‘Nice,’ he splutters. ‘Top gear, mate.’
‘Charlie?’ says Bryn.
‘Here,’ Tank says, handing him a rolled up twenty.
‘Cheers,’ says Bryn. He hovers over the line, noting the way Tank has left it fat in the middle. He wants to smooth it out a bit, play with it, like you do. But that would be disrespectful. This is a gift. Aware that he owes Tank money, he says, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Fucking hell, man, it’s only a bit of charlie. Anyway, I’m road-testing it for Colombian Pete.’
Colombian Pete is from Birmingham.
‘Anyway,’ adds Tank, ‘we’re brothers, man. I know you appreciate this. You know the score. I wouldn’t get it out in there,’ he gestures towards the sitting room, ‘with all those vultures. That’s why they’re here. Sitting around waiting for free samples. That blonde bird’s been here for a week.’
Bryn leans down and snorts the line.
‘You fucked her then?’
Tank laughs. ‘Oral.’
Bryn laughs. ‘Yeah, mate.’
His throat is bitter with the taste of the powder. He recalls the time that Tank, wanting to impress Colombian Pete, stitched up Gilbert and put him in casualty. He’d come around uninvited and kept caning all Tank’s charlie, taking when it wasn’t offered, and so on. When Gilbert went for a piss, Tank set out a line of Ajax. When he came back he said he’d reserved it especially for him. That was the week before Tank became a Rastafarian.
By the time Bryn leaves it’s almost seven. He nips in the pub for a half and then round to his mum’s for a sandwich, which he can’t eat. She’s still on at him to get a proper job. He promises to check out all the job supplements she got him. Tells her they’re in the car.
At the Reggae Club, Bernie’s DJing, playing all his old dancehall tunes. Drum and bass hasn’t happened in Bernie’s world. It’s all straight Cutty Ranks and Daddy Freddy; no unnecessary remixes. Daddy Freddy’s singing ‘We are the champions’, and a couple of girls are trying to move their hips on the dancefloor but looking ridiculous, like they’ve barely graduated from the youth club. Bernie’s skinning up on one of his massive speakers. Bryn goes over and sorts him out with his weed and then leaves. All this shit does his head in.
He goes down to the seafront and hangs around one of the arcades waiting for a bloke to show up. After that he goes in the White Horse, which has three fruit machines. Bryn sticks all Bernie’s money in one of them without really noticing what he’s doing. A girl he fucked a couple of weeks ago comes over. She’s wearing cheap perfume and a white T-shirt Bryn recognises; it’s his.
‘All right?’ she says, leaning against the fruit machine.
Bryn nods at her. He can see her mate sitting at the bar, watching. These girls always come in twos, he realises. A fat one and the one you fuck. He tries to remember what she was like, but he can’t. On the machine, he’s just got two cherries.
‘Remember me?’ she says. ‘My name’s Julie. We slept together.’
‘Yeah.’ He’s distracted by the possibility of a third cherry. ‘Give us a minute.’
‘OK. Do you want a drink?’
‘Yeah, if you’re buying.’
‘A pint of lager?’ She smiles, like she’s clever because she knows what he drinks.
‘Nah. Get us a vodka and lime.’
Her smile thins. ‘OK.’
He sticks his last quid in the machine and waits while Julie stands at the bar, trying to get served. Eventually she comes back with his green drink. He downs it in one and checks his watch.
‘I’ve got to go down the Reggae Club,’ he says.
‘Thought you’d just been there.’
‘Are you stalking me or something?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. I had to see Cliff. Saw you walk in as I was going out.’
‘Cliff?’ The student dealer.
She nods. ‘Do you want to see what I got?’
‘You what?’ says Bryn, but it’s too late. She’s pulling a small white wrap out of her pocket and opening it. She places it on the fruit machine. The powder inside is baby-gro pink: speed. There’s not much there. Maybe a tenner’s worth.
‘Shit. Get that off there.’
She moves it on to the windowsill. Everyone can still see.
‘Do you want a dab?’ she offers.
