Harlot

by Tracie Podger

  “She isn’t worth that much, fuckwit,” the other man said. “I already tried her out.” He looked familiar, and it was only when Damien moved an inch and I could see his face that my stomach knotted.

  Damien was talking to his drug dealer, the one who, rumor had it, bought and sold the girls that disappeared. I knew then, I was in way more trouble than just dealing with Damien.

  “She’s got experience, Cody. You fucked her while she was out cold!”

  “She’s got a cunt the size of a tunnel.” He laughed and then spat on the floor. I watched as he lit what looked like a joint.

  “A hundred then, she’s worth that. Fucks like a rabbit, always had good reports back. Bareback, anal, she’ll do whatever you make her.”

  “I’ll come by later. I got shit to do right now. Make sure she’s fucking clean, I don’t want no crap in my car.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure, but I thought I could see just a small section of a vehicle, a blue vehicle with some form of writing. I needed to find a way out. I scuttled to the back of the small room, trying hard not to breathe too deeply. I tried just breathing in and out through my mouth but my throat was too sore. I had to use my nose, and with that came the stench. I tried hard not to cry and not to think of Cecelia until I could safely get away. I didn’t have time to break down. I prayed that someone had found her and that she was okay.

  “Charlotte the harlot,” I heard in a singsong voice. Damien was coming for me.

  I did the only thing I could think of, I rolled around in the shit and piss, coating myself in it. No matter how much of a pig he was, he wouldn’t want to get too close. Light flooded the room, and I screwed my eyes shut against the sting as it hit my bruised eyes.

  “Jesus Christ, you fucking whore,” he said. “Get the fuck out here.”

  I crawled toward the door, deliberately. “Get up,” he said, taking a step back as he spoke.

  I reached out as if needing him to steady myself. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he said, covering his mouth with his hand.

  “I can’t get up,” I said. My voice was hoarse.

  He reached down and grabbed the hair on the top of my head, then pulled me to my feet, wrenching out a handful of hair at the same time. I reached up, as I did, he kicked me in the stomach causing me to double over.

  “Don’t fucking touch me, I said, didn’t I? Jesus, you stink.”

  He dragged me to the rear of the trailer I’d run from, letting go of my hair and kicking at the back of my legs until I fell to the ground. I was still reeling from the kick to the stomach; I could feel hot piss run down my thigh as my bladder gave way.

  I screeched when a blast of ice cold water hit me. He’d turned on the hose and was spraying me with water. I covered my face with my hands; the water was like a thousand tiny pins pricking my skin at the same time. When he thought I was clean, he threw the hose down.

  “Get inside and get properly cleaned up, you’ve got a job to do.”

  I didn’t move, but was then dragged through the door of the trailer. Dripping wet, I was marched to the one bedroom. I sat on the very edge of the unmade and stinking bed. I guessed he’d moved back in when I’d left. Cigarette ash, joints, needles, and drug paraphernalia littered the floor. They were accompanied by empty and half-filled bottles of liquor.

  The bedroom door opened, and Damien threw in the black, fake leather mini-skirt and Gypsy top that he thought made me look more desirable. He tore my t-shirt from my body when I hadn’t moved quickly enough. I needed clothes, I had no choice but to put on what he’d offered. He stood and watched. All the while, my mind was whirling. I was never going to be handed over to his friend and a plan had started to form in my mind.

  “Can I get a drink of water?” I asked, “My throat hurts.”

  “Should have opened your mouth when I washed you,” he replied. “I like your hair, makes you look older. Put some makeup on.”

  Damien handed me a small cosmetics bag, I had no idea who it belonged to, and I doubted very much he’d gone to the trouble to purchase those items for me. I used a small compact to apply eyeliner, mascara, and dabbed my lips with a balm, forgoing the bright red lipstick that had clearly been used.

  “What time is your friend coming back?” I asked.

  “Later.”

