Bad House (12 page)

“Fuck it,” she said aloud, marching assertively over to the toilet bowl.

“Good girl.”

The smoke had cleared like it had never been. She sunk to her knees, and stared into the bowl. A turd looked back up at her, and it wasn’t solid. It was brown arse piss.

“Can I flush?”

“No.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

She gagged slightly, breathing in the stench.

“Fuck, I can’t.”

“Maybe this will persuade you.”

She swivelled her head round and the Djinn was standing behind her, his crotch at her eyelevel. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a thick wad of notes.

Her jaw almost hit the floor. That was
a lot
of dosh.

“There’s ten grand here. Now drink.”

Cursing some more under her breath, she gripped the sides of the toilet seat and dipped her head nearer the foul brown liquid.

I can’t
, she thought in disgust as she lowered her head into the vile pool of shit. The putrid odour of a stranger’s corrupt bowels assaulted her nose and watering eyes.

Her puckered mouth broke the surface and she quickly slurped down a mouthful.

“Fuck!” she wailed, coming up for air.

Her gag reflex was working overtime. If she didn’t get this over with quickly, she was going to bail. She wiped her mouth on the back of her glove and left a watery brown stain on the yellow rubber.

She dipped her mouth back into the brown water and took five gulps in quick succession. When she was done she came up gasping for air and flung her back against the wall, landing heavily on her ample backside.

“Congratulations Pam,” the Djinn said to the panting, distressed woman. “You have successfully completed your first task. I shall come to you daily to grant your wish and issue further instructions.”

Pam barely heard him. It pained her to breathe and her ears were ringing. Her heart beat hard and fast and she found she was trembling all over. She felt something land in her lap and when she looked down she saw a whole heap of tens and fifties.

And just like that, the Djinn was gone.

Pam twisted her head sideways, and threw up. She reached for her mop and then thought;
what the hell am I doing?

She didn’t need this piece of shit of job anymore, she had
ten grand
in her lap. After holding a few of the notes up to the light to check they were real, she lifted up her pullover and stuffed the notes in her bra.

She made her way back into the pub to collect her bag and coat, clutching the lamp in her trembling hands.

“That was quick,” a gravelly male voice said behind her, making her jump.

“I quit,” she said, not even bothering to turn around and reaching for her coat and bag that was slung over the bar.

“What the fuck do you mean, you quit? Pub opens in half an hour, clean those fucking toilets now. And what the fuck is that?” he asked, nodding towards the lamp she held clasped to her chest.

She turned round to face the bullying landlord. He was a right prick. Short, fat and obnoxious, his reputation for groping staff was legendary. Not her though, she wasn’t pretty enough for that fat bastard to touch her. She had never known if she was pleased about that, or insulted.

“Clean them yourself, you fat prick. And when you’ve done that, go fuck yourself,” she said, ignoring his question about the lamp.

His face turned a bright shade of red.

Boy, that felt good.

“How dare you talk to me like that, you good for nothing, ugly slag.”

She stalked out the dive of a pub with the shitty carpets and flat screen TVs on every wall that showed every football match known to mankind and called to him over her shoulder:

“The puke in the second cubicle from the left is mine. Enjoy cleaning it up.”

She stepped outside onto the busy London street, feeling happier than she had in years.

Her euphoria didn’t last long. She was mugged on the way home. Looking back, she knew perfectly well she had brought it upon herself when she was sat there at the bus stop, waiting for the number fifty eight. Some money had fallen out of her bra and drifted to the pavement. Hastily she had picked it up and stuffed it into her bag. When she had glanced nervously around, she noticed a couple of young guys in the small crowd gathered at the bus shelter, and when she looked at them, they quickly looked away again.

She didn’t like the look of them one bit. One was black and the other was white. They fit every stereotype going of modern disenchanted youth; designer baggy jeans with their underpants showing, hoodies pulled up over their shaved heads, trainers that probably cost more than she earned cleaning in one whole month.

Alarm bells rang when they got off at the same stop as her. But there was little she could do about it, so she had walked briskly in the direction of home, going the long way round to avoid the quiet streets.

Fat lot of good that had done her. They pounced when she was less than five minutes from home, dragging her into an alleyway between a tanning salon and a betting shop.

The white guy pushed her to the floor. She landed on her rump, the shock of it knocking her sick for a second.

“Hand over the money,” he said.

“We saw that money fall out of your jumper at the bus stop,” the black guy said. “So hand it over.”

“What money?” she asked bravely. Stupidly.

The white guy kicked her in the side of her head and she went sprawling to the floor. Everything started to spin, and she could taste the coppery tang of blood in her mouth.

“Fuck this,” he said, reaching down to yank her pullover up over her fat stomach and heavy breasts. “Christ, what are you, the living dough girl?”

His friend snorted laughter and reached down to prise the wads of money out of the cups of her bra. In doing so he dislodged the bra and her big tits spilled out.

“Fuck, she’s disgusting,” the white guy said.

But when Pam gazed up at him through blurry vision, she saw that her being so disgusting didn’t stop him from rubbing the obvious bulge in the front of his designer jeans.

“Help!” she screamed.

Her cries for help were cut short when the white guy kicked her hard in her bare, flabby stomach. She doubled over, the air whooshing out of her.