Bryn stares at her. She’s got blonde hair with a couple of red streaks in it, and blue eyes. He still can’t remember what she was like. She’s about eighteen or nineteen. Maybe she’s a student. He can’t remember.
‘Put it away,’ he urges.
She scowls. ‘All right, keep your pants on. I’m just going to have a dab.’ In full view of the barman and just about anyone who’s looking, she licks her finger and presses it into the powder. Then she sticks it in her mouth, trying not to make a face with the bitterness. Bryn wonders if she’s trying to impress him. As far as he can remember, she wasn’t into powder a couple of weeks ago, just spliff.
‘I’m going to have to go in a minute,’ he says.
‘Where?’
‘The Reggae Club. I told you.’
‘I’ll walk over there with you if you want.’
‘What about your mate?’
‘She’ll be all right.’
Fat Girl smiles and winks at her friend as Bryn pulls on his jacket.
‘Why do you want to go to the Reggae Club if you’ve already been there?’ he asks.
‘Why do you?’
‘I’ve got to go and see Bernie. Who’ve you got to see?’
‘No one. I just want to have a little chat.’
He sighs. ‘Come on then.’
Outside, it’s started to rain.
All is not well at the Reggae Club. There’s been a bust, and everyone’s in the street outside, waiting for the police to go away.
Bernie’s kicking a stone across the road.
‘Fucking Babylon,’ he moans.
Bryn laughs. ‘Where’s your weed, mate?’
‘On the floor in there where I dropped it.’
‘You going back in to get it?’
‘Yeah. When this lot PISS OFF,’ he says, raising his voice as a policeman walks past. A police dog stops to sniff Julie and she strokes and pets it before the policeman calls it to heel.
‘Who’s this?’ asks Bernie.
‘Julie. Look, I’m going back down the seafront. It’s a bit dodgy here.’
‘Check you later then.’
Julie’s still hanging around.
‘Where are you going now?’ she asks, as they set off.
‘Seafront.’
‘Is this all you do?’
‘What?’
‘Walk backwards and forwards like this?’
Bryn looks at his feet. ‘Pretty much.’
Emily
It all started as a joke. Just another art school irony.
Emily’s standing in the flat in Battersea, looking at her reflection. She is tall, thin and pretty. But not tall enough to be a model, not thin enough to get the attention she’s always wanted (she gave up anorexia a couple of years ago, but she misses it now), and not quite pretty enough to attract Lenny, the MA student she has coveted for two years. Emily wonders what he’s doing right now. She doesn’t even have an address for him.
Emily is a graduate; a bright young thing. She has no ties, no responsibilities and no commitments. Some people would bask in the freedom, but it makes Emily nervous. She’s going nowhere. She’s been out of college for almost three months and no one’s approached her about a job. She’s filled in form after form at graduate fairs – nothing. And she was stupid enough to think she would be headhunted a week after finishing. What a joke. But here’s the real joke: Emily, in a short black cocktail dress and high heels, wearing red lipstick and false eyelashes. And this is the girl who only shops at Diesel and Slam City Skates.
When her flatmate Lucy suggested joining the escort agency, Emily had laughed and made some crack about it being the biggest ex
-art student cliché. Lucy had pointed out that since they’d been at St Martin’s they were a cliché anyway, thanks to Jarvis Cocker. Emily had seen her point. So they’d gone to see a woman called Tina, who had examined them and written their names on little Rolodex cards, on which Lucy had seen her add: gay, publishing, ART. That was a couple of weeks ago.
Last night Lucy accompanied an elderly investment banker to the launch of his ex-wife’s kiss-and-tell novel. He’d turned out to be very camp and undemanding, and Lucy had earned £200 just for standing next to him, looking pretty. Emily is hoping for something similar tonight.
She leaves the house at seven and cabs it over the river to Chelsea. David is already sitting in the small wine bar when she arrives. She gives him the once-over: mid-thirties, dark hair, dark eyes. Clean. She looks for a wedding ring. There isn’t one. He briefs her on the night ahead. She hears the words: Annabel, party, drinks, canapés and dancing.
