to retrieve luggage from the back of the vessel.

Her intention was simple: head to the office of the Island Times to say ‘Hello’ to its Chief (and only) Editor Gabriel De La Cruz, grab something to eat and then head to her grandmother’s house, around forty minutes drive away, on a hired motorbike.

Easy.

Except this is the Philippines. Things are rarely that easy. There is usually a spoke in the wheel from somewhere to make things a little harder.

And this time, the spoke was made of Scottish steel.

Verity was headed confidently across the port car park. There was a transport hub across from the pier. The road was always mildly chaotic, and the pineapple stands that flanked the port gates were a permanent temptation, but her plan was fully achievable.

She hadn’t counted on someone else being in the car park.

‘Haw, hen! Whit’s a wee lassie like you daein’ in a place like this?’ A familiar male voice hailed across the car park from a stationary white multicab, its driver side window wide open so the voice could be heard.

Filipinos, leaving and arriving at the port, as well as a smattering of white-faced, sweaty and slowly burning foreigners, turned their heads like curious meerkats at the timbre of this curious, passive-aggressive lingo that bore a subtle, yet indistinguishable, likeness to the Queen’s English.

‘Mostly avoidin’ elderly white letches.’ Verity hailed back.

‘”Leaches”? Did she say “leaches”?’ a passing young girl muttered to her mother.

‘You probably misheard. That didn’t sound like English.’ her mother muttered back to her, as they quickened their pace so they would not miss their ferry, for which they were already late.

‘”Avoidin’ elderly white letches”? And you came here? The place is hoachin’ wae them!’ the Scottish male voice shouted back to her, as she approached the multicab.

‘Aye, well, you would know, wouldn’t you?’ Verity jibed, jokingly. ‘Detective Inspector Donald McLeish! What are you doing here?’ she asked him, respect and affection filling her tone.

‘Right now, sweating like the proverbial pig. Chuck your gear in the back and come inside, before the aircon on this heap of junk gives out.’ Donald replied.

Verity usually avoided British tourists, or just British people in general, when abroad. They were loud, culturally and culinarily ignorant, and generally entitled pains in the you-know-what.

But Donald, or, as most people knew him, Don, McLeish was the exception. He was more than a little eccentric – the dictionary definition of a ‘character’. His tall, lanky, wiry frame might be slowing with age, but his brain made pins look blunt. He had worked closely with Verity’s erstwhile boss, Doug Brodie, on multiple crime stories. Their collaboration was the talk of the newsroom. No-one could quite work out who was using whom, as these two men, geniuses in their own field, led each other a merry dance, constantly seeking to out-manoeuvre each other as if they were involved in some giant chess match. It made for some spectacular headlines, pushed newspaper sales and website hits through the roof and, most importantly, exposed criminal after criminal to the deeply unforgiving gaze of Glaswegian public opinion. Between the two of them, and their profound mutual respect, they had made Glasgow a much safer place to live.

Verity had no qualms at all about travelling with this man. Far from being at risk, she would learn a ton and grow exponentially as a person. So she threw her duffel bag, with no little enthusiasm, into the rear of the multicab and hopped gleefully into the passenger side of the cab.

The multicab choked and growled into life. ‘A-ha! It lives!’ Don pronounced triumphantly.

‘So where did you get this from?’ Varity patted the door of the multicab as it slowly edged forward, before gaining speed and heading towards the front gate of the port.

‘Free with a Christmas cracker. It was the joke.’ Don quipped. ‘No, Gabby De La Cruz said I could use it to ferry you around for a bit.’ He said, as he rolled down the window and tipped the guard with a few peso coins, before rolling it back up again. ‘That’s better.’ He sighed. ‘Hate letting the heat in like that.’

‘So you know Gabby De La Cruz?’ Verity pronounced with amazement. ‘Small world.’

‘Even smaller city.’ Don smiled. ‘And the first thing I learned is not to call him “Gabby” to his face. Too girly, apparently. And Gabby is a lot of things, but he is not girly.’

‘Noted.’ Verity grinned. ‘What have you been doing with yourself anyway? Haven’t heard from you since you retired.’

‘You mean, after the hearing at the Court of Session?’ he asked, his tone much more sombre now, as he skilfully, but not speedily, negotiated the vagaries and insanities of downtown Ormoc traffic. ‘Well, I pottered about at home for a while, before I realised that my talents were being wasted, and I was really terrible at gardening – and I mean, really terrible – so I decided to get involved again. I signed up to provide consultancy with an organisation that seeks to end modern slavery and exploitation. Plus, my pension goes way further here. So I decided to up sticks and move.’

