Thirteen Stops

by Sandra Harris

  Andrew was doing well now anyway, thank God. He was in a wonderful special school that catered for his emotional, physical and intellectual needs as best they could, but places like that cost money, even if they weren’t fee-paying. There was money for equipment and money for outings and money for all the extra activities they did which Vicky knew would contribute greatly towards helping Andrew to live an independent life some day. The school was worth its weight in gold for what the teachers there had done and were still doing for Andrew. For that reason, Vicky didn’t mind putting up with the escort work. Well, it was called ‘escort’ work but everyone knew that there was more to it than that. If she had ever ‘escorted’ anyone somewhere even once, other than back to their place for the quickie for which she was being paid, she certainly couldn’t remember it. But the escort work paid well, much better than the cleaning, and it was worth it if it meant that she could continue contributing towards Andrew’s education and his future for as long as he needed her to. She put every cent she could into a bank account for Andrew’s future. He was still her baby and always would be. She would do whatever she had to do to keep him safe and happy.

  “How did you get into this . . . erm, this line of work?” Graeme asked her now. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  To Vicky’s surprise, he’d looked like he was blinking back tears as she’d talked about her and Andrew going through such tough times together with nobody to help them. She couldn’t really talk or think about that time herself without getting a lump in her throat. Those had been difficult years, even harder than when Andrew was a baby and Tommy was banged up for receiving stolen goods. And they weren’t even out of the woods yet. Autism, like puppies, wasn’t just for Christmas: it was for life. Vicky lit another cigarette and said: “Well, Graeme, I don’t mind you asking at all. It was like this . . .”

  She had been at work one day, cleaning an office block with another woman, a thirty-something native of Poland called Irina. With her sculpted cheekbones and marvellous figure, Irina somehow managed to look like a top model while capably manoeuvring the big awkward floor-buffer from one storey to another in the building that was eerily quiet now after the hubbub of the day.

  When they were cleaning one of the bathrooms, Irina suddenly stopped what she was doing and surveyed Vicky critically.

  “You know,” she said in her sexy Polish accent that Vicky loved to listen to, “you could be really beautiful if you made an effort.”

  “Thanks,” said Vicky drily. “That’s just what I want to hear when I’m scrubbing someone else’s shite off a toilet seat.”

  “How would you like to make some real money?” Irina said then. “I have a friend who runs escort agency. She is looking for girls. Is all on the level. Nice clean place, good money.”

  “Escort agency?” said Vicky, her eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that just another way of saying prostitution?”

  Irina shrugged gracefully, a toilet brush in her hand. “Is good money. You could book yourself holiday, get some sun on that pale face of yours.”

  It was true that Vicky desperately needed a holiday, but there was something else she needed money for even more at the moment. In the spring, Andrew’s class was going on a trip to a farm in the West of Ireland, where the kids would be supervised, well fed and entertained for seven whole days. They’d be out in the fresh air from morning till night, there were ponies for them to ride, a lovely safe little beach for sea-bathing, and sheep, pigs and cows to look at and even to help mind. It would teach the kids to be independent, taking care of the animals and themselves for a few days, plus it was a great chance of a break for the parents. The forms had to be filled out and sent back into the school soon and all monies fully paid in advance. Andrew was dying to go on the trip but the cost was prohibitively expensive. Vicky would have to clean many more toilets to be able to afford it.

  “How much?” she said, her heart pounding.

  Irina named a sum that made Vicky’s eyebrows disappear upwards into her hairline.

  “If it’s that good, how come you don’t do it yourself?” she asked Irina.

  “Oh, I do,” Irina replied with a grin. “This week I just cover here for Paulina while she is in the hospital having her gallstones removed. Paulina is my mother’s cousin from Poland.”

  “I see,” said Vicky slowly.

  “Come with me when we finish here. I will introduce you to Magda, my friend who has the agency. You will like her, I promise you.”

