Bitter Sweet

by Mason N. Forbes

  ‘Sorry, she didn’t. Just said he is an old hand. The payoffs go back years.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Mike said, looking at his watch. ‘We’ll have to get a move on.’ He lifted what looked like two white telephone cables. ‘First we need to get these installed. One in Ivonne’s corridor?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I giggled. ‘Bedroom would be better.’

  Mike laughed. ‘We can sit here and watch the action.’ He placed one cable back on the table. ‘And this one,’ he again looked at his watch, ‘is the tricky one, it’s for the passageway outside.’

  I watched Mike as he gently laid the cable beside the other one. My anxiety was beginning to take root. His hand moved to the memory stick. The nervousness bloomed. I grabbed hold of my phone and started flicking through the list of escorts on the Escort England website.

  ‘Nina,’ Mike said. ‘Are you sure you can do this?’

  I swallowed. ‘Yes, I’m okay.’

  ‘Can you do it?’ Mike asked, insistently.

  I threw the phone down on to the sofa. ‘Yes.’ I looked at Mike. ‘The waiting is getting to me.’

  ‘It’s going to get worse,’ Mike said, toying with the memory stick. ‘You’re running a greater risk than Ivonne.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s go through the back-up plan if it all goes wrong?’

  ‘Okay. The main thing will be to play dumb. The story being; I’d fallen asleep in Ivonne’s spare bedroom. I’m to look as if I’ve just woken up.’

  ‘What if the guy becomes nasty?’

  ‘Look, I’m nervous enough without having to think about it.’

  ‘No,’ Mike said, ‘on the contrary. If you know what to do, then you’ll do it and won’t be thinking black thoughts.’

  ‘All right. But, the thing is we don’t know how he’ll react, or how fast – if we’re caught out.’

  ‘True, that’s the only weak spot. You choose your moment, do it quickly and straight back into the spare bedroom. Now,’ Mike set the memory chip down, ‘let’s get these cameras set up.’

  We went outside to the passageway; Mike carrying a set of steps and a toolkit, I held the mini-surveillance camera; the lens was no bigger than the rubber on the end of a pencil. The spot for the camera had already been chosen – it was close to the door of my apartment, just around a corner, so the building’s CCTV system could not see us installing the new device.

  Luck was with us and we were able to install the mini-camera system faster than anticipated, using the building’s ventilation system. However, Mike had to work hard to conceal the cable in the corridor of Ivonne’s apartment as there wasn’t much of a gap between the walls and the architraves.

  Ivonne joined Mike and I in my apartment to go over the plan one last time.

  ‘The cameras,’ Mike said, ‘are mainly for your safety, okay?’

  Ivonne was wearing a very short dress; with both knees together she sat down at an angle on the sofa, leaned back and slowly crossed her legs, all the while watching Mike. His eyes came up to meet hers and she winked, lasciviously.

  I coughed. ‘This is serious.’

  ‘You bet,’ Ivonne said. ‘Mike is doing us a favour. One good deed deserves another.’

  Mike laughed. ‘Glad you’re relaxed about it, Ivonne. However,’ Mike scratched his right ear, ‘what if it all goes wrong and you’re caught inflagranti?

  ‘You mean,’ Ivonne said, grinning lewdly, ‘like, being caught with your knickers down?’

  Mike smiled. ‘Not literally, but you’re getting the drift.’

  ‘Won’t happen,’ Ivonne said, ‘because we’ll do it when he’s in the shower.’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ I said, tapping my knee with my index finger. ‘But what happens if he catches you with the phone, Ivonne? Or me?’

  Ivonne sat upright. ‘I’ll just say it slipped out of his jacket, trousers, whatever.’ She was now getting down to business. ‘The one thing I don’t want,’ Ivonne continued, ‘is to be caught in the room with the guy.’

  ‘What if you are?’ I asked.

  ‘Ivonne,’ Mike said, ‘has the bedroom door got a lock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it a dead lock?’

  Ivonne frowned. ‘You mean a bolt?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mike said. ‘When the door is open, turn the lock, the bolt stays out – the door won’t close.’ Mike looked at his laptop. ‘You can’t get trapped, and I can see the door from here.’