The black guy finished fishing out the last of the notes from her torn bra.

“I don’t fucking believe this, there’s fucking
thousands
here.”

“Check her bag, maybe there’s more,” said the other guy.

He proceeded to tug down her scruffy cleaning jeans, taking her knickers with it.

“Hey man,” his friend asked. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for more money. If she keeps it stashed in her bra, who knows where else she keeps it. Like, up her ass, or something.”

“Shit, we don’t have time for this, you dirty fucker. What you wanna fuck that dog for? Let’s get out of here.”

Pam remained doubled over on her side, the air cool against her bare buttocks.

Why is this happening to me?  Oh God, my money
…

In the distance a police siren could be heard.

“See,” the black guy said, “they’re on their way already.”

“Don’t be so fucking soft. This is fucking
London
, there’s always police sirens.”

“I don’t care. I’m gone.”

The white guy stared longingly down at her, then sighed deeply.

“Fine. Hey man, what’s that?”

“Dunno. It was in fatty’s bag.”

Pam blanched when she saw he was holding the lamp.

“No,” she wheezed. “Please don’t take that.”

That was absolutely the wrong thing to say.

The black man smiled. It showed lots of white teeth and the coldness of it sent a shiver down her spine.

They turned to leave, leaving her half naked and beaten, sprawled out in the alleyway.

“Shit,” one of them was saying, their figures and voices retreating. “I can’t believe that fat cunt had so much money on her…”

Pam groaned softly and pulled herself into a sitting position. Her attackers had taken every last penny.
The fuckers
.

But the worst thing of all was the lamp. Now she would never get her remaining five wishes.

What a fucking day, she thought miserably. She had drunk shit, been beaten up, lost ten grand, lost her job and any chance of a happy future now the lamp was gone.

Could this day get any fucking worse
?

She didn’t think so.

She was wrong.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“Hello Wayne. I got mugged on the way home.”

Wayne glared at her and Pam shrivelled inside. She knew that look and it wasn’t good. She dragged her aching body over to the tatty sofa that served as a wall, dividing the kitchen from the living room and collapsed onto it.

“I couldn’t give two shits what happened to you on the way home. I meant
what the fuck happened
at work.”

Fuck, he knows. He knows I walked out. Now I’m really in the shit
…

“I’ve just been beaten up and mugged. Can we talk about this later?”

He was on her in a flash, pinning her down with his big body against the sofa.

“I don’t think so,
sweetheart
. This rent don’t pay itself, you lazy, good for nothing slag.”

His breath was sour in her face, making her cringe. It wasn’t even yet midday and he’d already hit the booze.

Fucking marvellous.

“Wayne, please, have a heart. I’m really hurting right now…”

“I’ll give you hurting, you stupid fucking slut.”

One meaty hand was a dead weight on her collarbone and the other slapped her across the face. Normally it wouldn’t bother her, but her muggers had already hit her there and the inside of her mouth was bleeding where a tooth had cut her cheek.

She whimpered and clutched her throbbing face.

“Leave me alone Wayne, I mean it.”

Wayne’s face was red and his eyes bulged. She could see the way the thick, body builder veins in his neck were protruding and she quivered beneath him. That meant he was
really
mad. Not for the first time she wondered why she was still with him.

Because you’re too scared to be alone and you’ll never get anyone else. Ever
.

“Stupid whore,” he said, sitting up and edging away from her slightly.

She breathed a sigh of relief. The threat of violence had passed. For now.

“I’m sorry baby, I’ll get another job right away, I promise. How do you know anyway?”

“Because you’re boss called and said you could forget about getting paid for last week.”

Oh my God, the complete fucking bastard
, she thought angrily.

“I’m really sorry, Wayne. He was just such a bastard and I couldn’t stand it no longer.”

“We got rent to pay, you’re gonna have to get your sorry ass another job today or you’re gonna have to go out and whore yourself.”

Pam knew he wasn’t joking. She had never actually done it, she’d always managed to talk him round by telling him that he might catch some fatal STD if she did it. That had seemed to work. So far.

“I’ve still got the other cleaning gigs, and the care work, and the weekend factory job, it’s not like I’ve lost everything, and I’ll replace the job I lost today.”

“You’d better.”

Maybe you should get a fucking job
, came the unbidden thought.

Immediately she felt guilty. She loved Wayne. She was lucky to have him. Women that looked like her never got guys that looked like Wayne. When he wasn’t drinking or taking drugs he worked out. And how. His midriff was maybe a little puddingy from all that beer, but he was sculpted and completely out her league in the looks department. He had that shaved heard, Bruce Willis thing going on, except Wayne was a whole lot bigger and meaner looking.

He reminded her of this every day, that she was lucky to have him. That’s when she wasn’t working or he was beating on her.

I love him
, she reminded herself
. If you love him so much then why do you have to remind yourself that you do?

She shrugged off the dark thoughts. It must just be because she was tired and hurting.

“Why’d you get mugged anyway? You ain’t exactly Paris Hilton, are you?”

Pam shrugged. How the hell could she possibly even begin to explain?

Oh well, you know, I meet this Jeanie in a bottle, and he offered me ten grand if I drank out of a dirty toilet. Some thugs saw the money fall out of my bra at the bus stop and I got mugged
…

“Just unlucky I guess.”