by Amy Cross
"You're looking for Rachel Banks?" asks a middle-aged man as he comes to the door.
"I'm her sister," I reply. "Can I come in?"
"She's not here," he replies, leaning against the door-frame with a tone of confident amusement, "and she's not gonna be here any time soon, either. I threw her out three weeks ago."
"What?" I reply, feeling a kind of sickening, jolting sensation in my chest. "What do you mean? This is where she lives!"
"Not anymore," he continues with a faint, self-satisfied smile. "I found out where she was working, and I told her to pack her things and get the fuck out of here. Didn't give her much warning, but that was my prerogative under the circumstances. I was sub-letting the attic room to her, but I've got standards and I don't want her type here."
"Her type?" I pause, trying to make sense of what I'm hearing. "Where is she?"
He shrugs.
"You just threw her out?"
"She'll be fine," he replies. "People in her line of business always are. It's not like she'll ever run out of clients, is it? The whole city's fucking swarming with 'em. She'll just have moved on to some other poor bastard's place, and she's probably already forgotten all about the room she had here." He pauses for a moment. "So you're her sister, eh? And she didn't bother to give you a forwarding address or nothing like that?"
"She gave me this address," I reply, trying not to sound like I'm panicking. "She told me she was living here."
"That must've been a while ago," he continues. "Look, I know she's your sister and all, and I don't want to step on any toes, but there's no way I can have someone living here when they're working in a fucking knocking shop, is there?"
"A what?"
He smiles. "Guess she doesn't talk about it at family reunions, huh?"
I stare at him.
"You should ask your sister what she does for a living some time," he continues. "I think your eyes might just pop out on fucking stalks."
"Where's she living now?" I ask. "Can you give me her new address?"
"How the fuck should I know where she is?" he replies, taking a step back and grabbing the side of the door, as if he's about to slam it shut at any moment. "It's not like we're planning on exchanging Christmas cards, is it? All I know is she shoved all her miserable shit into a couple of bags and carried it out this door three weeks ago, and that's the last I saw of her. She's got a pretty foul mouth on her too, when she's angry. She was shouting at me all the way. Can't say the place hasn't been a little calmer since she fucked off."
"How do I find her?" I ask. "Did she go far? Is she still in this area?"
"I don't have a clue," he replies. "Look, you seem like a nice girl, and I'm sorry to have to tell you all this stuff about your sister, but she's bad news, yeah? What'd you do, come up to London thinking you could have a good time and that she'd show you around? Thought your older sister might give you a hand getting used to the big smoke?"
"I..." I start to say, before my voice trails off.
"Take my advice," the guy continues, "and go home. Don't waste your time looking for her. I'm sure she'll float up when she needs something. People like her, they do what they want while they can, and then they come crawling back when they're after money or something. So just turn around, go home, and don't worry about her. With the kind of work she gets up to, she'll never be short of a bob or two." He pauses. "You've got somewhere to go, right?" he asks after a moment. "Some friends you can crash with, some money to get a room somewhere?"
I nod, even though it's not true.
"Then you'd better get off," he replies. "And if you see Rachel any time soon, tell her she left a box of stuff behind and I binned it. If she wanted it so bad, she shouldn't have left it in my fucking hallway, should she?"
As he slams the door shut, I take a deep breath and try to decide what to do next. It's pouring with rain, and I'm hungry and tired, but there has to be a way to find Rachel. Realizing that the men from the takeaway are still watching me, I turn and hurry away, desperately trying to think of a solution. There's a part of me that keeps thinking that there's been a big mistake; after all, the things that guy said about Rachel can't be true. Then again, I guess I can worry about the truth later. Right now, I've got about fifteen pounds left, and no phone, and nowhere to stay.
Suddenly, I feel as if I might be in way over my head, and I find myself having to sniff back a few tears. Why the hell would Rachel not tell me she'd moved? It's almost as if she's trying to disappear.
Chapter Eight
Rachel
"I'll just move this aside," I say, gently lifting the towel and pulling it loose before dropping it by the side of the bed. Looking down at Alexander's large, flaccid penis, I take care to keep my hands clear as I massage oil into his thighs, but after a moment I see a first twitch of growth in his organ, and I realize that he definitely wants this massage to take a different turn.
I take a deep breath.
"Take your top off," he whispers.
Forcing a smile, I slip my shirt over my head and then unhook my bra, letting my breasts hang free.
"Good," he says.
Slowly, I move my hands over to his crotch and begin to rub oil over his balls and onto his penis. I work carefully and without too much of a rush, but it takes less than a minute for him to get a full erection, and finally I start gently massaging his shaft before finally smoothing the oil over his bulbous tip. It's clear that he wants it, but I know from experience that Alexander Medion doesn't reach climax easily, so this is going to take a while. Figuring that it's best to give him the full service, I lean down and as my nipples brush against his legs, I take the tip of his penis in my mouth.
Chapter Nine
Katie
"No," I mutter, watching as the clock on the screen continues to count down to zero even though the web browser is hanging. "Come on, please, don't do this. Just work, damn it!"