  Vicky took a deep breath. She pictured Andrew on a farm in the West of Ireland, riding a little pony in a green field with the wind in his hair and a bit of colour in his cheeks for once, the kind you didn’t get when you were living in the city and breathing in the polluted air.

  “Okay,” she said. “It can’t hurt to meet her.”

  Magda had been friendly but business-like. She looked Vicky up and down and nodded approvingly. “You will do good here,” she said. “You, the men will like.”

  “See?” said Irina, nudging Vicky and smirking triumphantly. “What did I tell you?”

  The premises was down a laneway just a few minutes’ walk from Connolly Station. It consisted of the top floor of a rundown-looking building that had a launderette on the ground floor and a scruffy-looking tattoo parlour on the first. In the shabby reception area of ‘Stilettos Kiss-a-Gram Agency and Massage Parlour’ (the massage end of things was the official business of the agency, their ‘front’) sat a gigantic Polish man called Piotr, who read his newspaper and smoked a foul-smelling brand of tobacco while the business of the agency went on around him.

  “Piotr is our muscle,” said Irina, planting a kiss on his huge shaved head. “He is my little brother,” she added by way of explanation to Vicky, whose eyes widened at the thought of this Colossus ever being described as anyone’s ‘little’ anything. “No one ever misbehave while Piotr is here.”

  Vicky could well believe it. There were four bedrooms beyond the reception area, all neat and clean, with old but serviceable furnishings. In one of them were the massage tables and scented oils that served as the agency’s ‘cover’ and, in another, stood the kind of clothes rail you’d see in a department store.

  “All the costumes you will need are here,” said Magda.

  Vicky’s eyes widened again at the sight of the nurse’s outfit, the French maid’s costume, the sexy nun’s attire, the teacher’s gown and mortar board, the Ban-Garda uniform, the Bunny Girl’s leotard, the sexy witch’s cloak, the Little Mermaid costume, complete with sweeping fish tail, the traditional hooker’s outfit and the ballerina tutu, plus many more, all lined up side-by-side on the rack. There was even a Tinkerbell outfit, complete with the kind of fairy wand that Vicky would have adored to get for Christmas when she was a nipper. What was this place anyway, a knocking-shop or the fucking Disney store? There were also all kinds of props, from a teacher’s cane to what looked like a proper hospital drip, and all the tubes and bags necessary to give a patient an enema. Christ on a bike, what have I got myself into this time, and does no one just have normal sex any more? What the hell is with all these props and extras? Vicky repressed a shudder but managed to keep her cool.

  “Mostly you will stay here in one of these rooms,” Magda was explaining now as the three women headed back to the reception area. “Sometimes, although not very often, you will go to man’s home. For this you get paid extra. We have some disabled customers, including man in wheelchair, who prefer the home visit. If anything happens to you, we have man’s address and credit card details to give to police, although we prefer to keep police out of our business if we can. Any questions?”

  “You’re not getting me into a fucking tutu,” said Vicky.

  Behind his newspaper, Piotr snickered.

  “How do you do it?” Graeme asked her now. “How do you manage to . . . you know, have sex with all those strange men without going crazy?”

  “I just think of Andrew.”

  “You think of your son wh
en you’re having sex with your clients?”

  Vicky burst out laughing. “No, you idiot,” she said, but she said it nicely. “I mean, I try to make myself think of all the things I can do for Andrew with the money I’m making.”

  “Oh, I see. Does Andrew know about the work you do?”

  Vicky shook her head vigorously, her purple-streaked ponytail swinging in tandem with her movements. Graeme watched it, enchanted.

  “He thinks I’m doing office work or cleaning jobs on a temping basis, which helps to explain the odd hours. But mostly it happens during the day, when he’s at school.”

  “Isn’t it a strain on you having to keep it all a secret from him?”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “But what else can I do? I need the money. We need the money.”

  “When he’s older, he’ll be able to work out for himself what you’ve been doing. He’s pretty much at that age now.”

