Episode Ten: Sunset Blindness

Verity shivered despite the heat. Her levels of apprehension and anxiety were through the roof.

Almost as if he sensed it, and while seated in the classy surroundings of Lorenzo’s, eating a rice muffin and drinking an iced tea, Don asked her, ‘Verity, are you okay?’

‘No, Don, I'm not okay.’ she whispered hoarsely into her locket microphone. ‘I’m freaking terrified, okay? I’m terrified that I’m about to face the man who drove my friend to kill herself. I'm terrified that all of these woman will face the same fate. I’m terrified of what he will do to me, Don, of what he will do to me. And do you know what else I’m terrified of? Every man who passes this queue and ogles me like a piece of meat. I’m terrified of every wolf-whistler and cat-caller and pervert who leers at me and wants me for my body, Don. I am flat out pooing myself. I hid myself from them – and I don’t mind admitting it – because I saw what those animals did to my friend and I did not want it to happen to me.’ She sniffed back salty tears. ‘And I don’t care if everyone who ever saw me thought that I’m a card-carrying lesbian. They can think whatever they want. It doesn’t bother me. Because all those years, I kept myself safe by making sure that no sicko wanted his way with me. And it worked. But now... I have never felt so exposed and alone in all my life, Don. So no, I am not okay.’

‘Feel better now all that’s out?’ Don asked her.

‘No... I mean, yes. I don’t know anymore.’ Verity stammered.

‘So let’s get one thing straight once and for all: you do like men, don’t you?’ Don asked her.

Verity was very quick to answer. ‘Of course I do! You know who I am and what I believe! It’s just... I’m scared of them, Don. Really, really scared. Sometimes even of you.’

‘Well, that’s no bad thing.’ Don quipped. ‘Look, let me tell you one thing about men – about all people, in fact. When it comes to relationships, all people are fundamentally stupid.’

Verity chuckled wryly.

‘Well, they are.’ Don continued. ‘They like someone because of how they look, how they dress, how they smell. But that’s just nonsense! Give them twenty-five to thirty years and they’ll be a wrinkly old prune, dressed in cheap rags, and their backside will be trumpeting in bed. Then they’ll be asking, “Is this the person I married?” And the answer is, “No, you fool! Because you married their clothes, their perfume bottle and an idealised picture of them that they projected that was never real to start with!” See? It’s all stupid! And all those lunatics who bark and howl and whistle when they see a woman they like? It’s all nonsense. They’re just saying they like the marketing. The marketing that is never real. It gets taken off, washed off and slung on the floor like garbage. We’re all just trying to make sense of the madness, Verity. Some of us let it get to us and drive us insane. You and I, we don’t, because we know there is more to life than being soaked in pheromones and dressed like a hooker. So don’t let them get to you, my lass. You can do this. Because you are never alone. Never.’

Verity sniffed. ‘Thanks Don. That helped. You ever thought of becoming a therapist?’ she quipped.

‘Nah. I’d be too good.’ Don told her. ‘And please, whatever you do, don’t poo yourself. With the underwear you have on it'll probably make a mess of the pavement.’

‘Letch!’ Verity coughed, smiling.

Charlotte hated this. Absolutely hated this. She was stuck in a cell. In a cell! Her! And yet, she had come here to help the police, to give them information that could stop Shiloh Stalker Valdez from harming one more woman.

And they put her here!

But she wasn’t just angry. Or frustrated.

She was terrified. Flat out terrified. She anxiously paced the empty floor of her cell like a bird landing on a hot tin roof. She had done wrong. So much wrong. So many terrible things. She could confess them. Reduce her sentence. Maybe make a plea bargain.

But that would still mean going to prison. Here. In the Philippines. Or maybe she could contact the Embassy. Arrange an extradition. She had done wrong in the UK too. Maybe she could get them to fly her home.

She thought and reasoned and spiralled and obsessed: planning, scheming, plotting... anything she could do to keep her anxiety from boiling over and erupting and destroying her, all while pounding the floor of her cell like a caged animal.

There was a rattle of keys. A click. The heavy cell door scraped open.

Gloria stood in the doorway. Roberta and a burly male policeman stood beside her. ‘Charlotte, we have go. Now.’ Gloria told her.

‘Just like that?’ Charlotte asked her.

‘Just like that.’ Gloria replied.

‘Where?’ Charlotte asked once more.

‘Somewhere safe.’ Roberta told them.

The police officer gently removed Charlotte’s handcuffs. ‘Go, please. And look after yourselves.’ he told them.

The three women ran down a corridor and then up some stairs. And then another corridor.

