When Helen called the number, she wanted to frighten her husband.
She wanted Michael to understand what it felt like to hear a key turn in the front door and wonder what mood the person coming home would be in.
The woman who answered sounded reassuring.
“Red Light Solutions. How can we help?”
Helen stood in her kitchen, holding a tea towel against her split lip.
“I saw your advertisement.”
“Of course. Are you somewhere safe to speak?”
That question nearly made her cry.
The operator listened for twenty minutes. She did not interrupt or ask why Helen had stayed. Afterwards, she explained that the company offered a discreet intervention programme.
“Your husband will be removed from the household and placed in supervised employment. You won’t have to confront him.”
“What do you mean by removed?”
“We arrange everything.”
Helen looked towards the hallway. Michael would be home soon.
“Will he be able to find me?”
“No.”
She agreed before she could change her mind.
Nine days later, an envelope arrived at the flat where Helen was staying with her sister.
Inside were a train ticket, a hotel booking confirmation for Amsterdam, and a card.
RED LIGHT AUCTIONS
Your complimentary admission: Thursday, 8 p.m.
Beneath it, in smaller print:
Attend and see your problem resolved.
Helen read the card twice.
Then she telephoned the number again.
This time, nobody answered.
The auction took place on the upper floor of a canal-side building with black windows and a brass doorbell.
A receptionist took Helen’s coat.
“Champagne?”
“No, thank you. I need to speak to someone about Michael.”
“Lot Three.” The receptionist consulted a tablet. “You’re the referring spouse.”
“I’m his wife.”
“Yes. That’s what I have here.”
She handed Helen a catalogue.
Beyond the reception desk, rows of upholstered chairs faced a small stage. People chatted over drinks. One couple were discussing the difficulty of finding reliable household staff.
Helen opened the catalogue.
All placements include identity documents, compulsory domestic-service contracts, and residential supervision.
She turned the page.
There were photographs of four women.
She recognised none of them.
Under the third photograph was her husband’s name.
Backstage, Michael sat with his hands clasped between his knees.
They had given him a plain grey dress. A plastic number hung from his wrist. He had asked for trousers that morning and been told the wardrobe allocation was final.
Across from him, Marcus sat staring at the floor.
Richard had spent most of the afternoon demanding a solicitor. Now he watched the door without speaking.
William still seemed convinced that somebody would arrive to collect him.
“My father knows people,” he said.
A staff member entered with four glasses of water.
Michael stood.
“Please. My wife—does she know where I am?”
The woman checked his wrist number.
“Your referring party has been invited.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“Sit down, please.”
He remained standing.
Her hand moved towards the radio clipped to her jacket.
Michael sat.
The auctioneer greeted the audience with the easy confidence of a man opening a charity raffle.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We have four placements available tonight.”
Helen sat near the back with the catalogue folded tightly in her lap.
Marcus came first.
The auctioneer described his qualifications, his previous salary and his affair. A screen behind him displayed a list of household tasks he had been assessed as capable of performing.
Marcus tried to speak.
The auctioneer lowered his microphone.
Whatever he said made Marcus close his mouth.
Bidding began.
Helen looked around. A woman in the front row raised her paddle without looking up from her catalogue.
Beside Helen, an older man calculated something on his telephone.
Onstage, Marcus wiped his palms against his skirt.
By the time Richard appeared, Helen had stopped trying to tell herself she had misunderstood.
She rose and went into the reception area.
“I want to withdraw my referral.”
The receptionist’s smile faded.
“Once processing has begun, referrals cannot be withdrawn.”
“You said supervised employment.”
“That is what we provide.”
“You’re selling them.”
“We transfer the service contract.”
“Let me see mine.”
The receptionist hesitated, then turned her tablet towards Helen.
Helen’s signature was copied from the form she had completed on her telephone. Beneath it were pages she had never seen.
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“You accepted the terms.”
