Faceless

by Martina Cole

  Patrick smiled at the little girl beside him. Her roots needed doing, and her make-up was over-heavy, but she had a certain girlish charm that he liked. And more importantly, that he knew his customers would like.

  Her name was Maisie, and she had huge blue eyes, a slim body with small pert breasts and skinny bandy legs. She was streetwise beyond her years and knew the score. As she was offered a joint she took it with a cool smile.

  ‘What is it - grass?’

  Patrick nodded.

  ‘It’s good grass.’

  She lit the joint and expertly drew in the smoke, holding it for a few seconds before blowing it out. She sighed happily.

  ‘So what’s this going to cost me?’

  Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  Patrick didn’t answer her. She looked into his face and grinned.

  ‘Come on, Patrick. Let’s put our cards on the table. You want to pimp me and I want to be pimped. It suits me. I just want to know what’s in it for me? What do I get for my trouble, and what do you want for yours?’

  He was impressed with her acumen. Most working girls never realised they were earning an actual living, they just lurched from one day to the next, spending indiscriminately. It was refreshing to meet one so young with a bit of nous.

  ‘What do you want, Mandy?’

  She’d expected his reply and answered him immediately. ‘I want, Mr Connor, a fair whack of what I earn, a bit of grass now and again, and if possible another girl to do doubles with. Men like that more than most people realise. I don’t do hard drugs. I don’t need to. Don’t want to. I like to keep me head about me when I’m working. I need a few quid up front to settle a flat, and I want good protection when working the street, from the other girls as well as the punters. That’s about it in a nutshell. Oh, and I will not be treated violently. I do me work and don’t complain even if they’re eighty years old and stink of piss. This is all a means to an end for me, nothing more.

  ‘I will take on anyone with the money, and that includes you. I don’t do freebies for anyone, only Old Bill occasionally to get them off my back. I am discreet, reliable and clean. Always use a condom, always have. I will not work without one even if it’s for a king’s ransom. I don’t drink because I like to keep me wits about me, and the same goes for crack or skag.’

  She smiled to take the edge off her words.

  ‘That about sums me up. And, by the way, the name is Maisie, OK?’

  Patrick felt a sneaking admiration for the little girl sitting in his car. If only he had a few more like her he wouldn’t need to work so hard for a living. But then he liked to coerce them as well. It appealed to his dominant personality. In fact, it was a prerequisite for his daily happiness. But this little one interested him; she was more than aware of her own worth and for a whore that was a novelty. Usually they had a self-hatred that was fascinating to see, especially after a few years on the game when they were ageing faster than their civilian counterparts.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer me?’

  Maisie’s voice was bubbling with suppressed laughter. She was well aware of the impression she was creating on the man sitting beside her.

  Patrick shrugged.

  ‘You got a deal, providing you’re as good at the job as you say.’

  She sighed with pleasure and he saw that every now and then her right eye went skew-wiff. She had a lazy eye and instead of making her look bad it made her look appealingly child-like.

  ‘Tell me more about the double act,’ he suggested.

  ‘Just another young blonde girl. I’ll do all the work, but it can be lucrative. Especially with the ones who are just a touch off actual paedophilia. A couple of school uniforms is the only kit we need. Oh, and can I bring regulars to my flat when I get in? I like regulars, they’re easy and they pay more. After a while you can finish them in minutes and they give you a bonus.’

  Patrick was having a hard job keeping a straight face. He was in a good mood because he had broken Tiffany and everything was working out just as he wanted. He had left the bag of rocks at her flat and phoned Social Services playing the concerned father. They should swoop on her at any minute. He would miss the kid in some ways but she was better off without a crackhead mother so he could convince himself that he had done it for the best.

  He debated whether to slap this little bitch in the face and put her through her paces right now, give her the fist and subdue her. But he liked her in a funny sort of way. She reminded him of himself at the same age, knowing instinctively what she wanted. He had been the same.

  Instead of hitting her he smiled.

  ‘I know just the girl for you to work with, Maisie. Her name is Tiffany and she’s as amoral as you are.’

  Maisie smiled back and held out her hand.

  ‘Let’s shake on it, I think we have a deal.’

  As Patrick shook her hand he was beaming all over his handsome face.

  ‘You have obviously done this before. What brought you to London?’

  She shrugged like a woman a million years old who had seen it all.

  ‘Let’s just say my last pimp tried to move the goal posts, shall we, and leave it at that?’

  As Patrick looked at her hard he realised that this girl was a complete one off, and for some reason she actually made him a bit nervous. She was too self-contained and cold.

  Emotional people could be easily controlled; being unemotional himself he had soon realised its usefulness to him. He was seeing too much of himself in this girl and now it was bothering him. She was as calculating as he was and he knew that was only a good thing while she worked for him and not against him. He would have to watch her closely.

  It was amazing in someone of only fourteen.

  Linda Harrison was thirty-seven years old and felt that as a social worker she had seen it all. She’d arrived at Tiffany’s flat with the police at a little after seven-thirty. She had tried to gain entry twice and been unsuccessful. The little girl’s crying was clearly audible from outside and Linda could see the mother slumped in the lounge as she looked through the letter box.