Charlotte had no idea where they were. Or what they were doing. Or where they were going.

Back in the police station bullring, a tall, stocky male police officer took a large, open-topped cardboard box and placed it with a loud rattle onto Rohelio’s desk. Rohelio peered into it intently. ‘Oh, this will do. This will definitely do.' He grinned. 'Okay, people, masks on!’ he commanded the men and women officers in the bullring. ‘Let's show them a thing or two about police brutality.’

Without warning, the queue began to move. And by quite a lot. Verity shuffled forward at least twenty metres in a few seconds. ‘Don, this is moving really quickly. What’s happening?’ Verity whispered.

‘Okay, I read about this. They’re thinning the herd.’ Don told her. ‘They send people with tablets into the line and exclude the people they don’t want.’

‘And which people don’t they want?’

‘Usually anyone who can’t travel right away, shows any aversion to the type of work they will do, or has family ties.’

‘Family ties?’

‘Yeah, you know: kids, grandkids, brothers, sisters, parents...’

‘I know what family ties are. But why is that an issue?’

Don inhaled sharply. ‘Because someone without family ties will not be missed if anything happens to them.’ He could almost sense Verity’s anxiety climbing again. ‘I’m sorry, but you asked.’

‘That explains why they went for Charlotte. She was abandoned by her mother and raised through the care system.’ Charlotte realised.

‘Exactly.’ Don told her. ‘People with a hard life like that are easy meat for scumbags like Valdez. The number one reason why people get into porn or sex trafficking isn’t the glamour or the chance to earn money, it's poverty. And animals like him prey on that. Use it, Verity. You prey on him.’

Verity looked ahead of her. Just as Don had said, maybe ten or fifteen people away from her, a woman with a tablet was rooting out unwanted women from the queue. ‘I see her, Don. I see someone doing exactly that. She’s sending people away. And she seems to be giving them a business card. What’s that?’

‘That’s the booby prize, if you’ll pardon the pun.’ Don told her.

Verity interjected. ‘Inappropriate, but you’re all I’ve got right now, so I’ll ignore it.’

Don continued. ‘I believe it contains a web link to one of Valdez’s sites. They're encouraging them to do web-camming. And he, of course, will take a generous cut.’

‘That man is scum. Pure and utter scum.’ Verity spat quietly.

‘Glad we’re done with the woke garbage now.’ Don commented.

‘Well, he is. He’s a man.’ Verity told him. ‘And I am done being afraid of him.’

‘Atta girl!’ Don cheered her through his earpod.

The guard on the door at Police Station number 1 was having a quiet day. He’d known busier times – when the Abad clan were establishing their authority, for example – but these days the day shift was really quiet. And he liked it that way.

But not today.

He saw four men walking almost in lockstep, with a steely-eyed gaze, towards him. All had weapons of some sort: some shotguns; others baseball bats.

This was trouble. It could only be trouble.

He got out his police radio. ‘Eh, Officer Bautista, requesting backup. Requesting immediate backup.’ He stammered into his radio. ‘Now!’

The men were open him in seconds. Without breaking stride, they simply grabbed him and ragdolled him, casting him aside to the ground as if he was nothing but a minor inconvenience.

They strode inside the police station. The metal detector rang louder than a church bell at a wedding. But no-one stood in their way. They marched onwards, stopping at the front desk. Their leader slammed his palms onto the desk as if they were numb. ‘Give me Charlotte Chapman and Gloria Amparo. Now!’ he snarled.

The desk sergeant quaked at the demand, ‘I’m pretty sure that would be a violation of Republic Act...’

‘Oh, shut up and open the door!’ the man snapped.

‘I can’t... I can’t...’ the desk sergeant stammered.

‘Just get out of the way!’ the man ordered. He signalled to one of his three companions. The companion leapt over the desk, shoved the desk sergeant, and his wheeled office chair, aside, felt under the desk, found a button and pressed it. There was a loud buzz and then a click.

‘Thank you.’ the leader told him sarcastically. ‘Come after us and you die.’

Another of his companions held the door open until they were all inside. The door closed behind them with a click.

The desk sergeant grabbed his phone, dialled a number, and blurted. ‘Ormoc station number one. Request immediate assistance. Raid ongoing. Danger to life. Repeat: danger to life!’

The gang reached the bullpen. It was empty. Suspiciously so. One of the gang held his baseball bat and smacked it against the palm of his hand. Once. Twice. Three times.

‘Where is Charlotte Chapman?’ their leader boomed. ‘Bring her here. Now. Or I’ll tear this place apart.’