  “That’s a risk I’ll have to take,” she said stubbornly. “I can’t just pack it in, can I?”

  “Well, why not?” Graeme was looking at her intently now. “Why not just pack it in?”

  Vicky laughed and lit another cigarette. “And what’ll I do for money? Who’ll pay my bills? You?”

  “I could,” Graeme said, in what she was beginning to think of as his deadpan voice.

  “Excuse me? What are you on about? I don’t let anyone keep me, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m nobody’s property. Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  “Not at all. Just hear me out, will you, Vicky? I’ve got a proposition for you. A proper business proposition, I mean. Not the kind you’re thinking of.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said sceptically.

  “Your hackles are up. Just like Lady Simone’s when someone gets her back up.”

  “Stop comparing me to your cat and tell me what you’re on about, will you?” Vicky said crossly.

  “Do you see that big pile of stuff on the desk over there?”

  Vicky looked to where he was pointing. Of course, she’d noticed the desk with the laptop on it when she came in. It was piled high with loose papers and cardboard folders that looked as if they too were stuffed with papers. Some of the papers had spilled over onto the floor. Was he going to suggest that he pay her to be his cleaner or something and tidy that little lot up? He was getting a clip on the ear if that was his big plan.

  “My dad and my brother Carl are financing me in setting up my own graphic-design business. I already do freelance work for a few different companies, but now I want to run my own business and go after more, and bigger, clients. Maybe even employ a few people in the fullness of time. ‘Graeme Groves: Graphic Design’ – it’s got quite a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Carl’s looking at some business premises for me next week or the week after in town, although I’d be working from home – from here, I mean – for a bit at first. They worry about me because I’m the youngest in the family and also because I have special needs, see?”

  He said it so matter-of-factly that Vicky was surprised. It didn’t sound like being ‘special’ had particularly ruined Graeme’s life or even affected it negatively too much, not like it had Andrew’s.

  “But the point is,” Graeme went on, coming to sit on the couch beside Vicky, much to the annoyance of Lady Simone, who’d been licking herself comfortably on the plump cushions and enjoying all the extra space, “if I’m setting up my own graphic-design business with Carl and Dad’s backing, then I’m going to need a secretary, a personal assistant. We’ve been talking about it quite a bit, but we don’t have anyone particular in mind yet or anything. Do you have basic computer skills?”

  “I can do emails and Facebook,” Vicky said doubtfully.

  It had been Andrew who’d taught her how to use their computer, Andrew who’d practically bullied her into learning the basics because “You need to know this stuff, Mum, for if I’m ever not here”. Much as she’d been horrified at the thought of Andrew not being there with her at some point in the future, she’d been happy enough to finally learn the mysteries of what people called ‘emails’ and ‘Facebook’.

  “That’s perfect!” Graeme said happily. “I’d need someone to send and answer emails and set up and run the Facebook page. That’s all you’d need, basic skills. That, and sending out invoices. I’m good at the graphic design end of things but not at the sending out of bills thing. I’d be bankrupt in a month if I was left to myself. That’s what my dad and Carl both say.”

  “It sounds too good to be true, that you’d just want me to come in here and send out a few bills for you.”

  “Oh, and you’d make the coffee too,” deadpanned Graeme. “You’d have to make it good and strong, the way I like it.”

  “Oh, would I now?” said Vicki with a half-smile.

  “Oh yes, you’d have to do that,” he said, half-smiling too. “That would be one of your most important duties.”

  “How long have you known you were autistic?” Vicky asked him suddenly. “You’re clearly high-functioning. You’re like Andrew in that way. He’s very high-functioning too, in some aspects.”

