by Mark Burnell
I never saw the blow that killed Crowther—by all accounts, it was more of a slap than a punch—but I did glimpse the unconscious body through a partially-opened door. Just for a second, but a second is all it takes.
I was the only witness that West couldn’t trust. Those who dumped the unconscious Crowther in Docklands were West’s closest men. They were never going to be a problem. But considering how he had treated me, West had every reason to be nervous.
Most of all, I remember the confusion in his face because I don’t think I’ve seen it since. He was truly scared. He knew that if he was convicted, he was looking at a life sentence. As for me, he wasn’t sure whether to try to sweet-talk me or whether to resort to violence. As it was, he did neither because I made up my mind before he made up his. I said to him, ‘If I was never here, you’re never going to touch me again. Do you understand?’
Dumbfounded, he’d simply nodded.
‘Let me hear you say it.’
‘I understand.’
Since then, I’ve kept silent and West has kept his word and Detective McKinnon—the officer who headed the investigation—has remained frustrated.
As for the rape—or should I say, the first rape?—I have analysed it constantly since it happened. I cannot pretend it was the brutal assault it could have been—the type that makes the news, the type that leaves a mutilated corpse in its wake—but it was a horror to be endured nevertheless. Having been endured, however, I think the experience has been strangely empowering. Primarily, having survived such an ordeal, it taught me that I could survive such an ordeal.
I began to be able to see myself as West saw me—as a thing, not a person—and this has enabled me to divide myself in two so that there is a part of me that nobody can reach, no matter what abuses they visit upon my body. This has allowed me to do what I do, to cope with the repulsive acts I perform for my repellent clients. It’s allowed me to live with the threat of violence without it driving me crazy.
West still makes me nervous and my hold over him is tenuous. There is no guarantee that I won’t become a victim of his violence at some point. As the months have passed and the Crowther incident has receded, West has become more intolerant of me. Thinly-veiled threats are starting to seep into our conversations. I’ve seen the way he looks at me and I know he’d like to try to break me again, even though he says I am no longer attractive, that I’m disgusting to him.
It is true that I don’t look good these days. I’ve lost so much weight. My skin has no real colour, except for the red blotches. My eyes look permanently bruised but aren’t and my gums are always bleeding.
Perhaps the most humiliating thing that has happened to me in this, the most humiliating of trades, is that I’ve been forced to lower my prices. Anne once said to me, just as she was on her way out of the business and I was on my way in, ‘You don’t know what true degradation is until you have to discount yourself, only to find out it makes no difference.’
I am not in that position yet. But I am not far away.
I am twenty-two years old.
* * *
Joan was peeling the wrapper off her third packet of Benson & Hedges of the day. ‘You’re shaking.’
It was true. Stephanie’s hands were trembling. ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’
For Anne’s sake, she hadn’t returned to Chalk Farm, so the next two nights had been spent upon the lumpy sofa currently occupied by Joan’s sprawling bulk. Uncomfortable nights they had been, too; once the heating cut out, it had been freezing, so she’d curled herself into a ball and pulled two coats around her to keep warm. Then she’d sucked at the gin bottle until she’d passed out, managing three hours’ sleep the first night and two the second. Now she was paying the price for it.
Shrouded in smoke, Joan was chewing peanuts while flicking through the TV channels with the remote. On the floor, next to her overflowing ashtray, there were three phones, waiting for business. None of them was ringing. She said, ‘He’s ready when you are.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Big bloke. I think he’s had a few.’ She glanced at Stephanie through her tinted lenses and shook her head. ‘Better pull yourself together, girl. You don’t look a million dollars.’
Joan looked like a beached whale. In Lycra. Stephanie said, ‘Who among us does?’
She poured herself half a mug of gin, stole one of Joan’s cigarettes, and went to the bathroom. She washed her face, the cold water bringing temporary refreshment, before applying foundation and mascara. When she looked this bad, Stephanie always tried to draw attention to her mouth and to her eyes, which were deep brown beneath long, thick lashes. The lipstick she selected was a bloodier red than usual. No matter how emaciated the rest of her became, her fleshy lips looked as ripe as they ever had.
She changed back into her lacy black underwear and fastened her suspender-belt. There were mauve smudges on her thighs, souvenirs from anonymous fingers that had pressed into her too eagerly. The bruises around her wrists had faded to a band of pale yellow that was barely noticeable.
She drained the gin, took a final drag from the cigarette and rinsed out her mouth with Listerine. Then she took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind. But when she caught her reflection in the mirror, the feeling returned; the fear of the stranger, the fear of fear itself. It was in her stomach, which was cold and cramping, and in her throat, which was arid and tight.
To the cadaverous face in the glass, she whispered a terse instruction. ‘No. Not now.’
* * *
‘Hi, I’m Lisa. What’s your name?’
He thought about it, presumably choosing something new. ‘Grant.’
