by Ruth Jacobs
She took out her mobile and, leaning on the coffee table, she wrote down the phone numbers of her contacts on an A4 pad. Not many friends, she thought glumly. Even though she hadn’t spoken to most of them in years, she still copied out their numbers. On a separate sheet of paper, she wrote out the phone numbers she used more often: her two dealers – Jay and Ajay; the clients she dealt with directly; the five madams she worked for; and the numerous girls she worked with. She consoled herself that three of those working girls were her friends, as was Hugo, to a degree. He didn’t fall into any of her categories. As the son of one of Nicole’s ex-clients, he was something else entirely.
Once she’d crosschecked the names and phone numbers on paper against the contacts in her phone, she replaced her old SIM card with a new one. Later on, she’d transfer the numbers and contact the people she wanted to know her new number.
Nearly ready for her fix, she filled a glass under the tap in the kitchen. She returned to the lounge, placing the glass on the coffee table and taking her place on the sofa. With her syringe, she drew up the water for her hit and squirted it over the heroin in her spoon. Before cooking up, she dropped her old SIM card into the glass. Marianne could sink on her own.
18. Covering Up
“Kiki! How the devil are you?”
“Hmm...” Holding her mobile in one hand, Shelley used the other to push herself upright on the sofa on which she’d fallen asleep. “Who is this?”
“Sorry if I woke you, sweetie. I—”
“No, no, it’s okay. I didn’t realise it was you.”
“You’re not ill, are you? Or were you out partying last night? I want to see you. I’ll be staying in London tonight.”
How could she see a client when her arms were marked so badly? She selected the ‘out partying last night’ option, then told him she was booked for the evening already. Unsure what she wanted to do, she said she’d try to cancel the booking or send a friend in her place.
The driver and the blindfold business would be off-putting under most circumstances, but that job was worth feeling sick for a while in the back of a Rolls-Royce. Like quite a few of her clients, he had erectile dysfunction. His ED perhaps caused, or at least worsened, by consuming copious amounts of cocaine. And like most clients with ED, he didn’t even attempt intercourse. But there was more to him than what Nicole referred to as a Resident Limp Dick. He also fitted the profile for a Resident Fucked Out My Box – a client who paid them to take drugs. That was Shelley’s second preferred category. The Limp Dicks were the first. Those that fell in both camps topped the lot, or they had done until she met him. Resident Dicks All the Boxes was coined by Nicole because he ticked boxes Shelley previously thought couldn’t exist within the mode of time-in-exchange-for-money transaction in which she partook.
It was fortunate they’d exchanged numbers. Otherwise, she’d never have had the opportunity to see him again. After what she’d done with her SIM card last night, Marianne was no longer in the position to give her any work. But it wasn’t some amazing foresight that had led her to do it. The reason had been the same as it had for every client before him: to cut out the madam’s take on her future earnings.
Although she preferred dealing with her clients directly – and not sharing her fee after the initial introduction, or the first few visits – it wasn’t standard practice to share her number with every client (and most didn’t share theirs until they were regulars). Dishonesty wasn’t the issue; she felt working this way could be justified by the Golden Rule. The reason she had to be selective was for survival, both in terms of her personal safety and in continuing to work for the madams whose clients she effectively stole. Each situation had to be analysed on a case-by-case basis, which wasn’t easy when she was with a Fucked Out My Box. She had to weigh up the risks: consider the existing client/madam relationship; their closeness to her compared to each other; the length of time they’d known each other compared to how long they’d known her; their personalities and character traits. Various factors had a bearing on her judgement, but her rule was that whenever it seemed safe, she’d deal with the client direct.
***
Wrapped in her duvet, she sat on the sofa, cooking up her first hit of the day. Once the heroin had released her from the pain in her bones and in her head, she started writing a list on the A4 pad she’d left on the coffee table last night.
Looking at what she’d come up with, none of the reasons seemed plausible for explaining the bandages she might wrap around her arms. If a dog had attacked her, wouldn’t it be strange the dog had bitten both her arms and nowhere else on her body? Spilling a cup of tea wouldn’t be enough to scald both arms. A hot bath, now that was a ludicrous idea. It would burn one hand or a foot. What idiot would lower both arms into a boiling bathtub? A drunken one, and she didn’t want Resident Dicks All the Boxes to think she was a drunk. The best option was a skin condition. She had eczema or psoriasis of which she was so embarrassed she kept it covered whenever it flared up. That way he would be unlikely to insist on seeing the damage, though he might choose never to see her again.
“Hi, it’s Kiki,” Shelley said, playing nervously with the diamond in her necklace.
“Hello sweetie,” Resident Dicks All the Boxes replied.
“I’ve eventually managed to get another girl on my booking, so I’m all yours.”
“Splendid,” he said. “I’ll send my driver. He’ll collect you from the same place. Say eight p.m.?”
The rendezvous was set but looking at the clock, she realised there was only a little over two hours in which to get ready. She threw on an old tracksuit and ran down the road to the shops.