  Damien lay on the bed, his hand reached for a bottle of liquor beside the bed. I watched as he unscrewed the cap and took a gulp. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth before offering me the bottle. I shook my head. Despite being desperate for a drink, I wouldn’t put my mouth around anything he had.

  “You know the police thought I killed Philip?”

  “Did you?”

  Damien laughed. “No, course not. I went there to give him a stern talking to, remind him he’d been fucking something that belonged to me and was a minor. Someone got there first.”

  “I wasn’t a minor.” I ignored the belonged to me comment.

  “Yeah, whatever. You’ve been fucking him for a year, that makes you a minor when you started.”

  I didn't bother to correct him. Numbers or local law wasn’t his strong point.

  “Anyways, I didn’t tell them about you, I saved your ass, Harlot. So, now you owe me.”

  “You should have,” I said, hoping to show I wasn’t scared.

  “You was always the dumb one, didn’t get any further than one town over.” He laughed before taking another large gulp from the bottle.

  Damien was a seasoned drinker; he wouldn’t pass out with just the half bottle he held in his hand. I hoped his friend took his time and Damien might move on to something stronger.

  “What did you do to Cecelia?”

  “Ah, she was a sweet old woman, wasn’t she? I booked a room with her. See, I’ve been watching you and it wasn’t that hard to follow you about.”

  He made no mention of Beau, so I wasn’t so sure he had been following me that frequently. At the thought of Beau and Cecelia my eyes filled with tears. He was going to be so devastated.

  “Aw, why you crying? She remind you of Esther?”

  “Yes, she was kind to me.”

  “You ain’t got a need for kind.” Although not drunk, his words had become slightly slurred.

  I shuffled, it was to shift from sitting on a bruise. I guessed Damien thought differently. He sprung from the bed and grabbed my arm.

  “I’m trying to get comfortable, that’s all,” I said, trying to slow my racing heart.

  All I wanted to do was to curl up and cry, for Cecelia, for Beau, for myself. But I knew, to survive this ordeal, I had to pretend I didn’t care. I had to act no matter how hard that was.

  I sighed. “I’m bored,” I said.

  “Too bad.”

  Damien placed the half-drunk bottle to my side. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and a lighter from the other. He lit his cigarette and laid the pack and the lighter on the bed.

  “Can I?” I said, pointing to the bottle.

  He shrugged, it wasn’t a yes or no but I picked it up anyway. He watched me, bemused I thought, as I placed the neck of the bottle to my mouth. I took the largest mouthful of the fiery liquid I could, without choking. At the same time, I picked up the lighter.

  What I did next would haunt me. I spat the liquor into his face and at the same time, I flicked the bezel and set him on fire. I threw more of the liquor at him and ran from the bedroom. The screams pierced straight through me. I covered my ears as a flaming body stumbled after me, catching everything close by on fire. Synthetic curtains went up with a whoosh. The smell was the thing that would stay with me. Burning, melting flesh, smelled like a hog on a spit.

  I fell out the trailer door; he fell behind me. I screamed, he hissed and his skin popped and voice gurgled until he fell flat on the ground. I knew I should have moved, ran, but I was paralyzed as I watched the trailer go up in a ball of flames.

  Tears rolled down my cheeks, not for him, though. I guessed it was shock.

  I wasn’t aware
of time. I had no idea if it was day or night, how long I’d been sitting on a cot in a windowless cell.

  The police had been called, which I remembered finding very strange. No one called the police on that trailer park. I was pulled away from the smoldering body that had been Damien. I couldn’t speak. I was spoken to, asked questions, but I’d open my mouth and no words would form. They knew my name, I guessed whoever had called the police had told them that part. They didn’t know that it was Damien charcoaled outside the trailer.

  I was made to stand and hold out a board, I didn’t know what the board said. I continued to cry as they took my photograph, but I didn’t understand why they needed to do that. I would look at the policeman, I would see his mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear his words. The only sound in my head were my own screams. The only image in my line of sight, no matter where I looked, was Damien’s melting face and his bulging eyes.