  “I was diagnosed with what they used to call Asperger’s Syndrome back when I was in college,” Graeme said. “I’m thirty now. Now they just call it ASD, or Autism Spectrum Disorder. But you know that already, because of Andrew. They’re lumping us all in together now under the same umbrella, to make it easier. I don’t really mind. I never liked the word ‘Asperger’s’ much anyway. Too many people still pronounce it as ‘Ass Burgers’. I can still live a perfectly normal life with the help of my parents and my brother Carl, but – erm – I do find it hard to talk to girls. Women. The – erm – opposite sex. Um, ladies.”

  She did. “Is that why you called the escort agency yesterday?” Vicky tried to sound tactful about it. “Because you haven’t had – erm – a woman in a while?”

  He nodded, flushing slightly. “I thought I needed sex, but the minute I saw you I realised that what I really wanted was to talk to someone.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Vicky, mock-offended. “Am I that hideous? Should I just put a bag over my head, then, so you won’t have to look at me?”

  “But I like to look at you.”

  He said it softly, with what Vicky somehow understood was utter honesty. Andrew was the same. He couldn’t tell a lie to save his life, not even to get himself out of trouble. It was partially an autism thing.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re actually the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, looking at him critically for the first time.

  He was tall and well-built, with dark-brown hair that needed cutting and dark eyes. At thirty, he was two years younger than her, but she felt years and years older than she was. This was always happening. She felt older than most of the guys she met. She knew it was because she’d been pregnant at sixteen by her jailbird boyfriend and had been caring for a differently abled child on her own ever since, not knowing till a few years before that there was a name and treatment, though not a cure, never a cure, for Andrew’s disability. You could manage your autism so that your life could run relatively smoothly, but you couldn’t make it go away.

  “So, what about it?” Graeme said. “Will you take the job? I promise you that it’s a real job and not a pity job or a made-up one. You can talk to my father and Carl about it if you like. In fact, I insist on it. Anything to prove to you that it’s a proper job and not something I dreamed up on the spot, just because I fancy you like crazy and don’t want you to walk out of my life after just a couple of hours.”

  He blushed bright red when he said that last bit. Vicky had to admit that he sounded one-hundred-per-cent genuine. She also had to admit that she fancied him too, even though she had no intention of taking things any further with him. She was already feeling an urge to mother him that would surely spell trouble for her down the line. He was good-looking, so what? Good-looking, gently spo
ken, educated and not short of a bob or two. A guy like that wasn’t for the likes of her, with her disabled son and a one-time boyfriend who was doing fifteen-to-life now for an armed robbery in which a security guard had been shot in the shoulder.

  “I don’t know, Graeme . . .” she said hesitantly. “I’d need to make as least as much money with you as I do with my – with my escort work and I’m not sure you can do that.”

  “How much do you earn now?” he asked her out straight.

  She told him, expecting him to turn pale and try to backtrack.

  “I could match that,” he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “With maybe a bit extra on top. Plus,” he added, his eyes suddenly bright and his tone excited, “if you weren’t working all the hours God sends cleaning or escorting, you could go back to school and do your Leaving Cert! And with that extra qualification under your belt, well, you could do pretty much anything else you wanted to do then.”

  Vicky stared at him. Leaving school with only her Junior Cert, and a fairly indifferent one at that, to her name had been one of the greatest regrets of her life. Graeme might be autistic, but he’d been bang on the money when he’d managed to cut straight to the heart of her secret longings purely on the basis of the conversation she’d just had with him.

  She tried to conceal the excitement she felt bubbling up inside her as she said, “Look, I’m really not sure about this, Graeme. Sure, I’d love to give up being a sex worker . . .” Why pretend any more that that wasn’t what she was, when it would be obvious even to a blind man that she had sex with the clients? “But it’s a big step you’re suggesting. I need to think about it. I mean, why me and not someone else?”

  “Because you’re not only the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life, you’re also the bravest and the toughest, and I think it’s an absolute disgrace that you’ve had to go through so much . . . so much shit on your own with no one to help you.” He sounded like he really meant it too. He was furiously blinking away the tears and running his hands through his dark hair as if he were agitated.