  I looked at the computer screen. ‘Has the camera got a microphone?’

  ‘It does,’ Mike said.

  ‘Then make sure the volume is turned up.’

  Ivonne stood up, abruptly. ‘Look,’ she said, crossing her arms, ‘if you think this is going to turn nasty then I want Markus in here, right next to that computer.’

  I glanced at Mike. He nodded.

  ‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘Ivonne, come and sit down. It might not even be the same guy.’

  ‘Don’t talk shit,’ Ivonne said, spinning around to face me, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘You bloody well know it’s him. Martha gave you the phone number and the guy’s description. It’s him.’

  Mike clapped his hands. ‘Good, now you’re both taking it seriously.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes and he should be phoning to confirm the apartment number. Time to get ready.’

  The call came. Ivonne confirmed the time and her apartment number. I took one last look at the screen of Mike’s laptop. He handed me the memory stick, our fingers brushed.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, giving me a hug. ‘It’ll work out fine.’

  The layout of Ivonne’s apartment was the exact same as mine. A corridor led to the sitting-room-dining-room-kitchen area, and gave access to the two bedrooms, a bathroom and a closet where the central heating was located.

  I went into the spare bedroom, lay down on the bed and pulled the covers up to my waist. My mind was skidding this way and that. I unclenched the fingers of my right hand and looked at the memory stick. Two minutes, max. That’s what Mike had said. Then the programme on the stick would have control of the phone.

  Did I trust Mike? Yes. But I didn’t know if he knew what he was doing. It was my ass on the line, not his. There was no going back. I could feel the pulse in the artery of my neck. My breathing was fast – too fast, just to be lying there on the bed.

  The doorbell rang.

  I listened to the slight squeak coming from Ivonne’s shoes, then the door opening.

  ‘Hi,’ Ivonne said her voice bright and breezy. ‘Come in.’

  ‘You Ivonne?’ came the reply.

  I stared at the ceiling, listening to Ivonne’s chatter, distracting my mind from the upcoming task.

  As the gas boiler kicked into life I got up from the bed and stood beside the door, the memory stick ready in my hand with the array of connectors lying on the bed. The door handle moved, Ivonne’s hand appeared and I grabbed the phone.

  It was switched on – good. I placed it on the bed and looked at the power port, selected the correct adapter and connected it to the memory stick.

  The boiler shut off. I jerked my hand back and looked towards the door. I couldn’t see Ivonne. I stared at the door, all my senses on alert.

  Ivonne’s voice broke the silence. I couldn’t hear what she was saying; she must have been in the other bedroom. What little I could hear didn’t convey alarm. I turned back to the phone and started moving the adapter towards the power port. I stopped; my hands were shaking. I took a depth breath, and as I exhaled pushed the adapter into the phone.

  I felt panic rising as the phone’s screen sprang into life. A progress bar appeared on the screen. It started up. Twenty percent, thirty percent. The boiler fired up, making me jump. Forty percent. I was beginning to think I’d make it. Fifty percent. My hand was gripping the phone like a claw. Sixty percent. I was willing the thing across the screen. Eighty percent. The door swung in towards the frame an inch or two. I looked up, hopin
g it was Ivonne. No, a slight draft. Ivonne moving across the corridor? Ninety percent. Almost there.

  I readied my fingers to disconnect the adapter. Poised, I glanced at the door. The light coming in under the door altered. Jeez, that had better be Ivonne.

  She popped her head in, and smiled.

  I looked down to the phone’s display. The progress bar disappeared. The phone went blank. Oh shit. Had it installed? The screen glowed again. A message popped up; installation complete.

  I breathed out, disconnected the phone and handed it to Ivonne. She spun on her feet and wiggled her ass at me. I collapsed on the bed. The tricky part was over. Now it was just a matter of waiting. But first I hid the memory stick in the formica wardrobe and put the adapters in the drawer of the bedside table.