  I knew I was in a police station and I knew I was in trouble. I deserved it, I guessed. I’d caused so much trouble. Other than that, I was at a complete loss as to what I should do. I just needed a little time to clear the noise from my head, to get my thoughts straight, and erase the image imprinted behind my eyelids.

  I tried my hardest not to sleep, even holding my eyelids, unsuccessfully, open one time. No matter how hard I tried, I failed. The noise that was contained during the day, spilled out of my mouth that night. So much so, that finally a doctor was called.

  It surprised me to learn I’d only been arrested the day before. It felt like I had been sitting in that cell for days. The doctor told the police officer standing beside him I was fine. I was fit for questioning. Maybe I was, except I couldn’t remember much other than the last few moments. I knew Damien had hurt Cecelia but then it all became a blur, a mesh of images that I wasn’t sure were real, or when they had occurred. The confusion frightened me.

  They asked me the same question over and over, Did you kill Damien Kenny? Sometimes they didn’t ask outright, they worded it so many different ways. They sympathized with me; one policewoman actually said she’d have done the same had she been in my situation.

  I’d asked how Cecelia was; they would look blankly at me, not answering. No one seemed to know who, or how, she was. I was shuffled from cell to interview room more times that I could remember. Sometimes they were friendly, sometimes not. They got frustrated and shouted, slammed palms on desks, and sometimes their voices were so smooth, low, and singsong, I’d want to fall asleep.

  Another day passed, or at least I thought it had. There were no windows in the cell, I lost track of time, but I had slept so assumed, when I was given something unidentifiable to eat, it was breakfast time. It was that day that clarity started to form. The fog that had misted up my mind cleared, and the screaming in my head settled down to just a whimper.

  It was day three that things changed. I was sitting in my cell, disgusted at the smell that emanated from my sweaty body and the room itself when the door opened. A policeman stood and beckoned me to follow.

  “Your lawyer’s finally here,” he said.

  “My…?”

  I hadn’t been given an opportunity to contact a lawyer, not that I would know who to call anyway. It also dawned on me that, from the little TV I had watched, I should have been allocated one from the very beginning. I racked my brain to see what I’d said in those many interviews.

  I followed him to a room. A gentleman in a dark gray suit stood. He smiled as I entered, walked forward and reached out with his hand. At first I just stared, not to be rude, but conscious of how grubby mine were.

  I opened my mouth to speak but he hushed me, staring harshly at the policeman who was hovering around the door. When we were finally alone, he pulled out a chair for me.

  “Charlotte, my name is Paul. I want you to tell me how you ended up in Whiteling, okay?”

  I nodded. I started at the beginning, telling him about my grandmother, Damien’s abuse, losing the house and running from Whiteling. I omitted a lot of information that might have been useful, but I didn’t care to share absolutely everything with a man I had only just met. I then told him of the phone call I’d received and what I’d discovered when I’d got to Cecelia’s.

  “Please, tell me. Is she okay?”

  He sighed, “No, unfortunately she passed away, Charlotte.”

  “No. Oh, God, please tell me that’s wrong.”

  “She was very sick, her heart gave out.”

  “Her…? So, Damien didn’t kill her?”

  “No, not according to the initial coroner’s report, anyway. Whether the fright of finding him in her bedroom can be attributed to that, I’ll have a damn good go at. Has a doctor seen you?”

  I dreaded to think what I looked like. “Sort of. I can’t remember much.”

  “Good, let’s leave it that way. Now, we’re going into the interview room, and I don’t want you to speak unless I give you the nod. If I don’t give you the nod, no matter what they say, you don’t answer.”

  Somehow, and perhaps it was because my mind was a little clearer, the prospect of sitting through another interview terrified me. However, I nodded my head.

  Paul stood and rapped his knuckles on the door. It was immediately opened and two police officers walked in. I recognized one.

