Carla Slaving Away Overseas Ch. 01-03
Posted: Sat Oct 25, 2025 5:48 pm
From Beach to Bars
The heat on the Kivana Islands clung to Carla Murphy as she sipped wine at the Celtic Circuits dinner. The murmuring of the ocean’s waves was drowned out by laughter. At twenty-two, she felt out of place among these polished executives. Tara Brennan, her boss, had plucked her from one of Dublin’s dead-end jobs and given her an assistant’s role. A job with real pay finally. Along the way, Carla had found out that their tech went to questionable buyers, but the money was good.
Tara’s warm smile during the interview, offering her this exotic job, had seemed like acceptance, a sign she was one of them. Maybe I’ve finally made it, she thought, her heart lifting.
But now, with the wine loosening her tongue and the executives chuckling at some impenetrable in-joke, she leaned forward, grinning like a cat who had spotted an unguarded cream jug.
“You know,” she said, her voice bright with the reckless confidence of the slightly inebriated, “I’ve sussed your little secret. The outpost’s for flogging tech to sanctioned buyers, isn’t it?” She giggled, expecting a round of conspiratorial winks.
The table froze, and she realized she had made a mistake. A gruff executive dropped his fork as his jaw went tight. Another, wiry with thinning hair, glared. Tara’s smile tightened, her eyes cold as steel. Carla instantly regretted saying this. How could she have been so stupid to be so forward with them?
“N-no big deal,” Carla stammered. Her cheeks felt hotter than the tropical sun. “I’m not saying anything.”
“Right,” Tara said, her voice smooth as oiled hinges on a trapdoor.
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Later in the hotel lounge, Tara faced the executives. Their faces were grim. “She’s a loose end,” one of them hissed. “One wrong word from her back home, and we’re done.”
“If she talks—” the wiry one began.
“She won’t,” Tara snapped, her mind racing. Carla’s naivety had been perfect. Until now. “I’ll handle it.”
“You better,” the other one growled. “You hired her. She’s your responsibility.”
──────────────────────────────
Afternoon the next day:
Carla stood in a cold concrete cell, gripping the bars in disbelief. She was still in her faded blue bikini, damp from the beach, clinging to her clammy skin. The bright overhead light buzzed monotonously. Her cell felt like a dark, oppressive box, and her wrists ached from the cuffs that had been removed. She felt the gritty floor under her bare feet. Her life had turned upside down.
When she had walked into her hotel room, after a swim at the nearby beach, she had found the police rifling through her bags, and holding on a few packets of a suspicious white powder. Now, the bikini that once made her feel bold felt obscenely revealing in the cell’s damp air.
The heavy door creaked open, and a stern-looking uniformed man stepped inside, a Black man whose commanding presence filled the cell. It was the District Attorney. His dark skin contrasted with the white folder he carried, which he flipped open.
“Miss Murphy,” he began, “You’re being charged with possessing a substantial amount of cocaine, found in your room. The Investment Act demands harsh drug penalties to make foreign investors feel safe and this quantity demands a prison sentence.”
Safe? Well, she didn’t feel safe right now. Her jaw dropped. “Cocaine?” she squeaked. “I’ve never seen it! How did it get there?”
The DA raised an eyebrow. “An anonymous tip brought us to your room. With this much cocaine, the law assumes intent to distribute.”
Anonymous tip? Carla’s mind raced. Those cold eyes at the table, Tara’s hollow “Right.” Tara had been the one to hire her. She had become somewhat of a mentor to her. There was no way she would do this, would she? Or… maybe it was that guy at the beach she had seen watching her rinse off under the beach shower. She had caught him staring at her, and he had guiltily looked away. Could he have followed her back, and slipped the drugs in, to somehow get her through their corrupt system? Her skin prickled at the thought. She gripped the bars feeling like prey caught in a spider’s web.
Her heart sank. “I don’t know how it got there! This can’t be right!” The bikini’s revealing design felt increasingly humiliating under his authoritative gaze. “What can I do?”
“Not much,” he said in a flat tone.
“Don’t I get a phone call?” she blurted with a trembling voice.
“Of course, Miss Murphy,” the DA nodded slightly and retrieved a battered phone from his desk.
Clutching the device, she rang the number of the only person she knew on this island.
The receptionist’s voice was crisp as a winter morning. “Please hold for Mrs. Brennan.” Silence stretched, as Carla’s pulse hammered like a blacksmith on a deadline. Then, “Mrs. Brennan is unavailable. I’m sorry.”