Joan was right about his size. Not only was he tall, but he was massive. An ample gut hung over the top of black trousers that looked painfully tight. Stephanie never knew that Ralph Lauren shirts came in such a gargantuan size. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, exposing thick forearms, each of which sported a large tattoo. His hair was buzz-cropped and a band of gold hung from his left ear. But the watch on his wrist was a Rolex. He looked as if he was in another man’s things. He looked like an impostor. Then again, they nearly always did.
‘What are you looking for?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
Stephanie put her hand on her hip, as she always did at this moment, allowing her gown to fall further open. In the right mood, it felt like a tempting tease. Today, it felt cold and sad. She watched his eyes roll down her body. ‘I start at thirty and go up to eighty. For thirty, you get a massage and hand-relief. For eighty, you get the full personal service.’
‘Sex?’
She wanted to snap but managed to restrain herself, forcing a smile instead. ‘Unless you can think of something more personal.’
Grant frowned. ‘What?’
Stephanie saw the fog of alcohol clouding his eyes. ‘So, what do you want?’
‘The full … thing … service…’
‘That’s eighty.’
‘Okay.’ When he nodded, his entire body swayed.
‘Why don’t we get the money out of the way now?’
‘Later.’
‘I think now would be better.’
‘Half now, half after?’
‘No. Everything now. It’s better this way.’
His mouth flapped open, as though he were about to protest, but no sound emerged. So he stuffed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of fives and tens. As he came close, she smelt the alcohol on his breath and the body odour that is peculiar to sweat. With fat, pink fingers, he sorted through the grubby notes and handed them to her.
She counted quickly. ‘There’s only seventy here.’
‘It’s all I got.’
‘It’s not enough. Not for sex. Perhaps there’s something else you’d like?’
He grinned stupidly. ‘Come on,’ he slurred. ‘Ten quid. That’s all it is…’
‘Yeah, I know. Ten quid too little.’
‘It’s my birthday on Sa
turday.’
Stephanie was aware of her irritation rising to the surface, the blood flushing her skin. ‘So come back then. And make sure you bring your wallet.’
Her change in tone seemed to have a sobering effect upon him. He straightened. ‘What do I get for seventy?’
The words seemed to echo in her skull. What do I get for seventy? The question was not new, nor was the contempt in the voice. Yet Stephanie had suspected there might come a moment like this. For several days, she had known something was wrong, but she had refused to accept it. Initially, she’d tried to ignore it, to convince herself she was imagining it. Later, as she felt the cancer of anxiety spreading within her, she had tried to crush it with reason. And when that had failed, she’d tried to blot it out chemically.
It had nothing to do with Grant. It could have been anyone. What do I get for seventy?
‘You don’t.’
Grant looked perplexed. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You said you went from thirty up to eighty. Now what do I get for seventy?’
‘You don’t understand. I’m not doing anything. Not for seventy, not for eighty, not for one hundred and eighty.’ She thrust his money back at him. ‘Here. Take it.’
He swiped her hand away, the notes fluttering to the floor. ‘I don’t want it. I want–’
‘I know what you want. But you can’t have it.’
He took one step towards her and it was enough. Her right hand had already reached behind her and found what she knew would be there; on the table, by the bowl—an old champagne bottle, half a candle protruding from the top, its neck coated in dribbles of cold wax.
She swung her arm with all the might she could muster, creating a perfect arc. The glass exploded against the side of his face. Splinters showered on to the naked floorboards. Stephanie watched the lights go out in Grant’s eyes. He managed to raise a hand to his lacerated cheek but he was not aware of it. He lurched one way and then the other, before collapsing. The floor shook beneath the impact of his body.
It took Joan ten seconds to waddle through the door. She looked at the body on the floor and then at Stephanie, who was crouched over him, still clutching a fragment of the bottle’s neck in a way that suggested she might yet drive it into him.
Joan put a hand to her mouth. Stephanie turned to look at her, not a trace of an emotion on her face. Through her fingers, Joan muttered, ‘Oh shit, what’ve you done?’
Stephanie walked past her without a word and headed for the room next door. She shrugged off her gown and picked up her coat. Joan followed her into the room. ‘What’re we gonna do with him?’
Stephanie looked for the small rucksack that contained her worldly belongings. She opened it, checked nothing was missing and then fastened the straps. Then she started to put on her coat.
‘West’s gonna go fucking mental,’ Joan said. ‘We’ve got to get this wanker out of here.’
Stephanie looked at her. ‘If I were you, I’d get out of here. Right now. That’s what I’m going to do.’
‘You can’t just walk out. He’s downstairs, for God’s sake. For all we know, he could’ve heard it. He could be on his way up here right now.’
‘Exactly. And when he finds out about this, how do you think he’s going to react? Do you think he’s going to look for an explanation? Or do you think he’s going to look for someone to take it out on?’
Joan’s expression darkened. ‘Well, it won’t be me, love. I ain’t the one that done it.’
‘Fine. That’s your decision. But it’s not mine.’
‘I ain’t going. And you ain’t, neither.’
Joan reached for the phone. Stephanie grabbed her bag and ran.
