Mark Burnell - The Rhythm Section

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 Saturday.’

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.