  “First, my client had been denied immediate representation; second, she should have been given access to proper medical attention. Both of those will be officially recorded,” he said, before anyone had settled in their chairs.

  “Noted,” the officer I didn’t recognize said.

  “Charlotte, can we start again? Tell us what happened?”

  I looked at Paul; he shook his head. “My client was kidnapped and brought to Whiteling, somewhere she’d left some weeks ago. She has suffered immense trauma, physical injuries that should have been tended to. She is willing to give a statement, but right now her needs are to be met. I’m requesting she’s taken to hospital for a check up.”

  “Did the doctor check you over?” I was asked. Again, I looked at Paul and he nodded.

  “A doctor sat on the edge of the bed, he didn’t physically examine me. I don’t actually remember anything he said, other than I was fine.”

  The officer sighed and then switched off the recording machine. He asked his colleague to fetch some coffee.

  “Paul, I know Damien Kenny. I know he is capable of causing your client terrible trauma. All I need to know is what happened. Off the record for now. You know me, you can trust me.”

  Paul looked at me, I wasn’t sure what I was expected to say.

  “He has physically and mentally abused Charlotte. The police in Aylesham have him on CCTV at an address where the owner, Cecelia Mercier was found dead. He kidnapped Charlotte from that address. He raped her, beat her, locked her in a shed, and was then to sell her to a friend for prostitution.”

  Just hearing it spoken out loud had tears coursing down my cheeks.

  “And the friend is?” the policeman asked, and both looked at me.

  “I don’t know him, I just overheard a conversation.”

  “Charlotte, what happened in that trailer?” the police officer asked.

  At first, I struggled to speak. “He drank from a bottle, some homemade stuff, he called it the original moonshine, I think. He made me take a sip but I don’t like it. I don’t know exactly what happened. One minute he was sitting there, drinking, he lit his cigarette and then he was on fire. I panicked and I ran. He ran after me, as he did the flames…they caught things on fire.”

  I choked through the words, genuinely distressed, despite my statement not being strictly true.

  “Can we get that on record?”

  I looked at Paul. “Only if I have assurance she’ll get medical treatment. Look at her, Frank. He beat the fucking shit out of her. You know she shouldn’t be here.”

  More tears pricked at my eyes; there was so much compassion in his voice that I didn’t think he was acting, or being all ‘lawyery.’
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  “I think my colleagues were a little… You know what I mean. Charlotte, just repeat what you’ve told me, on record, then we can begin to sort this mess out.”

  I watched as the recorder was switched back on, I was asked the same question and I repeated my answer. Probably not word for word, but I didn’t think it mattered. Once that was done, and some paperwork was signed. I was escorted from the station. The sunlight hurt my eyes that at first I wasn’t aware of the figure leaning against the side of a car. Paul took my arm and I was helped down the steps. It was as I got close that I recognized Beau.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, trying hard not to break down.

  He didn’t reply, just nodded, but he did open the car door and placed his hand on my lower back as he helped me in. I was grateful there wasn’t a hospital in Whiteling, Paul had instructed Beau to take me back to Aylesham. I watched Paul walk back into the station.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I said, quietly.

  “Say nothing, Charlotte. Let’s just get you to the hospital.”

  “I don’t have insurance.”

  “Don’t worry about that now.”

  Sadness etched his face and when he looked at me, I knew he blamed me for Cecelia. I wanted to reach out to him, beg his forgiveness if necessary. I wanted to tell him everything but whatever friendship we had started to develop was gone.

  It appeared I was expected at the hospital, I was met at reception and led away to a small room. I was introduced to a rape counselor and I wanted to laugh. I’d needed one of those four years ago, not then. I declined the chat. I was asked to remove my clothes, which were bagged up, and I was given a robe to put on. Paul must have called ahead, or perhaps the police. I guess they wanted evidence of what I’d said.

  Swabs were taken, X-rays and blood tests performed. Eventually, I was told I had two broken ribs, was bruised internally and externally. I was given some pills to ease the pain.