  I settled myself on the bed, but soon the groans of pleasure coming from the room across the corridor broke into my thoughts. I began to wonder if Ivonne was putting on an act for my benefit. She’d asked me once if I would do a duo with her. I had refused, having done a duo only once. Somehow being with a client and another woman hadn’t gelled. I’d had the peculiar feeling of being an interloper. I knew it had all been an act – just like the noises now coming from Ivonne. Still, I felt as if I’d been butting in. I was embarrassed and a bit jealous when I wasn’t taking the lead and when I was, I was nervous that the other girl would criticise my technique. Nor did I like the idea of drinking from the furry cup.

  The groans of pleasure reached a crescendo – thank God he’d only booked a half hour. Now he’d get a massage and then I’d be out of here.

  The sound of a door crashing startled me. I sat upright, listening.

  ‘Where is he?’ the Albanian barked.

  ‘He’s not here,’ Ivonne’s stammered.

  The door to my bedroom flew inwards, smashing against the wall.

  The Albanian stood on the edge of the door frame, using Ivonne as a shield. I gasped at the sight of Ivonne teetering on her feet with one arm twisted behind her back. Worst of all, was the thin flick-knife pressed into her face, just below her right eye. My hand flew to my face. Ivonne was pinned, unable to come down off her toes, held viciously in position by the upward thrust the Albanian was exerting on her arm.

  A globule of blood formed on the point of the blade.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ I yelled.

  ‘Big man, where?’

  ‘He’s not here,’ I gulped.

  The Albanian’s grey eyes, glinting like pearls, bored into mine. He had the perma-tan look of southern Europe, his head almost clean shaven – the three millimetre look of stubble. And the hard body, the stringy muscles, paired down, efficient.

  ‘Where?’ he asked.

  I fought the desire to look at Ivonne, knowing that if I did, the Albanian would know that I knew.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I stammered. ‘I was doing a duo with Ivonne.’ I avoided looking at her. Being ultra nervous I started to babble. ‘I had a late night, I crashed here—’

  ‘Shut up. Where is big man?’

  Shit. Why hadn’t Ivonne just told him?

  ‘How the fuck should I know, he’s her boyfriend,’ I said, pointing at Ivonne.

  The grey eyes became smaller.

  I held his gaze. Somehow, he had guessed the presence of another person in the apartment. Maybe an instinct thing. Maybe he’d thought that Markus had been in the spare bedroom. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  Mike and Markus could hear what was going on, but the way the camera was positioned they couldn’t see anything. If Markus came rushing in through the front door someone was going to get cut. And Markus wasn’t going to be able to rush in; he’d have to unlock the door.

  I didn’t doubt for one moment that the Albanian would use the blade, and ruthlessly.

  ‘Look, can we all relax, there’s no one else here,’ I said, deciding to babble on, hoping to play on the man’s prejudices. ‘I had a late night, then the appointment with Ivonne. We’d been using this room.’ I saw the knife point move, downwards. ‘I didn’t even know you were here. That bitch didn’t tell me.’

  That got through to the man. He shoved Ivonne straight at me. She crashed into me, the momentum driving us both on to the bed, her elbow landing on my stomach. I let out a yelp of pain.

  The Albanian closed the knife and grunted. Said something unintelligible. Laughed once, at his own humour and slammed the door shut.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ Mike said, pacing about the room. ‘Did I have a job keeping Markus in here? We could hear everything. Damned glad he couldn’t see what was happening; he’d have barged straight in.’

  My mind had shut down. I lay on the sofa staring at the glorious ceiling of my own apartment, feeling secure, only half listening. I was just glad that it was over. The cut below Ivonne’s eye didn’t even need a stitch. It was the emotional trauma – that’s why I just lay there in a daze.

  ‘Nina,’ Mike said. ‘You were magnificent, you really were.’

  That brought me out of my daze. Mike had shown concern for both of us as soon as the Albanian had gone, then he had rabbited on about our lucky escape. Now, finally, he began to see the courage it had taken to diffuse a situation which had contained violent, if not lethal, consequences.

  ‘Thank you, Mike,’ I said. Then it dawned on me: he had probably wanted to rush in and play the hero and save me from danger. His emotions were now settling down. ‘You’re a real gentleman, Mike. A sweetheart.’ That sounded slushy, but well, I meant it.