They heard something. A rolling. A tumbling. Something had moved. They looked to the floor. It was a canister. A small metal canister. And vapour was leaking from it. Leaking fast.

Their leader recognised right away what it was. ‘Oh, f...’ he exclaimed.

He didn’t get time to finish.

The tear gas burned his eyes. Invaded his lungs. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe.

Thwack!

A police truncheon struck him hard on the back of the knees.

He tumbled down to the floor. But he didn’t get there. A police boot caught him full in the face. His nose cracked and stung and bled. He jerked backwards. The back of his head bounced on the hard linoleum floor.

Everything went dark.

All around his prone body, weapons flailed in vain at enemies unseen. Thugs were pistol-whipped. Winded. Struck with sticks, with batons, with office furniture. Even with a stapler and a hole puncher.

And they fell: against the walls; against desks; onto chairs.

Then they were dragged. Every last one of them. And huge metal doors were locked behind them.

Rohelio stood among the aftermath of the mayhem and smiled widely. ‘Open the windows. Let the gas out. You know, I haven’t had that much fun in years.’

‘Should we get them a doctor?’ one of the junior officers asked.

‘Yeah, we could, but we’d have to justify how four strong men fell down the stairs and smell of tear gas.’ Rohelio told him. ‘Leave it. They’ve had it worse.’

Charlotte, Gloria and Roberta burst outside, shoving a door so hard that it bounced on its hinges.

‘Where to now?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Sa Shell.’ Gloria told her. ‘I made a call.’

They ran through the back lot of the police station, clambered over a low fence, and ran towards the nearby Shell filling station. There was only one vehicle in the forecourt: a huge black SUV with tinted windows.

‘That’s our ride?’ Charlotte asked Gloria.

‘That’s our ride.’ Gloria confirmed.

The three women ran as fast as they could. As they approached, a rear passenger door slid open electronically. ‘Get in.’ A gentle female voice urged.

They complied. No second thoughts.

The door closed quickly behind them. The driver put his foot down on the accelerator so hard that they were thrown backwards.

The woman on the front passenger seat turned around. ‘Now, let’s get you ladies somewhere safe.’

Charlotte gasped. She knew that face. She’d seen it on posters all around the city.

It was the Mayor: Joy Abad.

A neatly and demurely dressed woman, clearly designed to put people at ease, approached Verity, large tablet and stylus in hand, holding a bunch of papers behind the tablet..

‘Sus! Ginoo! It's my turn now.’ she whispered to Don.

‘Just do you.’ Don reassured her.

The woman politely greeted her ‘Hi.’ she said, with a degree of nerves not assuaged by the fact that she had done this hundreds of times before.

‘Hi.’ Verity echoed, with the same degree of nerves.

‘Just to check: are you here to apply for the positions available with Pink Boy Media?’ the woman asked.

Verity gulped some air and nodded. ‘Yes. I am.’

‘Can I have your name, please?’

‘Verity Amihan Defensor.’

The woman wrote it down on the tablet screen with the stylus. ‘And your address in the Philippines?’

‘I’m currently residing at La Vista Del Rio, Siapon Street, Merida, Leyte.’ Verity rhymed off.

‘Is that a subdivision, or...?’

‘It's a resort. I don’t currently have a permanent address here in the Philippines.’ Verity admitted.

‘Oh, okay.’ The woman said, raising her carefully pencilled eyebrows. ‘I won’t write it down then. We can always reach you by phone, correct?’

‘I actually have a foreign SIM card too. I haven’t been back in the Philippines for long. I hope that’s okay.’ Verity admitted.

‘No problem.’ The woman told her. ‘Can I have your number, please?’

Verity provided her mobile phone number, with the international dial code.

‘That accent. It’s a little unusual. What is it? Bicolano? Ilocano? Boholano?’ the woman asked Verity.

‘It’s Glasgow.’

‘Not sure I’ve heard of that. Which province is it in?’

‘Scotland. In the UK.’

Now the woman really was interested. ‘So, do you have a British passport?’

‘Yes. I’ll show you.’ Verity placed a hand in her clutch bag and pulled out her passport. It was pristine as it had only been renewed a few months before and had not yet been used, except on this trip. She gave it to the woman, who noted her passport number and expiry with great care, before returning it.

‘I have to say, I'm a little confused.’ the woman said to Verity. ‘You are a British born Filipina. You have everything you want. And yet you come here, you line up and you want a job like this. Why?’

Verity already had an answer for that question. ‘It’s actually a little embarrassing. I got fired from my job in Glasgow. I had flights to come here on holiday anyway. I saw this opportunity advertised and it looked great, so here I am.’

