Mark Pearson - Blood Work

The lights in the Northern Line tunnel brightened, and the train shuddered into Camden Town Tube station like a mechanical climax. She stood up and tightened the belt on her shiny, black, mid-thigh-length raincoat. She knew it did little to distract attention away from herself but didn't care. She was a living Betty Boop. People could look all they like. If they wanted to touch, however, that was a whole separate matter. A whole different negotiation.

She stood on the right of the escalator, some people packed around her and others rushing up the stairs to her left. God only knew what they were in such a hurry for, she thought. At the top of the stairs Janet flashed her Oyster card at the bored-looking Rastafarian who had opened the barrier, which had broken down again, and walked towards the left-hand exit, scowling as the wind blew the rain into her face. She turned back, certain she could feel the eyes of the dark-haired man, now lost in the steady throng of commuters, watching her still. Shaking off the thought she opened up her umbrella and walked out on to the pavement.

It was half past six and the streets were busy, people hustling to the warmth of pubs and restaurants, or pouring like a stream of wet ants into the shelter of the Underground. Janet walked away from the noise and the bustle of the main high street, and the clack of her sharp-heeled footsteps rang out as she walked along Kentish Town Road, fighting to keep control of her umbrella in the swirling wind. After a couple of hundred metres she was grateful to see the welcoming glow of light spilling from the windows of the Devonshire Arms. She folded her umbrella down, opened the door to the pub and stepped inside.

Since the closing of the Intrepid Fox in Wardour Street the Devonshire Arms was now regarded as London's Goth Central. Janet's jet-black hair, black skirt, leggings, T-shirt and make-up were about as unusual there as a pair of chinos and a striped shirt in All Bar One. In fact, some nights, if you weren't dressed all in black, you couldn't get in, and quite right too, Janet thought. There were plenty of places for the squares and the geeks and the city slickers to go to, places that would turn people dressed like her away. That was the thing about London: a place for every prejudice.

The lighting was low, and the pub was already busy. Janet had chosen it for the meet, for just that purpose. It was like a blind date, after all, and it was best to be prepared; in addition to the pack of condoms and the tube of lubricant that she carried in her handbag, she also had a small can of mace. She had smuggled it back illegally from a long weekend trip she had made to New York some months ago. Music was playing, muting the buzz of chatter that filled the air. The Velvet Underground. She ordered a bourbon from a bald-headed woman with multi-coloured tattoos snaking either side of her neck, and sat in the corner of the bar sipping it and watching people as she listened to the music. John Cale's viola screeched discordantly against the slow, hypnotic beat of the drums while Lou Reed sang about a woman not unlike herself. A girlchild dressed in black wearing boots of shiny leather.

The music stopped and Janet looked up as a dark-haired man approached. Hunger in his brown eyes and an amused smile playing on his soft red lips. She looked down at his snakeskin boots that had Cuban heels almost higher than hers, then looked back up at him and smiled herself, her painted lips opening to reveal white, perfect teeth.

'Hello, cowboy.'

Kate finished her second Bloody Mary. The two drinks had done little to lift her dark mood, but she was feeling just a little bit more numb. The edge had been taken off, and she was certainly warmer. She looked over at the rain lashing against the windowpanes and then looked at her watch, debating. It was only a short walk home, but she didn't want to go out in the filthy weather again. She held her glass out to the barman, who went to refill it, and slipped her jacket off, hanging it on a hook in the bar in front of her.

'You tried Nigella's?'

She turned round to see that a tall curly dark-haired man in his late thirties with brown eyes was talking to her.

'I'm sorry?'

'Nigella Lawson. Her recipe for Bloody Marys. It's very good.'

The barman handed Kate her drink and went off to add the charge to her tab.

'No, I don't think I have.' Kate turned back to her drink.

'Got to love a woman who puts Bloody Marys in the breakfast section of a cookbook.'

'I guess,' Kate said without looking at the stranger and sipped her drink. She wasn't in the mood for chit-chat.

Despite her blatant disinterest the man was not put off. He pulled out the recently vacated stool next to hers. 'Do you mind?'

Kate shrugged indifferently.

The man chuckled. 'Half a pint glass with half as much vodka as tomato juice. For breakfast! Like I say, you've got to admire the woman.'

Kate thought that if the woman cut down on her breakfasts a little it might not do her any harm. But maybe that's what men wanted. Meat on the bones. Well, she wasn't going to put on weight to imitate some quasi-Italian domestic goddess, however gorgeous she was. She realised the man had spoken to her again, but didn't have a clue what he had said.

'I'm sorry?'

'I asked… do you know what her secret is?'

Yes, she thought. She knew what her secret was all right. She looked like a woman of appetite. What was it you were supposed to be? A lady in the supermarket and a whore in the bedroom. Well, Nigella Lawson looked like Sophia Loren with a voice that oozed sex and sophistication in equally unfair measures. And could cook to boot. Bitch.

'I don't,' she said simply.

The man smiled. He had quite a nice smile. 'It's to add a dash of dry sherry.'

Kate nodded. 'They put a drop of red wine in them here.'

He smiled again. 'My name's Paul. Paul Archer.'

'Nice to meet you, Mr Archer.' Kate's voice was cordial, but cool.

The man held out his hand. 'Actually, it's Dr Archer.'

Kate hesitated then shook his hand. He had a firm confident grip, and his hand was dry and warm. She smiled and it didn't take much of an effort now. 'Kate Walker.'

'Well, Kate. Can I buy you a drink?'

Kate looked down at her glass, swirling the drink for a moment then downing it and placing the glass firmly back on the bar. Why not? she thought to herself. Why the bloody hell not?

Janet Barnes felt consciousness returning. Not suddenly, it was a struggle like crawling through treacle. Like waking from a long coma. Or nearly waking, that is. Flashes of memory fought to come through as she fell back into the nightmare she was struggling to escape. A train swaying off balance as it rattled along the spine of ancient rails that lay deep beneath an even more ancient city. She felt the eyes of men upon her. Eyes that peeled her clothes from her body. Sweating eyes. Hot, dry, hungry eyes. The sick yellow light of the train carriage wrapped itself around her again as she tried to raise herself to consciousness once more.

She had no idea where she was or how long she had been there. She moaned softly, the sigh escaping her lips like the last breath of a dying man. Her eyelids fluttered briefly, the orbs beneath darting back and forth under the fragile pink membrane, as images flashed through her cerebral cortex like the sparking of a badly wired circuit, and, as she drifted towards unconsciousness once more, she thought she heard snatches of conversation, a voice she almost recognised. She tried to latch on to the thought, but it was like a butterfly dancing out of her hands and high out of reach. Then her eyes stilled and the half-formed thought, and all others with it, floated away entirely as she fell back into oblivion.

Six thirty and fog hung in the morning air like lowlying cloud.