‘Modern slavery and exploitation? Charlotte’s inquest really made its mark on you, huh?’ Verity pointed out.

‘You more.’ He told her. ‘So what are you up to? Falling out with that weirdo Doug Brodie and heading all the way out here to work with wee Gabby. That’s some climb-down.’

‘Well, that’s only half the truth.’ Verity smiled slyly.

‘Look at you! Working an angle with Brodie! He taught you well, Padawan.’ Don cracked, guessing immediately that all was not as it seemed. ‘Now, this would have nothing to do with the appearance in this neck of the woods of the Count of Confusion Mister Shiloh Stalker Valdez, would it? You wouldn’t happen to still be obsessed with him, would you?’

Verity was uncharacteristically coy. ‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it “obsession”. They, and yes, that is the correct pronoun, are definitely not interested in people like me. They are just a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.’ she tried to justify herself.

Don didn’t buy it.

‘You’re obsessed. Good. So am I. We’re going to make a fine team.’ Don told her.

‘Wait...’ Verity tried to interrupt, but Don was is in mid flow.

‘And no need to use that woke garbage in here. That boy has a meat and two veg. I’m not calling him ‘They’. It sounds like he has a multiple personality disorder, and I don’t think he would like me to think he has a mental illness.’

‘But, I think you do...’ Verity corrected him.

‘Are you kidding? That lad is bonkers! Mad as a hatter!’ Don told her. ‘But you and I, we’re going to stop him. For good this time.’

Charlotte was still staring wistfully out the window, plotting quietly how to return to civilisation. Gloria was still singing what, to Charlotte at least, sounded like some kind of Christian worship song: maybe in Tagalog, maybe in Bisaya, she couldn’t tell which. While the dishes were still being clanged and clunked around in the kitchen, Gloria’s phone rang. The singing stopped as she took the call. And for a few precious seconds, there was silence. Charlotte revelled in it.

And then the high speed chatter started. Charlotte couldn’t make head nor tail of it, but she could recognise one name:

Rohelio.

The cop.

She was on the phone to the cop.

Charlotte’s mind boiled and spat. What if she was talking about her? What if they were planning to turn her in, or worse, to make her testify against Shiloh? What if that was their plan all along?

What if...? What if...?

What if she could get out of here?

A plan quickly developed in her fevered imagination. It had to work. It felt like it was her only hope.

Gloria was still laughing and joking with Rohelio... and, what? Was that flirting? Was she swiping hair from behind her ear? What was that giggle? And what was with that coquettish grin?

Ewww!

They were way too old for that!

As if Gloria sensed her stare, she turned her eyes away from Charlotte.

It was now or never.

Charlotte walked away as if she was disinterested – but how could that be? Nothing else remotely interesting happened here, except the time that a bee died on a windowsill.

She wandered off quietly, listening carefully.

Good. Gloria hadn’t realised.

As soon as she was around a corner, she ran. She ran so hard. Then she reached the door and realised that she couldn’t go outside while wearing inside sandals. So she changed them. And then she ran.

She saw a road in front of her. She could run there, find civilisation, get directions to the nearest port. But that’s what Gloria would think she would do. She would be found easily.

So Charlotte rapidly came up with a different plan.

She ran through the forest.

Beneath her feet, she could feel twigs cracking and fallen leaves crunching. On and on and on she ran, underneath giant coconut palms, their fallen fruit littering the forest floor. With every inch she ran, birds and wildlife scattered in dismay. Even the mosquitoes that pestered every single human appeared to be keeping their distance in caution.

Civilisation has to be nearby. She told herself. There has to be someone who can help.

‘Charlotte! Where are you? Charlotte!’ she heard an elderly Filipina voice shouting in the distance.

Gloria. Her call had finished. She was looking for Charlotte.

Charlotte had better move.

Faster and faster she ran, tripping now and then as sandals aren’t great for running, but momentum and adrenaline kept her moving.

‘Charlotte! This is crazy! We just want to help you! Where are you?’ Gloria called out.

And then, silence.

Nothing.

No more shouting.

If anything, for Charlotte, that was even more terrifying.

She quickly reached a clearing. That was hopeful. At least. And in front of her was some form of wooden hut, raised from the forest floor on stilts.

That would do. She could hide there.

She quickly snuck inside, up a set of small wooden steps that creaked as she climbed them. Below her, chickens that were tied to metal pegs clucked furiously at her and pecked the ground in frustration.

