Casey Watson - Runaway Girl - A beautiful girl. Trafficked for sex. Is there nowhere to hide?

‘She’s probably been trafficked,’ decided Tyler, once he’d whizzed through his chores and come and joined us.

Mike chuckled as he went in search of bedding across the landing. ‘And you’d know all about that, I suppose.’

‘No, honest. I bet she has. They sneak them in through the Channel Tunnel under lorries. I saw a thing about it on telly the other week. What’s she like, anyway? What’s John said about her?’

‘Almost nothing, love,’ I told him. ‘And no interrogations, okay? We’re not in an episode of CSI: NY , remember. ‘Here,’ I added. ‘Strip that duvet cover off for me, will you? I doubt Frozen is really going to be her thing. Mind you, I’m so out of touch these days with teenage girls that I’m not sure what her thing might actually be.’

‘Well, I haven’t done much better,’ Mike called from his foray into the airing cupboard – an airing cupboard somewhat depleted as the result of one of my periodic New Year clear-outs, in preparation for a big shop in the January sales. Which I’d not quite got round to.

‘It’s basically a choice between Newcastle United and The Little Mermaid , currently,’ Mike said, brandishing both sets in the bedroom doorway. ‘Unless we put her in the double in the other spare room, but of course that means clearing all the junk out of it, of which there is a lot …’

I stuck my tongue out at him, refusing to feel guilty about what I had managed to accomplish, which had been an overhaul and restock of my ever-expanding collection of toys. ‘No, no time,’ I said. ‘ The Little Mermaid will have to do for now, I guess. Though I’m sure we had a simpler one. One with butterflies on. Oh God, surely all girls like mermaids?’

‘That’s sexist stereotyping, that is,’ Tyler quipped. ‘We just did it in PSE class. How d’you know she’s not, like, a massive Newcastle fan?’

‘That’s a fair point,’ I conceded. ‘Though I suspect it might be wishful thinking on your part. Here. Grab the other end of that duvet – oh, but, God, that’s a thought!’

‘That sounds ominous,’ Mike said. ‘Go on then. What’s a thought?’

‘Polish! We don’t know any, do we! How are we going to greet her? I’m going to have to go down and fire up the laptop before she arrives.’

‘I do,’ said Tyler. ‘We’ve got those two Polish kids in my class, haven’t I? Hang no – Mum, you’ve even met one. You know – Vladimir? Sooooo … What do I know … Erm … Okay, here’s one. “ Ziom ”.’

‘Come again?’ said Mike.

‘ Ziom . It means bro,’ explained Tyler. ‘You know, like in “bruvva”. As in, like, when you meet someone and you fist bump, and say, “Hey, bro – how’s it hanging?”’ He did a little fist bump with Mike to illustrate.

‘Well, that’s extremely helpful, I don’t think,’ I told him. ‘I need “welcome” and “come in” and “This is your lovely temporary bedroom, but please don’t read anything into The Little Mermaid duvet cover”.’

I threw the last Ariel-emblazoned, half-in-its-case pillow at him. We needed all of that, yes, but mostly ‘Don’t be scared, love, you’re safe now’. I left the bedroom and hurried down the stairs, suddenly remembering that Tyler would have probably left me a sinkful of dirty dishes and mugs to sort out as he’d been home alone for a couple of hours.

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