‘Cool,’ she says.
‘Have you done this before?’
‘Oh yes,’ she lies.
The party is taking place a couple of streets away. David and Emily walk there. He’s obviously thinking about holding her hand, and it feels awkward, like a first date. He asks her about herself, and she tells him as little as possible. He speaks slowly to her, as if she’s having trouble understanding him. Emily grits her teeth and smiles, just thinking about the money. Why should she care what he thinks of her? And why would he assume she’s educated? Well, duh. The accent could give it away, but David’s not that bright himself. It turns out he’s some sort of sales rep, selling new-age books for some unknown publishing house in the South-West. Emily laughs when he tells her. She likes the idea of combining hard-sell with woo-woo.
The problem with David being in publishing is that Emily knows half the people at the party. She’s lucky her sister, a publicist at Penguin, isn’t there. Even Annabel turns out to be the girlfriend of Lucy’s brother’s best friend. Jesus. London’s so big, but the world is so very small. Emily drinks a lot without meaning to and mingles like a pro. David hovers around the edges of the party, not quite taking the plunge, and Emily regrets the fact that she’s paid to be here with him. True, it adds a certain frisson to the evening, but ultimately it’s boring having to do what you’re told. The only fun she has is wondering what they would all say if they knew what she was really doing here.
A couple of hours later she and David are standing in the lobby of a hotel. The night has gone well, but David doesn’t want to leave it there.
‘I don’t really know how to say this,’ he begins.
‘Say what?’
‘You must have been in this situation before.’
‘What situation?’
‘Well, here we are, we’ve had a fantastic night and I was wondering . . .’ He grins coyly and looks at the floor. ‘Do you do any, um, extras?’
Emily smiles. ‘You’re not in a massage parlour.’
‘OK, then.’ He drops his voice. ‘Well, how much extra for a fuck?’
Most girls would like to think that at this point they would smile politely and explain that their body isn’t for sale. How hard would that be? Emily’s already earned £200 just for being this guy’s date. Which of course leads her to speculate: just how much could she charge for a fuck?
She’s pissed enough to sound bold.
‘Another two hundred,’ she says. ‘Cash.’
David points at the lift. ‘Let’s go, then.’
They don’t speak all the way up to the room. Emily’s wondering if David is a psychopath. Do new-age book reps have it in them to bludgeon someone to death? She thinks not. Anyway, she reminds herself, any one of the men she’s slept with in the past could have been a psycho. The only difference between them and David is that he’s paying for it. She’s been alone, naked, in strange places with thirty other men before. Why should this one be any different?
The hotel room is big and comfortably furnished. Emily walks over to the bed and slips off her high heels. Her feet immediately feel better and she starts to relax. She notices how drunk she really is. And although she hasn’t realised before, she’s also dead tired. Will he expect her to leave afterwards? Or will she be able to crash out in this big, comfortable bed?
‘Drink?’ offers David, opening the mini bar.
‘Vodka. Thanks.’
He passes Emily a small bottle of vodka.
‘Orange, Coke or tonic?’ he asks, scanning the bar for a mixer.
‘Coke, thanks.’
He passes her a can of Coke and a glass. He selects a small bottle of Scotch and drinks it straight from the bottle. He’s shaking a bit, like he’s nervous.
‘Do you want to take a shower?’ asks Emily, remembering some dialogue from an episode of The Bill she saw last week.
‘No,’ says David. ‘Do you?’
She shrugs. ‘Not really.’
‘Good.’
He sits next to her on the bed, and starts rubbing her leg with his hand. His breathing is heavy, his eyes fixed on the wall in front of them. Emily sips her drink and lights a cigarette. She offers one to David and he takes it. She wonders what should happen next, whether things will happen naturally, or whether she’ll have to initiate the actual sex. For a moment she considers – with some hope – the possibility that he’s one of those ‘talkers’ you hear about who don’t actually want penetrative sex.
Then he takes his hand off her leg.
‘Strip,’ he says.
‘Sorry?’
He blushes. ‘Can you take your clothes off, please?’
