by Amy Cross
And I feel like I'm drowning. I don't want anyone to think that I'm some kind of naive country girl but, well, I am a naive country girl.
As the crowd continues to surge along the narrow street, I duck into a small doorway and finally manage to catch a breath. I adjust my heavy backpack and reach into my pocket to pull out the already-torn map I printed out earlier. I laminated most of my maps and notes, so that they couldn't get damaged, but I left one map un-laminated for convenience. Fumbling to unfold the page, I finally stare at the black lines that were supposed to help me know where to go once I got off the coach. There's a red, felt-tip blob marking the coach station, but the rest of the map just looks like total chaos. I turn it around, but at that moment someone bumps into me and I drop the piece of paper; by the time I can reach out to grab it again, the map has fallen under someone's shoe, then someone else's, and all I can do is watch as its torn apart and eventually trodden into a puddle.
"Great," I mutter. "Time for plan B."
Taking a deep breath, I realize that I have no choice but to rejoin the crowd and hope that I can find my way. I've more or less got the layout of this part of the city memorized, so I just need to stick close to the landmarks and work out the best route to Rachel's flat.
"Excuse me," I say tentatively, trying to cut into the crowd, but I'm immediately knocked back into the doorway.
I take a deep breath.
"Sorry," I mutter, trying again, "do you mind if I -"
With a forceful nudge, I'm sent straight back into the doorway.
I take another deep breath.
"Okay," I say eventually, forcing myself to stay calm.
I wait for a few more seconds, to see if there might be an opening in the crowd, but eventually I decide to just step out from the doorway and hope for the best. Within a fraction of a second, I'm being swept along, as if I jumped into a raging river of evening commuters, and for several minutes I'm buffeted from person to person until finally I'm delivered quite suddenly and unexpectedly to the side of some steps, and I turn to watch as the crowd's main body swarms into London Victoria.
Looking down, I spot a tattered newspaper on the ground, with the headline 'Woman missing in city, last seen by riverbank'.
"Cheery," I mutter.
Figuring that a train station is the last place I need to be right now, I turn and make my way along the busy road that leads down from the station. I pass packed pubs, bars and cafes, and shops that are still open even though it's getting late, and I focus on trying to look a little less naive. After all, if I allow myself to come across as some kind of lost, terrified little lamb, people are going to start noticing me, and that's the last thing I need; in fact, after a few hundred meters, I feel as if I've started to get a better idea of how to walk in a city already: head down, focusing only on what's important, trying not to let the fear show. I know I've still got a lot to learn, but still, I'm pretty sure I can start to blend in soon.
And then suddenly I see the river.
I hadn't expected to reach the Thames quite so soon. In fact, I thought I was heading north, but now it seems that I must have taken a different turn when I came out of one of the coach station's many, many exits. Crossing the road at the lights, I hurry the stone wall running alongside the length of the river, and I lean over to peer down into the water. When I was back home, looking at pictures and videos of London and reading books about the city's history, the Thames always seemed like the most important landmark of all, almost like a kind of spine that forced the city's chaos to retain some semblance of order. It's silly, but there's something reassuring about the river, and about the fact that I can remember its shape from all the maps I studied. As long as I'm next to the river, I can't get too lost.
For a moment, I stare down at the dark water. It's hard not to imagine what might be down there, in the depths: the detritus and garbage of a city that has been tossing its secrets into the river for centuries. I could stand here all day, but then again, as I check my watch, I realize that it might be a good idea to get moving. Wandering the city for a few hours would be fun, but it's getting cold and I need to get to my sister's flat before I freeze to death. I already feel as if I'll need to be thawed out when I get to her place.
Fortunately, although I lost my main map, I still have some more in my backpack, so I take a moment to haul it off my shoulder and plonk it on a bench, before opening the top and pulling out one of the special laminated maps I made before I left home. Once the backpack is back on my shoulder, I examine the map and try to work out where exactly I'm standing, and finally I start making my way toward the Embankment tube station. Although it's probably not the closest station, it's on the right line and it doesn't look to be too far, plus I can just follow the line of the river without any risk of getting lost.
As long as I stick close to the river, nothing can go too badly wrong.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the last of my money and double-check that I've got enough for the tube. Things are pretty tight, but I've checked and double-checked every step of the journey, including the costs, and I'm pretty sure I won't have any problems. I'm very good at planning, and I never make mistakes.
Hell, Rachel is gonna be so shocked when she realizes that I came all this way to see her.
Chapter Two
Rachel
Ignoring the ringing phone, I start shoving my equipment into the backpack.
It's been a long day, with a steady dribble of new clients coming through the door from sunrise to sunset. New clients are always the worst, because they don't really understand the rules and so I have to give them subtle hints. Sure, the sign on the door reads 'Massage Therapy' and the place looks completely above-board, but I know that none of the clients really believe that's what goes on here; they've heard the rumors and been given whispered promises, and so they book an appointment because they believe, and hope, that the word 'massage' is a euphemism for something else.
Something more fun.