I click the mouse a couple of times, which only makes things worse. I've got nine seconds left on this stupid computer, and I'm no closer to finding a new address for Rachel. The page finally loads, but it just brings up her old address, the one that I've already tried, and then suddenly the entire screen is filled with an advert for a local taxi firm, along with a reminder that if I want another five minutes, I'll need to pay again.
"Shit," I whisper, sitting back in the creaky chair.
I take a deep breath.
This isn't the time to panic. I need to keep my head together and come up with a plan.
It's almost 11pm, and I'm in a brightly-lit internet cafe. I'd hoped that I could use a little of my remaining money to go online and find Rachel, but I tried all the websites I could think of and there was no sign of her. I also managed to find her old mobile phone number, but I know for a fact that it stopped working about two weeks ago, so there's no point using a payphone. I guess I should have brought my mobile with me when I left home, but I was worried my parents might be able to track me with it.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the last of my money and slip another coin into the slot, immediately bringing the web browser back to life. I'm running seriously low on cash right now, but I figure I need to try something else. Bringing up my email account, I start writing a message to Rachel, begging her to get in touch as soon as possible. I don't give her all the details, but I make it clear that I'm in London and that I need to see her. I figure I can maybe survive one night in London without her, so my best bet is to just let her know what's happening and come back tomorrow and hope that by then she'll have seen my message and replied.
Outside, the rain is coming down harder and faster than ever.
Chapter Ten
Rachel
As usual, he doesn't say much once it's over.
I'm standing in the bathroom, washing his semen off my hands. This is always the worst part. Whenever I've 'satisfied' a customer, I'm immediately overcome by a powerful wave of fear. I don't know whether it's a psychological problem or something physiological
, or maybe both, but any kind of sexual release, even my own when I'm touching myself at home, always involves a great high followed by an immense trough of despair that can last anything from a few minutes to a couple of hours.
Of course, when I'm with a client, I have to hide it.
"I assume cash will be acceptable?" Alexander calls through from the bedroom.
"That's great," I reply, forcing myself to sound cheerful as I scrub between my fingers. "Thank you." I glance at the mirror, and sure enough I spot him watching me through the crack in the door; our eyes meet for a moment, and then he turns away. "I'm so glad the water in your place is normal," I add. "Everywhere else in London, it's kind of brown and dirty".
"The hotel has its own reservoir in the basement," he replies. "One of the benefits of an exclusive location. I believe there have been some problems with the dam project, but they should be corrected by the morning".
Smiling politely, I concentrate on the feeling of the water flowing over my hands. I swear to God, I haven't felt clean for a week, not since the entire city's plumbing system started to go wrong and deliver nothing but dirty brown water to tall the taps. The government has assured us that it's safe to drink and use, but I'm not convinced. In truth, I've been feeling constantly dirty for months now, as if there's always mud on my hands. The water in Alexander's penthouse is crystal clear, however, and it feels good to at least begin the process of getting clean.
"I'll be in town quite a bit over the next month," Alexander continues, his voice barely audible from the other room. "I hope you won't mind if I call Carmella and arrange some more massages."
"Absolutely," I say, drying my hands before realizing that I might not have washed them enough; turning the tap back on, I start all over again. This is becoming an obsession, but I can't help it.
"Of course," he adds, "I could just book direct with you. I was thinking that if you come to me in the evenings, it's technically off the clock so it could be a private arrangement between the two of us." He waits for me to say something. "That way, you wouldn't have to pay Carmella her share."
"I'd rather do it by the book," I reply, rubbing thick blobs of soap between my fingers, determined to get the very last vestiges of his semen off my skin. "I wouldn't want to do anything that annoys Carmella. I still need my day job."
"I understand," he replies, sounding a little disappointed. "As you wish."
I smile, before glancing at myself in the mirror. "Thank you for the offer, though," I continue, "it was very -" Before I can finish, however, the mirror seems to flicker and the image changes, and for a fraction of a second I stare at my own reflection and see that my eyes have become black smudges, and there's mud all over my face; I freeze, with my hands still under the warm running tap, and before I really have time to react the image goes back to normal, and I see my hazel-colored eyes staring back at me with blinking alarm.
"I don't mean to hurry you," Alexander says, pushing the door open, "but it's getting late."
"Sorry," I mutter, turning the tap off and drying my hands. I figure I can always give them another wash when I get home, even though that means having to live with the disgusting sensation of his semen on my skin while I'm traveling. Grabbing the last of my towels and bottles, I shove them into my bag before turning to the door and finding Alexander blocking the way. I hope to God that he doesn't want to talk to me; I hate it when men try to start a conversation with me after I've pleasured them. If they're so desperate to talk to someone, they should hire a counselor, not a masseuse.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks. "If you'd rather stay for a while -"
"I just need to get home," I reply, hoping against hope that he'll get out of the way before I have to force my way past. "Like you said, it's getting late."
"Were you on the phone just now?"
"The phone?" I pause, feeling a familiar sliver of concern in my chest. "No. Why?"