  PC Kelly broke the door open with a lock buster and they entered the flat together. Tiffany was completely out of it. Before he had left, Patrick had given her a large glass of Ribena laced with Librium and she could hardly move. Her mouth felt as if it was full of cotton wool and her head was heavy and sore.

  The crack and the sedative had poleaxed her. As she saw the woman pick up Anastasia she knew she should try and stop her but could barely move. Her speech was slurred, and her eyes refused to focus. She just wanted to go back to sleep. The social worker looked strange, her teeth seemed to be too big for her mouth and her face was blurred round the edges. It was the tiredness, Tiffany thought, the extreme tiredness. She caved in. She couldn’t take any more. Her eyes were burning from trying to keep them open. She went back to sleep, the need to close her eyes overwhelming.

  She had dimly registered the policeman and something told her she was in trouble but she just didn’t have the energy to think about it, let alone do anything about it.

  ‘I’ll phone an ambulance, shall I?’

  PC Kelly’s voice was flat, without emotion.

  Linda Harrison picked up Anastasia and comforted her.

  ‘I have to arrange temporary care for this poor little mite. Has the mother got a pulse?’

  Kelly nodded.

  ‘She’s just out of her brains. How do you stand this, day in, day out?’

  He sounded disgusted.

  She didn’t answer. Instead she got Anastasia a drink in a bottle and tried to calm the child down.

  ‘Could be the first time this has happened, let’s not write her off too quickly. Though according to the father of the child she’s a crack addict and a prostitute. He’s been worried for a while, apparently.’

  She sighed.

  ‘Tiffany’s been in and out of care, and up until now she was supposed to be a good mum. Pressure, I suppose.’

>   They heard the ambulance in the distance.

  When they’d taken Tiffany away, Linda packed a few bits and pieces for Anastasia and as she did so, registered the fact that the place was basically clean and the environment child friendly. Nice clothes, plenty of food in the fridge, and educational toys. This girl had tried to be a good parent whatever the policeman might think. She wondered what had gone wrong. Why she had just stopped coping.

  Linda hoped the police left this as a case for Social Services and didn’t summons the girl for child neglect and endangerment. Then she saw the bag of crack on the table and sighed. If the child had chewed on these the mother would have been locked up as soon as she came round in hospital. That reminded her - she needed to get the hospital to alert her as soon as Miss Carter was capable of communicating. She hoped she wouldn’t have to take the kid permanently, but judging from the bag of crack she doubted the girl would be capable of looking after her child again. Crack addicts were like heroin addicts: totally dependent, physically as well as mentally, on the product of choice. It was heartbreaking to observe but it was far worse for the kids caught up in their parents’ nightmare.

  She looked into the small heart-shaped face of Anastasia and instinctively hugged her. She was a nice child, seemed well fed and cared for. It was all such a shame. Why did these girls feel the need to take drugs that were so potent and destructive? What was wrong with a bit of grass or a nice cold glass of white wine? Linda was a child of another generation and saw soft drugs as harmless. Couldn’t understand the need for complete oblivion. She had never needed it.

  She rubbed her eyes and finished packing the child’s things. These cases always made her feel sad. She gave Anastasia a bit of chocolate and settled her down as best she could. She knew a nice foster family who were mixed race and hoped they were available to take in this pretty little girl for a while. This child needed some loving and Linda was determined to provide it. Even if it was only short-term.

  On the mantelpiece was a photo of the child with her mother, a good-looking girl with lively eyes and a sweet smile. She looked very different from the unkempt ragbag Linda had seen slumped on the settee.

  Anastasia pointed at the floor and said clearly, ‘Mummy’s pipe.’

  The social worker closed her eyes and bit her lip. The child looked so pleased with herself. So very, very pleased. With those shocking words all Linda’s kindly intentions flew out of the window. She was disgusted and shocked that the child was aware of what her mother was doing.

  Linda’s face grew grim. The sooner this poor child was out of this flat and away from her mother the better.

  Carole Halter was in the club, her broken nose still evident and her make-up much heavier than usual.

  ‘You can’t work with that boatrace, I’m sorry, Carole. Fuck me, you’ll scare off all the punters.’

  Lizzie Banner was the head girl and well liked. She knew that Carole understood what she was saying. Though she felt sorry for her, there was no way she was working looking like a victim of a car crash.

  ‘It’s just simple economics, Carole. The other girls will get all the work anyway. No disrespect, but you only get the dregs these days.’

  Her voice was kind but the barb hit home.

  ‘I’m here because of economics, love. I need the bastard rent.’

  Lizzie sighed.

  ‘I can give you a sub and that’s it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty quid.’

  Carole was insulted and desperate. She shook her head and answered viciously, ‘Shove it up your arse, Liz.’

  Lizzie, hard and well able to take care of herself, grabbed hold of Carole’s dress.

  ‘Be careful I don’t feel the urge to shove it right up yours, love. Now piss off and come back when you can fucking work.’