Something their wives (oh, they all have wives, or at least girlfriends) mustn't know about.
"I'm busy," I mutter, glancing at the phone as it continues to ring. There's no way I'm answering, not now; not when it's time to go home, slip into a hot bath and forget about the day's events. If I didn't have a strict line drawn between my professional and private lives, I'd go insane; I never even think about my private life when I'm at work, but conversely I knock off at 6pm on the dot and I never, ever allow myself to be lured into an evening appointment. I mean, sure, I don't really have much of a private life, but at least I leave the time free, in case something turns up one day.
"Are you gonna answer that?" Maria calls through from reception.
"Not really," I reply under my breath, as I zip the backpack closed and haul it over my shoulder.
"Can you at least unplug it, then?" she asks. "It's giving me a headache. There's nothing good about a constantly-ringing phone. That's why I like being a receptionist. Any time a phone rings, I answer it right away, no bullshit."
"She'll stop calling in a minute," I continue, double-checking that I've killed all the candles and turned everything off in my little massage room. Seconds later, the phone stops ringing and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. "See?" I call through to Maria. "Everything gives up eventually."
Heading to the sink, I turn the tap on, but all that comes out is a piddling dribble of brownish water. The plumbing all across London has been on the fritz for a while now, and I'm sick of having to boil all the water I want to drink. Sighing, I turn the tap off and figure that hopefully it'll all be fixed by the morning.
Fat chance.
"You on tomorrow?" Maria asks as I head through to the dingy, under-lit little reception area.
"I'm on every day," I reply wearily as I write my hours in the book.
"Every day, but never nights," she says, watching me from behind the desk. "What's that all about?"
"I like keeping my nights free," I tell her, hoping to deflec
t the question.
"For private clients?" She grins at me, waiting for a response, and then finally she winks. "I know it's against the rules, but are you sneaking a few in when -"
"I don't take private clients," I reply firmly. "I don't take clients at all after dark. I just prefer it that way, and I don't really see why everyone has to fucking speculate about it all the time."
Before she can ask another inane question, the phone on her desk starts to ring. "Maria speaking," she says as she answers. "What kind of service do you require?"
Waving at her, I head to the door.
"Hang on," she says. "Rachel! It's for you!"
I turn and glower at her.
"It's the boss," she continues.
Sighing, I realize that there's no way out. Dropping my heavy backpack into a chair in the waiting area, I head over to the desk and snatch the phone from her..
"Hey," I say, trying not to let my irritation become too obvious. "It's late, I'm -"
"Is the phone in your room not working?" Carmella asks brusquely. "I've been trying to reach you for ten minutes, and all it does is ring all the time like you're not there. Ring, ring, ring; I'm starting to think, maybe Rachel is in trouble, or maybe she doesn't like me anymore."
"Sorry," I reply, checking my watch. "It's gone six, so I don't -"
"There's a client asking for you," she continues, interrupting me. "He called me personally and asked for you by name, so I told him I'd arrange it."
"Sort it out with Maria," I tell her. "I'm -"
"He wants an appointment tonight," she replies. "As soon as possible. You know what it's like with some of the clients; they know what they want, and they want it now. These men don't mess around, and they're not willing to fit into our neat little schedules. I figured you might bend your rules for once."
"I don't do evenings," I reply with a sigh. I've already got a bad feeling about this phone call. "You know that, Carmella. No evenings and no house calls. If he wants me, he has to come to the parlor between nine in the morning and six at -"
"It's Alexander."
I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. The mere mention of that name, as Carmella undoubtedly knows, is enough to give me pause. It's been a few weeks since Alexander last got in touch, and I'd started to think that maybe he'd drifted off to another service, but I guess I should have known better. Sooner or later, they all come back, even the ones who can afford to stay away. I don't know whether to be flattered or profoundly, immensely pissed off.
"He called," she continues, "and he was very insistent. He wants you, tonight, and he's willing to pay above the usual rate."
I take a deep breath.
"Way above the usual rate," she adds. "He wants all the trimmings; I don't really know what that means, but I guess you've got an idea. He's at his usual place, and I told him you'd be along within the next two hours."
She waits for me to reply.
"I told him that," she continues, "because you're my best girl, and because I know that you'll do this for me. Not only as a favor to the company, but also because no-one can afford to turn down the kind of money Alexander Medion offers." Again, she waits for me to say something. "He's not that bad," she asks finally, "is he?"
"I'm not..." I start to say. "I mean, it's late, but..." I check my watch again, as if I'm hoping that it might have magically moved on several hours, but I can already feel my resolve starting to crumble. Something about Alexander Medion always seems to attract me. "Are you sure it's him?" I ask after a moment, even though it's a dumb question.
"Darling," she replies, "just do this one for me, okay? It's not like it'll be hell, and he tips generously. So he wants a bit more than a hand-job? So what? Aren't you bored with the usual program anyway? You've done him before and you seem to have survived."
"Barely," I whisper.