"I heard you talking to someone," he continues. "I was in the kitchen, so I couldn't quite make it out, but I definitely heard your voice. Almost non-stop for the past five minutes. It sounded almost as if you were having an argument."
"No," I reply, "that's impossible. I was just..." I turn and look back at the mirror, and for a dizzying moment it occurs to me that I really, really need to get out of here. I don't remember saying a damn thing while I was alone in here, but I know from experience that it's possible. "I was just practicing," I continue, turning back to Alexander. "Practicing... lines." I pause as I realize that none of this makes sense. "I have to get going," I continue, ducking under his arm and hurrying across toward the main door.
"Don't forget this," he calls after me.
Glancing back at him, I see that he's holding up the money I'm owed. For a fraction of a second, I'm tempted to just tell him to keep it, but finally I realize that money's money and I can't afford to not get paid.
"Right," I mutter, heading back to him and grabbing the cash. "Thanks."
"I'll speak to Carmella later in the week about making another appointment," he continues as I head to the door. "Are you sure you don't want me to call a taxi for you, Rachel? It's late, and it's raining. Maybe you -"
"I'll be fine on the tube," I tell him, fumbling with the door before finally getting out into the corridor.
"I'll pray for your safe journey home," he adds.
I make my way quickly to the elevator and hit the 'call' button, and then I'm forced to wait a couple of minutes while the chamber comes up to meet me. I feel as if Alexander is watching me, but when I look over my shoulder I realize that there's no sign of him.
A couple of minutes later, once I'm in the elevator and heading down to the ground floor, I try to regather my composure. I knew that coming out so late was a bad idea, but I was hoping that somehow everything would be okay. I guess I should have known that tonight was going to be a bad night, and as I hurry out of the elevator and across the hotel lobby, all I can think about is the fact that I need to get home as fast as possible.
"Night, sweetheart," says the doorman, tipping his hat sarcastically. "Come again."
Ignoring him, I hurry out the door and down the steps, almost tripping near the bottom but somehow managing to stay upright. It's pouring with rain and as I look up at the dark, bruised orange sky, I swear to God I can feel something stirring in my soul. I know I should try not to panic, but the truth is, I know what's going to happen next, and my only hope is that by some miracle I might be able to hold it back. Tossing my bag over my shoulder, I make my way along the road, determined to get to the tube station as fast as possible.
This is definitely not the kind of night to be caught outside.
Chapter Eleven
Katie
One night.
I can handle one night.
The rain hasn't eased off at all; if anything, it seems to have intensified. I've managed to find a dry spot in an underpass, but even though I'm wearing a waterproof coat, my clothes are damp in places and my left trainer has begun to leak. It's cold down here, but at least there's no rain and the wind can't reach me. Crouching down, I open the top of my backpack and start sorting through to find a thick jumper.
"Come on," I whisper, desperate to get changed as quickly as possible. I planned for this trip carefully, and I know exactly what's in my bag. Sure, I assumed that I'd be able to find Rachel pretty quickly, but I was prepared for emergencies.
Right now, my plan is to wait until tomorrow lunchtime and then check my email again, using some of my final remaining coins. Rachel has to have seen my message by then, so I should have an address. Tonight, I'll just have to make do with this underpass, which I guess serves as a rite of initiation; my first night in London, and I'm sleeping rough. I just hope no-one comes through this way, or if they do, I want them to just leave me alone. It's not like I'll be asleep, anyway. I'm just going to shelter here while the rain passes.
It takes me a few minutes to remove my coat and then slip out of my damp shirt. I put the jumper
on, and immediately I feel a little better. I don't like the idea of changing my trousers down here, so I decide to live with the dampness and focus, instead, on changing my socks and then using two spare plastic bags to line my leaking trainers. It's not exactly glamorous, but it's better than ending up with trench-foot. I know that even one night spent out in these conditions could be fatal, and although I'm undercover, there are still a few drips of water leaking into the underpass.
"One night," I whisper as I tuck my wet clothes into the backpack and close the zip. "Just one night." Taking a deep breath, I lean back against the wall and listen to the sound of the rain above. I swear to God, it's almost as if the whole of London is getting ready to flood, and I wouldn't be surprised if the Thames bursts its banks before dawn.
Chapter Twelve
Rachel
With the nearest tube station having been closed for maintenance, I'm forced to take a shortcut. It's pouring with rain out here and I'm totally not dressed for this kind of weather, but I figure I can just put up with getting wet if it means that I get home faster.
Small rivers are starting to flow through the streets, swirling down into sewers that are probably going to overflow if the storm lasts much longer. Once I've made my way along the high street for a couple of hundred meters, I take a left and hurry along an alley that should lead through to the main road. I know it's kind of risky leaving the crowd, but I'm willing to take risks right now.
I just need to get home.
Once I'm home, I can deal with this. I can deal with anything.
Above, there's a rumble of thunder, as if the sky itself is reminding me that this is a bad night to be out. I splash through puddles, heading toward the far end of the alley. It should only take me a couple of minutes to get to the next tube station, and if all goes well I can be back at my flat within half an hour. I have to be up early tomorrow anyway, so it's not as if there's time to -