When she arrived at the chemist’s, they were pulling down the metal shutter and she was refused entry. However, after the staff heard the details of her dire situation, she was granted access and given one of her four boxes of bandages free. The grey-haired shop assistant identified with Shelley’s story of a hypercritical boyfriend. Apparently, she’d married the one she’d been with as a teenager. Still married, forty years later, he was still hypercritical of everything about her, everything she did, everything she wore, everyone she spoke to and everything she said.
“It’s been lovely talking to you, but I need to get back.” Shelley took a step farther away from the cash desk and the lady standing behind it.
“Don’t take up with anyone who won’t take you exactly as you are,” the lady said. “If he wants to change you then it’s not you he wants to be with.”
Shelley took another couple of steps backwards and reached for the handle on the glass door. “Thanks for the advice,” she called out behind her.
After her shower, she straightened her black hair using a large bristle brush under the hairdryer. Then with her steaming hot curling tongs, she curled under the ends of her bob. Shorter hair took longer to style; she couldn’t leave it to air-dry as she had done when her hair was long.
She studied her face in the mirror. Little white bumps had infiltrated her once clear complexion. Worse, there were a couple of angry red spots on her chin. Taking concealer, she covered them over and applied a thick powder foundation, which she hoped would last the night. Her eyes, she made up heavy with purple to draw attention away from her damaged skin. The blush on her cheeks gave the illusion of health, as did the lilac gloss she spread on her lips.
On opening the bandages, she questioned if she could really pull it off, but it was too late to cancel now that she had committed. Having bandaged her left arm, she inspected it in the mirror. Sexy was not a word that came to her mind. Suddenly, she remembered a dress that she could potentially keep on all night and that would mean the client wouldn’t come face-to-face with the bandages.
From her wardrobe, she took out the Moschino mini dress. After bandaging her second arm from the wrist to just above the elbow, she slipped her mummified arms into the long sleeves of the black dress. Gold buttons ran the short length of the dress. She fastened them, bearing in mind that she cou
ld keep her arms in the dress all night and just unbutton the front when, and if, access was required.
For distraction from her covered arms, she rolled lace top stockings over her legs and attached them to a black lace suspender belt. With the combination of her stockings and her come-fuck-me high heels, she convinced herself she’d get away with keeping the dress on, regardless of the unhelpful comments from the board.
She took a chase of heroin to be sure she left the flat on time. Then she whizzed round the flat counting aloud in fives as she patted, twisted and rattled, the oven knobs, taps and window handles respectively.
She drove the short distance to Belsize Park from where she was being picked up outside her old working flat. Concerned the landlord might see her if he was around, she pulled up outside a row of terraced houses farther down.
At exactly eight o’clock, she stepped out of her car. She completed the ritual that ensured her car’s security. Then she walked up the road.
Noticing the Rolls-Royce was already there, she picked up her pace and approached the blacked-out windows. Out of habit, when she opened the door, she was mindful of her nails, but sitting down in the backseat, she realised they were unpainted. Her weekly visits with Nicole to Final Touch had slipped and she’d forgotten to paint them herself.
“Hello again,” Shelley said, as a hand reached through the hatch, exhibiting the silk blindfold.
Grateful that she could take her eyes off her unkempt fingernails, she tied the blindfold at the back of her head. Whether it would help take her mind off them too was another matter.
“I nearly didn’t recognise you, miss. Is that a syrup on your head?” the driver asked.
“No. Does it look like one?” As the car sped off, Shelley’s body was sent flying backwards into the seat. Her Tiffany necklace slapped against her open mouth and the diamond whacked her front teeth.
“I didn’t mean no offence, miss,” the driver said, as if he hadn’t witnessed the collision in the rear. “It’s just the boss only usually sees blondes.”
19. Take Me to Your Dealer
Cocaine and Shelley didn’t mix well, and the coke had been unkind to her on the Saturday night she’d spent with her client. Generally, a downer was required to counter the effects and at her client’s London townhouse, she hadn’t been able to take any. Now, four days after the job, she was still trying to reduce the paranoia with her ally, heroin, but by mixing up her hits with crack, the psychosis-bearing traitor, she was reducing the efficacy of the gear.
She was nearly out, and Jay was unable to deliver her next batch of brown and white. Apparently, he was waiting for a package. On a Wednesday – his busiest day – Shelley doubted that was the case. He was most likely up to something else, like getting his end away. Ajay – her back-up dealer – was also dry, though he was able to refer her to someone else who was holding. Now she had to go out because Ajay’s contact, Len, wouldn’t deliver to Hampstead. Len assured her that he had what she needed, but she had to go to his house in Ladbroke Grove. She imagined it would be safer to go to his place than to Camden to score from a stranger. Camden was fine for a few twenty bags, but she knew she couldn’t hand over five-hundred pounds to a stranger and expect them to come back.
After four days of not bathing or brushing her teeth, she could smell herself. Although she wanted a bath, she didn’t want to lie in her own dirty water. While the bath was running, she took a shower and washed her greasy hair until it squeaked clean. With a deep conditioning treatment left in, she pulled back her hair with a clamp then climbed into the bath.