  Carole saw the other girls laughing at her. Saw their unlined faces, their trendy clothes and make-up, and felt old. Old and ugly. Her days in this club were over and they all knew it. It was the Cross for her and the knowledge made her feel deeply depressed. All the time she was in a club she’d felt she had a bit of kudos. Felt a bit more upmarket than her pavement-walking counterparts. She hated getting in and out of cars. Hated putting herself up for violence on a daily basis. At least in the club they used a designated hotel and the porter would rap on the door when the time was up. The men were friendly because you had spent a while chatting to them and getting pissed with them.

  Now it was King’s Cross in all fucking weathers. Or Shepherd’s Market in a cheap coat, having to compete with the little runaways and rent boys. She walked forlornly from the club and out into the bustle of Soho.

  Clubbers were walking around, their smiling faces beacons to each other. The theatre crowd were making their way to warm restaurants to discuss the night’s entertainment, and the homeless looked on with expectant faces, hoping for a few quid from the people walking past. She would miss it all, had loved the camaraderie of the club, the laughs they’d had at the men’s expense. Had loved that feeling of belonging somewhere, of having somewhere to go where she could have a few drinks and a few laughs and get paid for it.

  An over-boisterous young man shoved past her and knocked her into the road. She gave him the finger and walked through to Old Compton Street where she picked up an unlicensed cab to King’s Cross. She had to earn tonight, had nothing, not even a pack of cigarettes. Her last few quid would go on this cab. Her mind was in turmoil now about how the hell she was going to cope. She’d spent every penny she had and her benefits were not due until next week. She was boracic lint and she was scared.

  At the Cross she walked slowly towards the other women and girls and saw them eyeing her suspiciously. It was dark and the wind was getting up. She had dressed for the warmth of the club and now she was starting to freeze. Her strappy shoes were no insulation from the cold pavement and suddenly she felt the urge to cry.

  A large brunette with enormous breasts in a front-laced corset walked over to her.

  ‘All right, love?’

  Her voice was friendly and Carole responded in kind.

  ‘Not really. Look at me boat.’

  The other woman nodded sympathetically.

  ‘You must be hard up. Want a fag?’

  Carole took the proffered cigarette gratefully.

  ‘What’s it like tonight?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Same as usual, a few bites, but it’s early.’ She drew heavily on her own cigarette. ‘Come round the corner, it’s better there. Gets rid of this wind and you can check for cars coming.’

  A man kerb crawled past them and they both smiled into the window of the car but it drove on.

  ‘Wanker!’

  Carole laughed at the woman’s exclamation. As they walked round the corner she saw a small crowd of other women and her heart sank. It occurred to her that she was being set up. A young girl with a long curly wig looked her over. For a few tense seconds Carole was paralysed with fear. They could rip her to pieces and she would be unable to defend herself.

  ‘You look like you could do with a drink.’

  The girl handed her a bottle of brandy and Carole took a deep swig from it gratefully.

  ‘Thanks, love.’

  They stood around stamping their feet and chatting. Every time a car came along they all smiled and walked out under the streetlight. When one got a punter they waved her off with ribald comments and eventually Carole relaxed.

  ‘You got a pimp, love?’

  This from the big woman who called herself Rosalie. Carole shook her head.

  ‘You got a choice of two here, one of Pat Connor’s number twos or little Mo Reinhard. Go with Mo, he’s fairer. He don’t mind the older ones either. Connor only really likes the kids.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He’ll find you, love, don’t worry about that.’

  Patrick Connor had put her back here on the street. Indirectly, she knew, but if she had not tried to help Marie and Tiffany she wo
uld be in a nice warm club now. Well, she would pay the three of them back. She didn’t know how but she would.

  Especially Connor.

  A car pulled up and Carole had her first ride of the night.

  As she climbed in she could smell after-shave and a magic tree. The man was small with a friendly face and badly cut hair. He drove to a piece of waste ground and shoved a tenner in her hand. As he undid his trousers he grabbed her hair and pulled her face into his lap.

  It was all over in minutes and she realised too late that he had not put on a condom, the dirty bastard. When she had tried to raise her head he had pulled her hair so hard she nearly cried out. He came in her mouth and she gagged.

  He was still laughing long after he had kicked her unceremoniously from his car. She spat on to the dirt, her body instinctively rejecting him, and then looked at the tenner in her hand. This was her life from now on and the sooner she accepted that the better off she would be. But it rankled.

  She’d known her club days were nearly over anyway but chose to blame Patrick, Marie and Tiffany.

  It made her feel so much better.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Karen Black was not impressed with Holloway. She hated the smell, the dimness and the close proximity of other women. She had already been warned that she had to shower regularly or she would get a kicking from her cellies, her cell mates. They were a pair of nutcases, one in for murder, the other for drug trafficking and conspiracy to murder. So she wasn’t exactly top dog in her new environment.

  As she walked through to her reception visit she was angry. Angry, hungry and tired. She had found it hard to sleep. The constant noise had driven her mad; the coughing, crying, laughter and shouting.

  She saw her husband and tried to smile. He had to tell other people she was coping. He was her lifeline to the outside world and what was being said about her. She ambled over to the little table like a woman at one with her new surroundings.