A burst of applause came from inside the room.
“Please take your seat,” the receptionist said.
Michael recognised Helen immediately.
He stepped toward her before the attendant caught his arm.
“Helen?”
Several bidders turned to look.
She had returned to the back of the room and was standing beside her chair.
The auctioneer glanced between them.
“Our referring spouse is with us this evening. We hope tonight provides some closure.”
Michael’s face crumpled.
“You called them?”
Helen gripped the chair back.
“Yes.”
“Tell them to let me go.”
She remembered saying the same words in their bedroom, with him standing in the doorway.
He seemed to remember too. His eyes dropped.
The auctioneer began describing his suitability for residential work.
“Stop,” Helen said.
He continued.
“I said stop.”
“Madam, you’ll have an opportunity to speak with our client liaison afterwards.”
A man near the front lifted his paddle.
Helen walked into the aisle.
“I called because he hit me. Your operator told me you would get him out of the house.”
The room quietened.
Michael stood motionless beside the attendant.
“He did hit me,” Helen continued. “I’m not taking that back. But nobody told me you would do this.”
The auctioneer set down his catalogue.
“Perhaps we should take a short interval.”
A staff member approached Helen.
She stepped away from his hand.
“How long is the contract?”
“We can discuss that privately.”
“How long?”
No answer.
Helen looked towards the bidders.
“Did any of you ask?”
A young woman opened a side door.
“This way, madam. We can deal with your complaint downstairs.”
Her badge read ELISE — GUEST SERVICES.
Helen followed her into a narrow corridor.
The door shut behind them.
Elise spoke quietly.
“Keep walking.”
“I’m not leaving until—”
“I know. Keep walking.”
At the end of the corridor, Elise opened a cleaning cupboard and reached behind a stack of folded cloths.
She brought out a telephone.
“They took yours at reception?”
Helen nodded.
“Use this.”
“Who are you?”
Elise glanced back at the door.
“I was Lot Two last November.”
Helen stared at her.
“My buyer returned me. Said I was difficult. They put me to work here until they could recover the cost.”
She unlocked the telephone.
Its screen showed photographs of contracts, identity papers, and people sitting beneath numbered signs.
“I’ve been collecting what I could. But I can’t get out of this building with it.”
Helen took the phone.
“Who do I call?”
“The police. Tell them four people are being held backstage. Tell them the exits are watched.”
Footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Elise picked up a bundle of towels.
“And tell them there are more of us working here.”
The auction did not resume.
For several minutes, the guests remained seated while staff offered refreshments and apologised for the delay.
Then someone tried the main door and found police outside.
Helen waited near reception until an officer asked her to identify Michael.
They brought him downstairs, wrapped in a borrowed coat. Under the bright hallway light, she could see how exhausted he looked.
“Helen.”
She stayed beside the officer.
“Am I coming with you?” he asked.
“No.”
He looked at the overnight bag by her feet.
“I’m staying with my sister. I’ve spoken to a solicitor. You’re not coming back to the house.”
He began to cry.
Once, the sight would have made her comfort him, apologise, promise to try harder.
This time, she let him cry.
“I’ve told the police what you did,” she said. “I’ve told them what happened here too.”
An officer guided him towards a waiting car.
Helen watched until he was safely inside.
Shortly before dawn, Elise emerged from the building carrying her belongings in a clear plastic bag.
Helen stood beneath the awning across the street.
“Have you got somewhere to go?” she asked.
Elise shook her head.
“There’s someone here arranging accommodation for everyone. I’ll wait with you.”
They sat on a low wall beside the canal.
Across the road, officers were carrying boxes out of the auction house. One contained the catalogues.
Helen could see the corner of hers sticking out, its cover still advertising a quick and easy solution.
Elise followed her gaze.
“Did you buy anyone?”
“No.”
“Good.”
After a moment, Helen took off her coat and spread it across both their knees.
They waited together for the car.
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