Panicked, Carla stammered, “Leave a message for Tara to urgently contact me at the police station!” but the line was dead. The receptionist had already hung up.
A chill of doubt deepened as she handed the phone back, whispering, “I couldn’t reach anyone.” Damn. She should have known that job was too good to be true.
The DA’s voice remained even, almost routine, “No problem, Miss Murphy. We will proceed as planned,” before turning away, his boots echoing as the door slammed shut.
──────────────────────────────
The courtroom was a creaky affair, its wooden benches groaning under a sparse crowd that seemed to have wandered in by mistake. The air was heavy with heat and a faint whiff of bureaucracy. Carla stood before the judge, still in the bikini she had been arrested in. She crossed her arms tightly to shield herself from prying eyes. Her pulse hammered like a war drum.
The judge, a tired looking man with a gavel and a gaze that could curdle milk, glanced at her briefly before checking his watch. His mind was already on the golf course, where the fairway promised a simpler world than this mess.
Beneath his stern exterior, he nursed a grudge against the ministry, who nagged him about prison costs as if he had personally invited every miscreant to the islands. The Kivana Investment and Prosperity Opportunity Act was meant to lure corporations with promises of safety, not saddle him with cases like this: a girl with some cocaine who posed no threat to the state. Yet here he was, stuck playing their game, knowing they’d blame him when the bills came due, when all he wanted was to make everyone happy.
The District Attorney presented the case with a measured tone. “Miss Murphy is charged with possession of a substantial amount of cocaine, found in her hotel room after an anonymous tip. On the Kivana Islands, such offenses jeopardize our reputation as a safe investment hub and demand severe penalties.”
Carla’s jaw dropped, her voice cracking with desperation, “That’s not my cocaine! I was framed! Check my room for tampering!”
The DA held up a photo of white powder in her bag, his tone unwavering. “The evidence is clear. Intent to distribute is assumed with this quantity.” He glanced at the judge, a wiry man with a stern gaze, who skimmed a ministry directive on his desk, its seal catching the light.
Her lawyer, a wilted figure in a suit that looked like it had been laundered in a puddle, muttered, “My client claims a setup, but we lack corroboration.” His voice trailed off as he adjusted his crooked tie, shuffled a stack of papers and glanced at his next case file.
The judge leaned forward. His voice was steady but laced with the authority of someone who would rather be elsewhere. “Carla Murphy, on the charge of possessing a substantial amount of cocaine, you’re sentenced to two years imprisonment.”
Internally, he stewed. This girl’s case was a nuisance, not a threat. Yet here he was, forced to play by their rules, knowing that the ministry would be pointing fingers at him for it, the poor sap holding the gavel.
Carla’s mind raced back to the unanswered call earlier. And suddenly the pieces began to click into place.
Carla’s knees buckled, outrage surging. “This is a sham! Tara, I mean my boss, Mrs Brennan, planted those drugs to silence me. She knows I could expose her in Ireland!” Her voice trembled, the crowd murmuring as her accusation echoed.
Sharp inhales rippled through the courtroom, eyes widened at her challenge.
The judge sighed inwardly, feeling a headache forming from the stress. He could use some of that cocaine right now, he thought, glancing at the clock. Then, he had an idea. The labor program. Ship her to the mainland, let them deal with her. Young, healthy, non-violent. She was perfect for it. It would cut costs, keep the ministry quiet, and maybe teach her to mind her tongue. Clever, he thought, congratulating himself on navigating the bigger picture.
“Miss Murphy, after careful consideration, I find that your excess energy and argumentative spirit make you a better fit for the ‘Rehabilitation Through Productive Labor’ program. You are hereby assigned to the labor program. Two years of character-building work will guide you to a better path.”
Carla’s anger flared, her hands clenching. “What? No! I didn’t agree to this. You can’t do this. I have rights!”
“Enough, Miss Murphy. Your refusal to accept judgment and intent to disrupt warrant this correction. Case adjourned.” He rapped the gavel again, signaling the guards as his thoughts turned to the fairway.
The judge hurried out, his thoughts on his golf swing, pleased to have dodged another bureaucratic bullet. Somewhere, a fairway waited, and Miss Murphy was someone else’s problem now.
Carla cursed herself for her thoughtless words before the executives. Would they really set her up like this?
Her gut sank as a guard gripped her arm and pulled her away.