But something really wasn’t right. Something made her thoroughly uneasy.

This wasn’t a hut.

In one corner of the room, there was a mat with what seemed to be a bed sheet on top of it. In another, a rudimentary wardrobe, made of wire and some form of mesh. In another, an orderly pile of cheap children’s toys, some of which appeared to be broken. In the fourth, an upturned coconut shell and what seemed to be a plastic toilet seat.

Her heart sank like a stone.

This was someone’s home. A family home.

She saw a window and peaked through it. Outside, a lone man in a tatty t-shirt and thin cargo shorts was hunched over what appeared to be a metal grate with embers beneath it, turning sticks of barbecue.

Was this his home?

She heard a creak on the stairs behind her. She spun around. Where can I hide? She asked herself, panicked.

But there was nowhere. These people – whoever they were – had nothing. And nothing meant no hiding places. From anything.

‘So now you’re adding trespassing and breaking and entering to your other charges?’ an elderly Filipina voice said softly, but with a humble authority. ‘I am trying to keep you out of prison, you know, Charlotte.’

‘Gloria, I... I....’ Charlotte stammered, before her head drooped in shame. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have ran. I heard you talking to Officer Gomez. I kind-of freaked out.’

Gloria walked slowly over to her skittish charge, reached up and set a hand gently on her shoulder. ‘Rohelio is a dear friend.’

Charlotte raised her eyebrows in mild disbelief.

‘Okay, he is a very dear friend.' Gloria admitted. 'But he is also an honourable man. He knows you have been through a lot, and the last few days have not been easy for you. Yes, he wants to bring Shiloh Stalker Valdez to justice. But he does not want to break you in the process.’ She chuckled. ‘As if I would let him.’

Charlotte smiled. She didn’t trust people easily – and not without good reason, given her situation. But Ma’am Gloria seemed entirely trustworthy, and not a little formidable.

Maybe running from her had not exactly been the best decision she had made.

Gloria took her hand from Charlotte’s shoulder. ‘Come and meet my friend Manny.’ She summoned her. ‘You broke into his house. You might as well say “Hello”.’

‘I didn’t really break in. The door was open.’ Charlotte protested.

‘Locks are expensive.’ Gloria called back to her.

Charlotte followed Gloria outside to the rear of the house, where Manny had finished barbecuing and had placed his freshly cooked barbecue sticks into a plastic bucket.

‘Manny! Kumusta? Nay bisita!’ Gloria called to him in her friendly, but insistent tone.

‘Maayo! Maayo!’ he replied, walking over to them enthusiastically, carrying his bucket of freshly barbecued meat. ‘Kumusta sad na mo?’

Gloria introduced him to Charlotte. ‘This my guest, Charlotte. She broke into your house, but didn’t mean it.’

‘Ah, you are the famous Charlotte.’ Manny, a man who looked like he was in his late thirties or early forties, but his dark skin and wiry grey hair showed that life had not been kind to him, smiled as he took her hand to shake it. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise. And sorry for breaking in.’ Charlotte grinned sheepishly.

‘It’s okay. I have nothing to steal.’ Manny smiled a smile with shades of rue.

‘Manny has quite the story, don’t you?’ Gloria prompted him. ‘Why don’t we sit on the steps and you can share it?’

‘Sige.’ Manny agreed.

They walked back to the front of the house and sat on the steps: Manny on the top step, the two woman on lower steps. He offered them barbecue. Charlotte was deeply ashamed to accept it. Manny was obviously not well off. This might be the only meal he’d have today. But, after Gloria persuaded her, she agreed. And over three sticks of barbecue, which Charlotte had to admit were among the best she had ever tasted, Manny told his story.

‘I had a job in Cebu. Not a great job, but we were paying our way. But, you know, my wife wanted more from life. I don’t have a great education – I could not afford to go to college. So when my wife saw work advertised in Macau, she decided she would try it. And she got it. She told me she was working as a hotel maid...’ He began to choke and sniff back tears. ‘...but she was not. She was working in casinos and bars and sleeping with men for money.’

Reality hit Charlotte like an express train. She had to turn away. She couldn’t face this. It hurt way too much.

Manny continued. ‘The money was good. Really good. But then she got sick. Her boss did not care for her at all. He only wanted her to work. Nothing else. She never wanted to do this job anyway. She felt she had to do it, because she was earning money for our children’s future.’