"I'd send another girl if I could," she continues, "but I can't. He wants you, honey. He was very specific on the phone, kept telling me he wouldn't accept anyone else. Can't you take it as a compliment? The man could have any woman in the city, and yet who does he keep coming back to time after time?"
"Me," I say quietly.
"You!" she adds, as if it's the best news ever. "You must really know what he likes."
I pause for a moment. Everything Carmella's saying makes total sense, and yet whenever Alexander's name is mentioned, I get this sharp, stabbing sensation of nausea in my gut.
"Fine," I say eventually, feeling as if my mind is almost on auto-pilot. "Sure. Tell him I'll be there at seven on the dot, okay? Tell him... Tell him I look forward to the pleasure of his company once again."
"That's my girl," Carmella replies. "I knew I could count on you. In fact, I already told him you'd be there with bells on, so go get him, tiger. Tire him out so he doesn't have the energy to come back for a while, if you know what I mean. In return, why don't you take tomorrow off so you can recover and maybe try to get -"
"No," I say firmly. "I don't take days off. I'll be fine. Good night, Carmella." Without giving her the chance to say anything else, I cut the call and place the phone back on Maria's desk. She's grinning at me, as if she gains some kind of personal satisfaction from the thought that I've caved and agreed to an out-of-hours client, but I don't really have time to put her straight. Besides, the main door has just opened and a nervous, shifty-looking new client has just entered, so I figure I should get out of the way and let the night girls get on with their job.
"See you tomorrow," I tell Maria, before grabbing my backpack, smiling politely at the client, and slipping out into the cold, drizzly London night. Checking my watch yet again, I see that it's quarter past six, which means I've only got forty-five minutes to get home, get changed, get to Alexander's place... and somehow work out how the hell I'm going to survive another night with him.
As I start walking, the feeling of nausea in my gut gets worse and worse with each step.
Chapter Three
Katie
"Excuse me," I say, leaning over and tapping a woman's shoulder.
She turns and looks at me, and there's a strange expression on her face, almost as if she's scared of me and expects me to do or say something horrifically awful.
"Sorry," I continue, flashing her my most reassuring smile, "but this train goes to Stockwell, doesn't it?"
She stares at me, as if she doesn't understand the question.
"Stockwell," I say again. "This is the Northern Line going south, isn't it?" I wait for an answer. "It's going to Stockwell, right? Sorry, I just wanted to be sure."
She pauses, before nodding and then conspicuously looking back down at her phone, as if she wants to make it very clear that she has no desire to be asked any more questions.
"Thanks," I mutter, before turning and looking the other way along the rattling carriage. I know it's probably pretty stupid, but I actually feel kind of proud of myself for managing to navigate my way around the tube network. Where I grew up, there was only a single bus route that went through our village, so it was pretty difficult to make a mistake. Here, however, there are trains and buses and trams going in all directions, and I can't help thinking that it'd be way too easy to get lost down here on the tube network for a month. As the train slows and pulls into Kennington station, I check one of my laminated maps and see that I'm definitely on the right track: after Kennington, there's only Oval to come before we reach Stockwell.
Hell, I'm really starting to get the hang of London. It's not that difficult, not if you plan everything in advance.
Glancing straight ahead, I watch as the train comes to a complete stop and the doors open. A few people get off, a couple more get on, and after a moment my attention is drawn to a little girl standing out on the platform, staring at the train with a determined look in her eyes. She's glaring straight at me, and after a moment I feel a little creeped out. I check my laminated map again and see that this platform should only have trains that go to one place, so I don't see why the girl wouldn't
get onboard, but seconds later the doors slide shut and I realize that she's still out there, as if she's waiting for something or someone else. Finally, the train starts moving again, and I watch as the girl disappears from view. Whatever she's waiting for, I guess she didn't find it yet.
I guess people in London can be pretty strange sometimes. Even the kids.
Chapter Four
Rachel
"You got business here, have you?" the porter asks, watching with disdain as I make my way up the steps that lead to the hotel's main door. A brooding sky is gathering above, threatening rain at any moment.
"Just visiting," I mutter, trying to push past before he steps in front of me.
"Do you have a booking?" he asks firmly, his tone of voice leaving me in no doubt that he thinks I don't 'belong' at a place like this. He's right, of course; most clients at this hotel are probably millionaires several times over, whereas I can barely afford a pint of milk some days. I don't care, of course, but I still don't see why he finds it necessary to treat me like some kind of leper.
"I'm here to visit a friend who has a room," I continue, trying not to let myself get too annoyed. "Alexander Medion, he's in the penthouse."
The doorman stares at me.
"He is," I say firmly, already losing my cool. "If you don't believe me, check with reception."
"Uh-huh," the porter replies, "and you're here to do what, exactly?" He stares at me, as if he's waiting for me to finish the sentence. "I'm sorry," he continues with a grin, "but we have to be a little careful about who we let through the door. I'm sure you'll understand, our guests expect a certain level of privacy, so we can't just fling the place wide open and let any old Tom, Dick or Sally come wandering in off the street, can we?"