Character-building, she thought. Sounds like something you’d tell a gobshite before you make them mop floors for free. Her skin prickled under the bikini, and she wondered what kind of work they had in store for her.
The heat on the Kivana Islands clung to Carla Murphy as she sipped wine at the Celtic Circuits dinner. The murmuring of the ocean’s waves was drowned out by laughter. At twenty-two, she felt out of place among these polished executives. Tara Brennan, her boss, had plucked her from one of Dublin’s dead-end jobs and given her an assistant’s role. A job with real pay finally. Along the way, Carla had found out that their tech went to questionable buyers, but the money was good.
Tara’s warm smile during the interview, offering her this exotic job, had seemed like acceptance, a sign she was one of them. Maybe I’ve finally made it, she thought, her heart lifting.
But now, with the wine loosening her tongue and the executives chuckling at some impenetrable in-joke, she leaned forward, grinning like a cat who had spotted an unguarded cream jug.
“You know,” she said, her voice bright with the reckless confidence of the slightly inebriated, “I’ve sussed your little secret. The outpost’s for flogging tech to sanctioned buyers, isn’t it?” She giggled, expecting a round of conspiratorial winks.
The table froze, and she realized she had made a mistake. A gruff executive dropped his fork as his jaw went tight. Another, wiry with thinning hair, glared. Tara’s smile tightened, her eyes cold as steel. Carla instantly regretted saying this. How could she have been so stupid to be so forward with them?
“N-no big deal,” Carla stammered. Her cheeks felt hotter than the tropical sun. “I’m not saying anything.”
“Right,” Tara said, her voice smooth as oiled hinges on a trapdoor.
Later in the hotel lounge, Tara faced the executives. Their faces were grim. “She’s a loose end,” one of them hissed. “One wrong word from her back home, and we’re done.”
“If she talks—” the wiry one began.
“She won’t,” Tara snapped, her mind racing. Carla’s naivety had been perfect. Until now. “I’ll handle it.”
“You better,” the other one growled. “You hired her. She’s your responsibility.”
Afternoon the next day:
Carla stood in a cold concrete cell, gripping the bars in disbelief. She was still in her faded blue bikini, damp from the beach, clinging to her clammy skin. The bright overhead light buzzed monotonously. Her cell felt like a dark, oppressive box, and her wrists ached from the cuffs that had been removed. She felt the gritty floor under her bare feet. Her life had turned upside down.
When she had walked into her hotel room, after a swim at the nearby beach, she had found the police rifling through her bags, and holding on a few packets of a suspicious white powder. Now, the bikini that once made her feel bold felt obscenely revealing in the cell’s damp air.
The heavy door creaked open, and a stern-looking uniformed man stepped inside, a Black man whose commanding presence filled the cell. It was the District Attorney. His dark skin contrasted with the white folder he carried, which he flipped open.
“Miss Murphy,” he began, “You’re being charged with possessing a substantial amount of cocaine, found in your room. The Investment Act demands harsh drug penalties to make foreign investors feel safe and this quantity demands a prison sentence.”
Safe? Well, she didn’t feel safe right now. Her jaw dropped. “Cocaine?” she squeaked. “I’ve never seen it! How did it get there?”
The DA raised an eyebrow. “An anonymous tip brought us to your room. With this much cocaine, the law assumes intent to distribute.”
Anonymous tip? Carla’s mind raced. Those cold eyes at the table, Tara’s hollow “Right.” Tara had been the one to hire her. She had become somewhat of a mentor to her. There was no way she would do this, would she? Or… maybe it was that guy at the beach she had seen watching her rinse off under the beach shower. She had caught him staring at her, and he had guiltily looked away. Could he have followed her back, and slipped the drugs in, to somehow get her through their corrupt system? Her skin prickled at the thought. She gripped the bars feeling like prey caught in a spider’s web.
Her heart sank. “I don’t know how it got there! This can’t be right!” The bikini’s revealing design felt increasingly humiliating under his authoritative gaze. “What can I do?”
“Not much,” he said in a flat tone.
“Don’t I get a phone call?” she blurted with a trembling voice.
“Of course, Miss Murphy,” the DA nodded slightly and retrieved a battered phone from his desk.
Clutching the device, she rang the number of the only person she knew on this island.
The receptionist’s voice was crisp as a winter morning. “Please hold for Mrs. Brennan.” Silence stretched, as Carla’s pulse hammered like a blacksmith on a deadline. Then, “Mrs. Brennan is unavailable. I’m sorry.”