Charlotte felt like she was being tortured inside. She had never felt such pain, such horrific pain. It was almost indescribable. She wanted to retch to make it go away, but she could not. She wanted to run, to get away from it all one more time, but she felt like she was rooted to the spot, as if she had to hear this.

Even though every word Manny said was slicing into her like a scalpel.

And Manny wasn’t done. ‘One day it got too much. She ran away.’ He sobbed. ‘They found her and they killed her.’

That was it. The dam in Charlotte’s eyes gave way. Tears coursed down her cheek like wild rivers after a snow thaw.

‘And they did more, Manny, didn’t they?’ Gloria prompted him.

Manny nodded. ‘Her boss sent men to my door. They told me she owed them money – but she had paid nothing to go to Macau. They said I could pay off the debt, if I just filmed myself doing terrible things to my daughter. I could not do that. She is my daughter! How could I do that? So I took her and we moved here, with Ma’am Gloria’s help. The school is not so good, but at least she is safe.’

The tears running down Charlotte’s eyes were hot now: hot and salty with rage and pity, but worse, with shame. Deep, deep shame.

She felt like she had to say something. Something to make this go away. But she could not. All she could manage was just, ‘Manny, I am so, so sorry.’

‘Charlotte, the gang that recruited Manny’s wife Pretty, and pimped her out in Macau, and then murdered her, is headed up by Shiloh Stalker Valdez.’ Gloria said to her softly.

That truth hit way too close to home. ‘I’m sorry... I have to... This is too much.’ Charlotte stammered, rising up from the steps and slowly heading back the way she came.

Gloria thanked Manny. ‘Salamat kaayo, pare. I think you might just have made the difference.’ And then she too got up to follow Charlotte.

‘I mean, of all the... That was so low! How could you have brought me here, Gloria? How?’ Charlotte protested, her voice shaking with anger and despair.

‘I didn’t bring you here. You came here yourself. You all do. Maybe it’s the smell of Manny's barbecue.’ Gloria quipped. ‘I don’t know why you all do that. The road to Paz is right on my doorstep.’

‘You don’t understand, Gloria. I did that. Not to his wife. But I brought in girls for Shiloh. I told them it would be okay. But I knew what was going on. And I did nothing. I let it happen. What have I done? How many families like this have I broken?’ Charlotte exclaimed in anguish, collapsing to her knees and howling in despair.

‘I know what you did, Charlotte.’ Gloria told her, patting her gently on the shoulder.

‘But how... how can you even look me in the eye? I can’t.’ Charlotte wept.

‘Believe me, what you did disgusts me. I mean, how anyone could do that...? But I also understand why. Shiloh exploited you just like he did all those other women, and men, and even children. I also know he got you to use drugs, so I don’t know if you were aware of what you were doing half the time. I would offer you forgiveness, but it’s not my place – you haven’t hurt me. But you have hurt these people. All of them. And you have also hurt God.’

Charlotte sniffed hard. She didn’t deserve Gloria’s understanding. She didn’t deserve to have anything Gloria had given her. She definitely did not deserve Manny’s hospitality.

Their grace touched her deeply, to depths she did not even think existed.

Gloria wasn’t finished. ‘But saying you’re sorry isn’t enough, Charlotte . You can do something about this. You can repent. Turn yourself in. Give a statement to Officer Gomez. You can help stop this from happening to anyone else.’

Charlotte fell silent for a moment. She considered it all carefully. And then her silence was broken. ‘Okay. Okay. Tell Officer Gomez I’ll do it. But only to him. No-one else. And then he has to make me disappear.’

Gloria laughed. ‘You’re staying in Camotes. How much more invisible do you want to be?’

Shiloh and their crew of beautiful looking people gleefully got off their bangka from Kalanggaman Island, tipped their boatman way too generously, and piled into a couple of blacked out chauffeur-driven SUVs. Behind Shiloh, who was in the front passenger seat, their companions were examining their mobile phone pictures from the beautiful island they had just visited, laughing and giggling loudly and rehashing their memories of barely an hour previously.

‘You know, I really will need to cover myself with that aloe vera after sun lotion you brought from the UK, Shi.’ one of Shiloh’s muscles-bound companions, who would set off any gaydar within a hundred miles. ‘I really do not want to go brown. Or red. You did say it’s branded, didn’t you?’ he cooed.

‘It’s from Superdrug.’ Shiloh stated, naming a British brand known for its lower prices.

‘Uy! Superdrug! Bongga! So much classier-sounding than Watson’s.’ Shiloh’s companion trumpeted.