Emily stands up nervously. She pulls off her stockings one by one, trying to make each movement fluid and seductive. David stares. She can’t tell whether he’s impressed or not. When the stockings are off, she removes her knickers, and dangles them from one finger momentarily, before dropping them on the floor. She almost laughs, imagining what she’ll tell Lucy. The funny thing is, she’s almost getting into this. She’s tried to have dirty sex with boyfriends in the past, done the whole stripping thing for some of them. But at the end of the day it’s always just your boyfriend sitting there. This time it’s for real. If only David was a bit less of a dickhead, this could be a total turn-on.
Emily peels her dress over her head, and there she is, naked. She hasn’t noticed before, but David’s got his cock out. It’s small and stubby, not very erect. He’s pulling at it distractedly. Not wanking, maybe just trying to get himself aroused. Surely he would be aroused by now, though? She’s just stripped for him, for God’s sake. Maybe he’s a New Man.
He puts out his cigarette. ‘Come here,’ he says.
Afterwards he cries, and Emily just sits there smoking, sore and slightly hypnotised. The whole thing has taken just under three hours. He hasn’t asked for anything kinky. He hasn’t even asked for a blow job. All he has done is push his little cock into her, relentlessly, for almost three hours, like some kind of sewing machine. For the first hour Emily did all the things that usually work: moaning, thrusting, that pelvic floor muscle thing. For the second hour she planned an exhibition. For the last (and it was like being rubbed with sandpaper) she recited William Blake’s ‘London’ in her head, over and over again.
So now he’s crying. Why the hell is he crying? She’s the one who should be crying, for God’s sake. But she’s actually too tired to care. When she asks if she can stay for the night, David accepts, and then clings to her all night. All in all, Emily isn’t a very good prostitute. She’s kissed, she’s stayed the night and she didn’t even insist on a condom. The Bill hadn’t prepared her for all these details.
In the morning David mumbles something about the hotel bill already being covered by his credit card, and then leaves. Emily dozes until about ten and then sits up in bed and orders breakfast and a newspaper. The curtains are already open. (Did he do that? How quaint.) The sun is intense, falling on her face as she lights a cigarette and reviews her night. On the bedside table is the money. She counts it and find
s two hundred and ten pounds. A tip. How generous. But her bravado is melting away in the sunlight. Somehow, what she’s done doesn’t seem so funny any more.
Her stomach churns. What the hell is she doing here? With no friends to laugh with and no irony to find, the situation just seems tragic. She was a child, then an art student, and now she’s a hooker. All in the space of what seems like five minutes. Emily tries to find the rewind button, but she can’t. The one thing she forgot last night was that the difference between just having sex and charging for it is that charging for it makes you a prostitute.
Of course, last night it was a laugh being an escort. Emily’s always been the rebellious one (ask anyone at college) and the thought that someone at the party might find out . . . It had been kind of thrilling. But now? How can she defend what she’s done? She fucked a stranger for two hundred quid. She thinks back to the last thing she bought for that amount. A pair of sunglasses. Jesus. She’s fucked a man for a pair of sunglasses. No heroin habit, no kids, no debts. Those are reasons to become a prostitute. But for a pair of sunglasses?
Emily needs a holiday. She wants to go far away for a very long time.
Breakfast arrives in about fifteen minutes. Emily discards it, gagging on the smell of hotel bacon and eggs, suddenly not hungry. She pours a cup of coffee and opens the Guardian Weekend. Reading some news (well, Julie Burchill, the Style section and Dulcie Domum) puts her experience in perspective a little. In fact, with the smallest of smiles on her face, Emily realises she’s learnt something from the experience. It’s time to find a real job.
Paul
Paul’s been on the Internet for seventy-two hours and is beginning to develop eye strain. He’s already fucked up the company that fired him, what . . . seventy-four hours ago? Yeah. Wednesday morning, that was when he cleared his desk. He’s already undone the whole accounts system, changed everyone’s passwords and deleted 16,000 e-mails from the company’s server. That took up the first twenty-four hours. Since then he’s been planning something big.