Panicked, Carla stammered, “Leave a message for Tara to urgently contact me at the police station!” but the line was dead. The receptionist had already hung up.
A chill of doubt deepened as she handed the phone back, whispering, “I couldn’t reach anyone.” Damn. She should have known that job was too good to be true.
The DA’s voice remained even, almost routine, “No problem, Miss Murphy. We will proceed as planned,” before turning away, his boots echoing as the door slammed shut.
The courtroom was a creaky affair, its wooden benches groaning under a sparse crowd that seemed to have wandered in by mistake. The air was heavy with heat and a faint whiff of bureaucracy. Carla stood before the judge, still in the bikini she had been arrested in. She crossed her arms tightly to shield herself from prying eyes. Her pulse hammered like a war drum.
The judge, a tired looking man with a gavel and a gaze that could curdle milk, glanced at her briefly before checking his watch. His mind was already on the golf course, where the fairway promised a simpler world than this mess.
Beneath his stern exterior, he nursed a grudge against the ministry, who nagged him about prison costs as if he had personally invited every miscreant to the islands. The Kivana Investment and Prosperity Opportunity Act was meant to lure corporations with promises of safety, not saddle him with cases like this: a girl with some cocaine who posed no threat to the state. Yet here he was, stuck playing their game, knowing they’d blame him when the bills came due, when all he wanted was to make everyone happy.
The District Attorney presented the case with a measured tone. “Miss Murphy is charged with possession of a substantial amount of cocaine, found in her hotel room after an anonymous tip. On the Kivana Islands, such offenses jeopardize our reputation as a safe investment hub and demand severe penalties.”
Carla’s jaw dropped, her voice cracking with desperation, “That’s not my cocaine! I was framed! Check my room for tampering!”
The DA held up a photo of white powder in her bag, his tone unwavering. “The evidence is clear. Intent to distribute is assumed with this quantity.” He glanced at the judge, a wiry man with a stern gaze, who skimmed a ministry directive on his desk, its seal catching the light.
Her lawyer, a wilted figure in a suit that looked like it had been laundered in a puddle, muttered, “My client claims a setup, but we lack corroboration.” His voice trailed off as he adjusted his crooked tie, shuffled a stack of papers and glanced at his next case file.
The judge leaned forward. His voice was steady but laced with the authority of someone who would rather be elsewhere. “Carla Murphy, on the charge of possessing a substantial amount of cocaine, you’re sentenced to two years imprisonment.”
Internally, he stewed. This girl’s case was a nuisance, not a threat. Yet here he was, forced to play by their rules, knowing that the ministry would be pointing fingers at him for it, the poor sap holding the gavel.
Carla’s mind raced back to the unanswered call earlier. And suddenly the pieces began to click into place.
Carla’s knees buckled, outrage surging. “This is a sham! Tara, I mean my boss, Mrs Brennan, planted those drugs to silence me. She knows I could expose her in Ireland!” Her voice trembled, the crowd murmuring as her accusation echoed.
Sharp inhales rippled through the courtroom, eyes widened at her challenge.
The judge sighed inwardly, feeling a headache forming from the stress. He could use some of that cocaine right now, he thought, glancing at the clock. Then, he had an idea. The labor program. Ship her to the mainland, let them deal with her. Young, healthy, non-violent. She was perfect for it. It would cut costs, keep the ministry quiet, and maybe teach her to mind her tongue. Clever, he thought, congratulating himself on navigating the bigger picture.
“Miss Murphy, after careful consideration, I find that your excess energy and argumentative spirit make you a better fit for the ‘Rehabilitation Through Productive Labor’ program. You are hereby assigned to the labor program. Two years of character-building work will guide you to a better path.”
Carla’s anger flared, her hands clenching. “What? No! I didn’t agree to this. You can’t do this. I have rights!”
“Enough, Miss Murphy. Your refusal to accept judgment and intent to disrupt warrant this correction. Case adjourned.” He rapped the gavel again, signaling the guards as his thoughts turned to the fairway.
The judge hurried out, his thoughts on his golf swing, pleased to have dodged another bureaucratic bullet. Somewhere, a fairway waited, and Miss Murphy was someone else’s problem now.
Carla cursed herself for her thoughtless words before the executives. Would they really set her up like this?
Her gut sank as a guard gripped her arm and pulled her away.
Character-building, she thought. Sounds like something you’d tell a gobshite before you make them mop floors for free. Her skin prickled under the bikini, and she wondered what kind of work they had in store for her.