Shiloh hung his head and stifled a chuckle. He loved playing on their ignorance to impress them.

Right then, Shiloh’s phone rang.

‘Who is it?’ his friends all chimed in unison, before laughing like children in a kindergarten playground.

Shiloh looked at the number on the screen. ‘Saba!’ he snapped. ‘It’s someone important.’

They obeyed. Of course they did. Shiloh was paying. As always.

Shiloh composed themself, breathing in and out to slow their heart rate down on the call. ‘Ma’am Norma. How are you?’ he asked, feigning politeness for someone for whom they had no respect.

‘Fine. Fine.’ Norma told them perfunctorily, even though she was anything of the sort. ‘I saw your videos from the island. Very pretty. Look forward to the pictures.’

‘Thank you, Ma'am.’ Shiloh cooed, in a high-pitched, yet simultaneously husky, sing-song tone.

‘I just have one question...’ Norma began.

Shiloh attempted to brush her off. ‘If it’s how to get there, I will be posting that information in my next blog as soon as I get back to my hotel.’

‘No, it’s something else entirely. Although it did look glorious. Beats Bognor and Blackpool any day. Although I noticed there wasn’t a chip shop. It could do with a chip shop. Anyway, the reason why I'm calling is because I wonder when you’ll get around to making promotional videos about your country. You know: our exports, our culture, our industry. That sort of thing. The kind of thing that we’re paying you to do.’ She added, pointedly.

Shiloh began, ‘Well, you know, Ma’am, Kalanggaman Island is so utterly beautiful...’

‘Agreed.’

‘So beautiful that I felt I should not sully it with a can of baked beans, or a flat cap and whippet, or a canny shout of “Howway the lads!”. And it was way too hot to wear a suit of armour.’ Shiloh excused themself.

‘Understood. Yes. And please don’t think that your presence hasn’t been appreciated at our little soirees. It has. But we did hire Pink Boy Media to produce content for us, and we’d rather like to know when that will happen.’ Norma contested.

‘So you want us to commit to a date?’ Shiloh asked, setting a trap.

‘Yes, please. If that’s possible.’ Norma confirmed.

‘Like your husband committed to a date with that stunning Russian lady, and gave us the wonderful content, completely for free, that I have on my laptop.’ Shiloh grinned craftily.

‘Now, now. There’s no need to go there.’ Norma scolded him, her voice, and her moral authority, withering on the vine.

‘Your husband did, so I will too. But maybe later. If I feel like being straight again.’ Shiloh teased. ‘But you know how we roll: you push me, I push you. And I push harder.’ They said, an air of menace in their tone.

‘Yes, well, there is that.’ Norma muttered to fill the dead air.

‘You will get your content, Ma’am Norma, when I am ready.’ He told her firmly, before hamming up a fake sweet tone, saying to her, ‘Good-byee!’ and ending the call. He then barked towards it, ‘You’ll get your content when I can use the washroom of my choosing, you cis witch!’

‘Uy! The hair on my arms is standing on end!’ one of their companions told the group, in awe at how tough Shiloh had been.

Shiloh brushed it aside with a conceited tone. ‘Not possible. I waxed it two days ago, remember?’

A few thousand miles away, Alexei Orlov stepped out of the A380 that had brought him, almost on time, from Munich to Singapore. Business class had been delightful: spacious and comfortable seat, delicious food, brilliant entertainment, and they had vodka as well as wine. He had been in his element. More to the point, he was also well rested.

He had heard talk of The Jewel and The Rain Vortex. Now he wanted to see if it was true.

After all, if he was caught on his little mission, all he would see would be the inside of his prison cell and exercise yard for several decades.

He used his brand new American diplomatic passport to breeze past the automatic immigration gates and followed the signs that pointed to the Jewel. Reaching it easily enough, he felt some height might be required to see it properly, so he rode a few escalators and emerged into the garden itself at the Shisheido Forest Valley, its sign set in a wall covered with green plants.

And there it was, glistening and glinting in the natural light, augmented with colourful spotlights: the largest indoor waterfall in the world. Forty metres high, with thirty-seven thousand, eight hundred and fifty litres of rain water cascading through it every minute.

Even he had to admit, this place was pretty special.

And if it was the last special thing he saw before being incarcerated, it was a good place to stop.

He gazed around at other travellers, yawning to stave off their weariness.

See, you should have flown business class too. He thought to himself.

Forgetting the reason why he was flying business class.

But in a little over five hours, he’d be reminded.