Whoever answered the phone on the third floor took their time. The door was still shut when Stephanie passed it. The heels on her shoes slowed her on the uneven stairs but she reached the ground floor and was halfway to the front door when she heard the shout from above, followed by the multiple thump of descending boots.
She knew she had to lose them immediately. If her pursuers saw her, they’d catch her. She turned right and then right again, out of Brewer Street and into Wardour Street, before taking the first left into Old Compton Street and another first left into Dean Street. She never dared look back.
It wasn’t yet ten in the evening. The area was busy, which was a blessing. She turned right at Carlisle Street and only stopped running when that led into Soho Square.
The distance covered wasn’t great but her lungs were pleading for mercy. She slowed to an unsteady walk. It was then that she noticed that her coat was still only half-buttoned, which explained some of the astonished looks she’d seen on the faces that had blurred past her. Black underwear and a suspender-belt were all she had on beneath the coat. And given her appearance, she suddenly realized that if her hunters were asking pedestrians for the direction she’d taken, she’d be the freshest thing in the memory of just about everyone she’d passed.
She fastened the remaining buttons to the throat and forced herself into another run. She’d known she was unfit, but she’d never guessed that her physical decline had become so acute. For the moment, fear compensated but she knew it wouldn’t last.
She took Soho Street out of the Square and then crossed Oxford Street before turning round for the first time. There were no obvious signs that she was being followed. She headed up Rathbone Place and turned right into Percy Street. Her mind was starting to function again. The immediate danger appeared to have been averted but there was a more sinister threat ahead. If her pursuers returned to Brewer Street empty-handed, West would use his network to try to locate her. The word would go out and the search would be on. When that happened, anybody she passed on the street would be a potential danger.
She wondered how long she had and where she should go. Chalk Farm was out of the question. In fact, anyone she knew was out of the question; it was too risky to involve them. Which was why she chose Proctor. She felt nothing for him.
At the junction with the Tottenham Court Road, she turned left and headed north. She found a working BT phone-box outside the National Bank of Greece. She dialled and luck was with her.
‘It’s Stephanie Patrick.’
If surprise had a sound, it was to be found in Proctor’s silence.
She said, ‘Can we meet?’
He was trying to gather himself. ‘I guess … sure. Sure. When?’
‘Now.’
‘Now? Er, that’s not very convenient. I’m busy. Working–’
‘I’m in trouble. I need help. And I need it right now.’
4
I am drinking a cup of coffee in the McDonald’s on the corner of Warren Street and the Tottenham Court Road. I keep my head bowed, aware of the strange looks that I am attracting from some of the other patrons. I should be standing in the entrance to the Underground station across the street, but it’s cold outside. I’ll return there when it’s time to be collected.
I am trying not to think about the man I hit or the situation in which I find myself. Instead, I am thinking about the trigger.
I am wondering what it is like to be in a plane crash. To be going down and to be conscious of it. To know that you are doomed. What does that feel like? What does it sound like? These are matters that I’ve considered on too many occasions to count. The images creep up on me in the night. I see Sarah, my sister, her hair on fire. David, my younger brother, looks at the stump on his shoulder from where his arm used to hang. And my parents are ash, instantly incinerated and scattered on the wind.
These are the things that wake me at night. They’re the reason I drink myself to sleep. That’s where they belong—in the sleeping world. But tonight, they crossed over.
I looked at Grant—whoever he really was—and I thought about what we were going to do. For seventy pounds—not even eighty—since I would have discounted myself in the end. Except, it never came to that. Instead, I imagined my parents were in the room too, with David on
one side, Sarah on the other, the smell of charred flesh everywhere, the floor slippery with their blood. I saw myself on all fours, Grant drunkenly ploughing into me from behind, my family watching, their total disappointment evident through their hideous wounds.
It has never happened before. I have never seen them when I’ve been selling myself. Some instinct has always blocked them—and anything I have ever cared about—from my mind. But lately, there has been something wrong. I’ve felt it building within me, a pressure in search of release. And now I know the cause.
Proctor. Proctor and his far-fetched conspiracy theories. He has resurrected the ghosts. He is to blame.
Outside, on the Euston Road, running over the underpass, there is a construction of concrete with a metal grille set into it. Perhaps it is some kind of ventilation unit. I don’t know. Anyway, beneath the grille, there is some graffiti which I noticed before coming in here.
It says: NO ONE IS INNOCENT.
* * *
Proctor was driving a small, rusting Fiat. Stephanie had imagined he’d be in the latest BMW or Audi, something sleek and German. He leaned over and opened the passenger door. Stephanie stepped out of the entrance to Warren Street Underground station and crossed the pavement.
‘You’re twenty minutes late.’
‘The car wouldn’t start.’
She looked at it disdainfully. ‘You don’t say.’
Proctor’s surprise was self-evident. ‘For someone in trouble, you’ve got a crappy way of saying thank you.’ When she failed to speak, he said, ‘Are you getting in the car, or not?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? I thought you needed a place to stay.’
‘I need a safe place to stay.’
The wind blew newspaper along the pavement. She shivered.