Don commended her over his earpod. ‘Very nice answer. You're a lot smarter than you look.’

Verity somehow kept herself under control. Even if she wanted to slap him.

‘Now I have to ask a few questions related to the job.’ the woman stated.

‘Okay.’

‘How soon can you travel? Do you have any restrictions?’

‘Right away. I'm British, so I don’t need to attend any Department of Migrant Affairs briefings.’

‘That’s actually quite a big advantage.’ the woman admitted. ‘Do you have any dependents? You know: siblings, cousins, parents who might depend on you financially or otherwise?’

‘No. I'm free as a bird.’

‘Do you have any other family: parents, grandparents...?’

‘No. I’m estranged from my family.’ Just saying that part actually ached for Verity, as if she realised for the first time that this was not a good place to be.

‘Noted. And lastly, how do you feel about sexual harassment in the workplace?’

That was quite a curveball. Verity did not expect this to be coming up so soon, or that they would be so up front about it.

Don, however, saw this coming. ‘It’s illegal under Republic Act number 7877 of 14th February 1995 and any perpetrator can expect imprisonment of between one and six months and a fine of between ten and twenty thousand pesos, and a swift kick in the goolies from me.’ he bulletted off.

‘Hey, look, if some guy finds me attractive, I don’t mind that. I might even welcome it. Provided he only goes further with my permission.’ Verity lied, and then bit her lip and arrowed a quick prayer for forgiveness when the woman's eyes were turned.

‘Liar!’ Don snapped.

‘Okay, you are through to the next stage, which is an audience with our esteemed leader, Shiloh Stalker Valdez. Congratulations!’ The woman told her, handing her a purple card. ‘I can also give you this, in case Ma’am Valdez somehow does not hire you.’ She handed Verity a business card which, on brief examination, just as Don had said, contained details of how to upload videos to a webcam site owned by Pink Boy Media. The woman continued. ‘But they would be a fool not to hire you because you are very beautiful.’

Verity could almost feel a tear coming into her eye. Why did she feel that? She had just been told she was beautiful by an organisation that specialised in the trafficking of human flesh for the perverted pleasure of some really sick people.

Maybe it was the fact she had been called beautiful at all.

It had been a long time.

‘Good going, kid. Well done. Now get in there and show them what you’ve got.’ Don geed her on, before adding. ‘Well, not all of it. Save something for your wedding night.’

‘Did you get away safely?’ Rohelio asked Roberta over the phone.

‘Just turning left onto Hermosilla now.’ Roberta told him. ‘Not there yet, but we’re on the way. You? Did it go well?’

‘I should be singing you “Happy Birthday” because you have a nice present waiting in your cells.’ Rohelio told her.

‘All of them?’

‘None got away. One of their phones shows direct contact with someone known to be part of Valdez’s organisation, so I smell some more charges coming. Redirected some officers from Station number 4 to raid their warehouse. Reckon we’ll find a few more things to charge them with there.’

‘Thank you, Rohelio.’

Rohelio cracked a wide smile. ‘No, I should be thanking you. That was the most fun I've had in years.’

‘Happy to indulge you.’ Roberta smiled.

‘Listen, I’ve got to get to the Heritage Hotel. Verity will need our support.’

‘Take a team from my station with you, provided they aren’t all battered.’

‘Trust me: there’s not a mark on them. Stay safe!’ Rohelio ended the call.

Within minutes, three unmarked police cars left the parking lot of Police Station number 1, heading in the direction of the Heritage Hotel.

In the lead car, Rohelio took out his mobile phone and made a call. ‘Hey, Sir Don! Where are you? We’re on our way.’

Verity walked purposefully towards the hotel entrance clutching the purple card, her heart pounding ever quicker in her chest.

What she saw on the way appalled her.

Women were pleading, even begging the people with the tablets, to be allowed into the hotel. Gay men were throwing spectacular, noisy, and at times, expletive-filled tantrums. Security had to be called for some of them. Huge men, all in black t-shirts and bomber jackets, were forming human chains and forcing them back – some even with violence – and kettling them on the grass across the road.

Verity was aghast. Come on, people! Have some dignity! She thought to herself. Have you no idea what’s going on in there?

‘She has one! A purple card! She has one!’ A woman shouted excitedly. Her and her friend ran to Verity. They jostled her, trying hard to snatch it, but she held it away from their grasp.

‘What is wrong with you people?’ she snapped at them.

‘I’ll give you five thousand for it.’ One of them announced, immediately plunging her hand into her handbag to retrieve the cash.

‘I'll give you ten.’ the other one offered.

‘I’ll give you twenty.’ the first one countered.