She thought about the call she’d made to Aunt Elsie last week. Her aunt had sounded distant. Shelley wasn’t sure if it was because she was cross that she wasn’t visiting her or Rita as often as usual, or if it was something else. Also of concern was Nicole. When she’d last spoken to her, she’d seemed different. Shelley thought it was most likely the strain of the court case – she was being called in the next week. Shelley had asked Nicole if she’d heard from Marianne, but she hadn’t either. She’d been trying her every day and every time Marianne’s phone went straight to voicemail. Shelley had expressed her concern about holding off on their plan, but Nicole said she was pleased Marianne was probably still detained by the police, that it was only a taste of the comeuppance she had coming. Anyway, they couldn’t make their move until she’d testified, so at least something bad was happening to Marianne in the meantime. As Shelley tried to relax in the bubbles, she feared the police would be looking for her. She was convinced Marianne wouldn’t have been held this long unless it was for something serious.
Once she dragged herself out of the warm water, she brushed her teeth for ten minutes, hoping to counter the damage done to them during the last few days they’d been neglected. After dressing, styling her bob and applying her make-up, she sat on the sofa and made herself a shot – this time using only heroin, as it was all she had left and there was only enough for a minute hit.
She accomplished the checking quickly. Her heart wasn’t in it today. So what if the flat was burgled, flooded or went up in flames? She believed she had far bigger things to worry about.
***
Shelley ran to her car, escaping the rain spewing on her from the grey sky. Once out of the storm, she could hear the words ‘damaged goods’ slamming down on the windscreen. She popped out the Pablo Honey CD from its case and put it into the CD player. Her brother had bought her that Radiohead album not long before he died.
In an attempt to drown out the downpour, she cranked up the volume but her mind wasn’t silenced by the blast. Her grief, her anger, her fears, her lost hopes, and images, words and phrases painfully etched in her memory competed for attention.
Through her tears, she drove past St John’s Wood then into Maida Vale and up Elgin Avenue. She was nearly there and she knew she had to stop crying before she arrived. Taking deep breaths at a set of red traffic lights, she closed her eyes. She imagined herself with her family as they used to be, but it made her feel worse. Her insides felt like they were bleeding out.
As the lights turned green, she kicked down on the accelerator. The low car mounted the curb. She hit the footbrake, pulled the handbrake, then threw her torso over the steering wheel. She roared as if producing the noise would purge her of the pain inside.
After a while she stopped crying and screaming. She gradually edged off the curb. Driving on the road, she realised the car was dipping to the left. She pulled over again – carefully this time. Inspecting the passenger-side front tyre, she saw the deep cut. She didn’t know how to change a tyre, so she called the AA. She sat out the wait with Radiohead in the shelter of her car.
Shortly after the rain had stopped, the rescue man arrived. When her tyre had been replaced, she continued on her journey. Part-way down Ladbroke Grove, she turned off and after zigzagging a few times, she arrived at the house on Bracewell Road.
Although the sun had brightened the sky, when Shelley stepped out of the car, the cloud of impending doom hung heavy over her head – and its spawn that resided in the pit of her stomach made her aware of its presence.
It took her five minutes to check her car was locked. Her mind was consumed with worry that she hadn’t checked her flat properly. She might’ve forgotten to close the front door. She couldn’t remember closing it. She might’ve left a window open, a tap turned on, or left the oven, grill or hob on.
***
The front garden of the red-bricked terraced house was cluttered with discarded furniture, remnants of carpet and pots of paint. Shelley thought they might be redecorating, and when the door opened, it looked like a mammoth task. From what she could see down the long hall, the house was a wreck.
The skinny man, who Shelley placed at twenty-eight to thirty years old, led her into a lounge that coordinated with his own derelict appearance. His clothes were stained to rival Tara’s pyjamas, laden with the same brown spills – most likely coffee – and the off-white splashes that more closely resem
bled ejaculate than anything else that came to Shelley’s mind, especially as observed against the backdrop of his black, v-neck jumper.
“You got the dough, love?” he said, holding out his open palm in front of her.
“Have you got both?”
He nodded and scratched his hairy chin.
“Brown and white?” She waited for his response but he stared at her, blankly and with closed lips. “Can I have it then?” she asked.
“I’ll get it for you.” He averted his gaze to the ripped wallpaper and Shelley averted hers to his ripped jeans. Resident Scarecrow, Nicole would have probably called him. “I need to nip out to pick it up.”
“I’ll drive you,” she said eagerly.
“No need. It’s only a few houses down. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he told the loose hanging strips of wallpaper.
“I’ll come with you.”
“Nah, love. Can’t have you knowing where I keep my stash, can I?” He chuckled. Was he laughing at her or was that her paranoia? “Have you got the readies, then?”
“I’ll give it to you when you get back.”
“I have to take it now. I ain’t up to no thuggery or nothing,” he said, grinning. “My mate’s holding the parcel and he’s taking the money.” With a tattooed hand, he gestured to the armchair. “Have a pew.”
Shelley remained standing. The armchair, which was the only seat in the room, was smothered with lashings of pet hair and topped with what looked like either food or vomit. Although she hadn’t noticed any pets, the house smelt like one might have died. The stink was so rancid that the body odour she’d acquired from not bathing seemed like a delicate fragrance in comparison.