  ‘Come here and sit down,’ I said, patting the sofa beside me. ‘Give me a big hug.’

  He did so. It felt good to be in his arms. I ignored all the client-escort rules and savoured the moment; drawing strength and comfort from a truly shared intimacy. Boy did that feel good.

  Then it became too much. The nature of the business reasserted itself. Anything which took place in the apartment was business, only. I lived the lie, denying myself the tenderness of a permanent relationship outside of the job – enough lying went on just to maintain my anonymity as a sex worker.

  I looked at Mike. ‘So, what’s this little gadget of yours going to do?’ I said, pointing at the memory stick which lay on the table next to an overlarge smartphone.

  ‘Record every SMS and every conversation. And will be able to track his exact movements.’

  ‘Hold on. We? I’ve had enough. I’m in this business to make money. Cash. And to live a life which isn’t nine to five, not a life sitting bored at some desk with a bitchy boss, or some bald prat ogling my ass all the time. I’m free to run my life and organise my day as I please. Nor am I dependant on some boy friend or hubby doling out the cash.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Nina.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, I am.’

  ‘And two rights make a . . .’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Because you’ll be pushed out of business – sidelined.’

  ‘Now just a moment—’

  ‘You live the life you do because of the order which exists around you. Maybe not the best order. The law’s not perfect.’

  ‘Damn right.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mike said, nodding, ‘that’s right. But you take what you can get.’

  ‘Stop blathering. Spit it out.’

  ‘If this Albanian is part of a crew which has moved in, the whole escort business will spiral out of control and into the muck. Trafficking, pimping, coercion. You name it, that’s their game.

  ‘The clients – the good ones will start to run scared. They’ll worry they’re breaking the law, scared of being exposed, held to ransom.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘First a recap, okay?’

  ‘Yeah sure.’

  Mike scratched his ear. ‘Someone has been at the CCTV system. We don’t yet know who, but it wasn’t the maintenance company. I haven’t yet checked out the janitor, Alfred. Remind me to do that, okay?’

  I nodded.

  ‘There’s
what?’ Mike continued. ‘Two sets of girls from south-eastern Europe working in the city.’

  ‘That’s right, and they’re both undercutting.’

  ‘You sure?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘Martha is quitting,’ Mike continued. ‘There are rumours about a crew muscling in on the trade. Everyone’s getting nervous. There’s a cop taking backhanders. And we don’t yet know what the score is with the Albanian who was here this morning.’

  At the mention of the Albanian, I started twiddling with the end of my ponytail. ‘He could be the ring leader,’ I said, looking at Mike. ‘You wait and see; the next thing we’ll have is a group of girls in this apartment block. Minders and pimps hanging about. The Albanian or some of his thugs coming and going, collecting the cash. Seedy.’

  Mike frowned. ‘If it comes to that the residents will complain.’

  ‘You must be joking. You don’t live here. This isn’t no leafy suburb with quaint cottages, gate lodges and gentlemen’s residences. This building is full of one and two bedroom apartments – full of students and young singles who work in the city. Will they complain? Will they even notice?’ I stood up. I needed to move. But above all I needed to think of something else. I’d had enough excitement for one day.

  ‘How can the students afford these rents?’

  ‘Don’t be naïve, Mike. Three or four students sharing – not even two hundred quid a month.’ I went into the kitchen and grabbed the bin bag. ‘Time to go. I’m taking this down.’

  Mike hurriedly packed his things and put the oversized mobile phone for tracking the Albanian into his jacket pocket.

  I lifted my keys. ‘Thanks, Mike,’ I said, giving him a smile. ‘I need to get my head cleared, okay?’

  ‘I would offer to carry the bag?’

  ‘I know you would,’ I said, heading down the corridor with the bag.

  Mike laughed. ‘You really are macho-emancipated.’

  I opened the door and smiled. ‘That’s right.’

  We had to wait ages for one of the lifts and then it was full. Mike and I squeezed in; the lift stopping on every floor. I almost got off on the wrong floor, my brain running over the confrontation with the Albanian, looking for any details I had missed. Had he really swallowed the dumb-escort charade?