A security guard noticed she was being hassled. He started to head over to protect her.

‘I’ll give you twenty-five, but I also have a hundred dollars in a bank account. It’s yours. I just need that card.’ the second woman pleaded.

‘I need it too!’ the first one begged.

The guard was a single pace from Verity now. She saw him out of the corner of her eye. ‘Trust me: you don’t.’ she snapped at the women, and strode purposefully towards the hotel.

The grand ballroom in the Heritage Hotel, with its white ceiling with gold struts and polished marble floor, and it’s large windows with white, floaty net curtains, was almost ready. Shiloh stood in the mayhem as flunkeys flitted this way and that to put the finishing touches in place. At the far end of the ballroom, a small wooden platform had been erected, and on that platform stood a large chair, red cushioned and with great rounded arms. This was their throne, where they would preside over proceedings as ruler of all they surveyed.

On the way up to the platform, and between row after row of circular tables and chairs, all covered in white and gold cloth, was a bright red carpet. Another, at right angles to the first, was in front of their throne. This is where they would see the girls and gays process, and select the most stunning candidates for sale the following day, while, of course, reserving the cream of the crop for their own businesses.

Beside the throne, on either side of the platform, were ordinary seats for the lesser mortals: one for their assistant, whose name permanently escaped him, and the other for Cherry Popper, whose disappearance and subsequent arrest had only saddened them a little, but whose replacement they had not yet selected.

They scanned the room with deep pride. The Sabin Resort Hotel was stunning in its own right, but this place had class. And history. And gravitas. Plus, it was right in the centre of the city, where they could be seen – and they had to be seen.

Their assistant – the one whose name (Maja Estrella Hernandez) they could never make the effort to remember – walked up to them from her place in his shadows and held out their mobile phone.

‘Ma’am, you have a call.’ she told them.

‘Can’t it wait? I’m basking in my greatness and brilliance.’ Shiloh told her, as they wafted the scent of the ballroom to their nose with their carefully manicured hands.

‘It’s Ma’am Norma Jones.’ Maja told them in a low voice.

Shiloh sighed but took the call anyway. ‘Hello, Normy.’ they teased her.

‘What are you doing? I can’t believe you’re doing it! It’s so brazen!’ Norma snapped, her frustration evident.

‘I’m holding a recruitment event in my own home town for my own businesses.’ Shiloh told her, with a distinctly regal air.

‘One of our administrators was handed a card advertising one of your websites that contained material of a highly...’ She could hardly bring herself to say the word. ‘...sexual nature. So I have to ask you: for what kind of business are you recruiting there?’ Norma asked, her anxiety plain.

Shiloh’s answer did not alleviate it. ‘One that entrapped your husband.’ they hissed, before ending the call abruptly.

Verity walked slowly up the ramp to the entrance of the red-trimmed concrete hotel. She showed the purple card to the uniformed guard, who opened the heavy glass front door and gestured her to someone in the same uniform as the woman who had spoken to her in the queue, only this time they were seated with hotel staff behind the front desk.

All the time, crouched behind a suspiciously precisely parked car, an older man aimed his camera with a long view lens and clicked. Again. Again. Again. Rapidly. Unrelenting. Like a machine gun.

Like he’d done with all the chaos that had taken place that afternoon.

Gabriel De La Cruz had ensured he had missed not even one second of it.

Verity would be pleased with him.

Verity walked up to the Pink Boy Media representative seated behind the front desk. She produced the purple card, which the woman gently took from her. ‘Can I have your name please, Ma’am?’ the woman asked, in a warm, professional tone, but with subtle undertones of jealousy that she was not in Verity’s place.

‘Verity Amihan Defensor.’ Verity stated calmly – or as calm as she could be when her stomach was in knots inside her and her pulse was racing.

‘Congratulations, Ma’am Verity, and welcome to Pink Boy Media.’ she told her. ‘Please join the other candidates in the ballroom. Your table is number three. Further instructions will be provided at your table. Congratulations again!’ The woman gestured for her to enter through a wooden door, just behind her.

It didn’t take Rohelio long to find Don, who by now had finished with his iced tea and muffin, and was seated at an indoor table, tapping furiously on his phone.

‘What’s wrong, Sir Don?’ Rohelio asked him.

‘She’s in.’ Don told him without making eye contact, still tapping on his phone.

‘That’s good, right?’ Rohelio asked.

‘Aye, but I’ve ran out of blue teeth. I’m not getting a signal at all. I don’t know what's happening.’ Don told him, before raising his head and eyeballing him with a pained expression on his face. ‘I’m out of range.’