Bitter Sweet (6 page)

‘About time, though it took you to see it from inside your own safe little world.’

‘Nina, I apologise.’ Mike leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. ‘Well, what about contacting Martha?’

I walked over to the table and lifted my phone. It had been on silent.

‘Three missed calls,’ I said, looking at the display. ‘Two of them regulars.’

‘They’ll phone back later.’

‘They might. Might have gone elsewhere.’ 

A little later the doorbell rang. I hopped up from the sofa. I’d begun to relax a bit and had kicked off my shoes. I padded down the hallway in my socks and looked through the spy hole – Martha.

‘Hi, Martha,’ I said, opening the door. ‘Good of you to come over. How are you?’

‘Fine,’ she said, smiling. ‘What about you? Feeling better?’

She had a deep voice; the type you instantly notice in a crowd – anywhere for that matter.

‘Yes, thanks,’ I said. ‘Come in, I’ve got company.’

Martha’s eyes narrowed.

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘He’s in the sitting room. Go ahead.’

Martha was of that indeterminate age call
ed the mid thirties. But she could well have been the other side of forty. The dark brown hair contained no grey and she had the same type of skin as mine – a little sun went a long way to create a good tan. And today the ripped jeans she wore, allowed her skin to flicker seductively through the material. She was a tad shorter than me and that is where the physical resemblance diverged. Her large bone structure, in particular her hips and waist although they did not carry any fat, were broad. And her bust certainly did make an impression.

I watched Mike as Martha entered the
sitting room. Well mannered as he is, he stood up. As he rose from the table, his eyes swept over Martha, settling only briefly on her bust. He stretched out his hand, his attention now focused on Martha’s brown eyes.

‘Mike,’ he said by way of an introduction. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘A real gentleman,’ Martha said, her voice conveying a touch of humour.

‘Mike is a friend,’ I said.

He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

Martha missed the gesture as she turned to look at me. ‘Boy friend?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s happily married.’

Mike twisted his mouth.

Martha chuckled – it was deep, all the way from her chest. ‘So, what are you doing here?’

Mike’s eyes narrowed. ‘Helping.’

‘Okay,’ Martha said, ‘helping.’ She looked at me. ‘You need his help?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Mike
, would you show Martha what’s on the laptop?’

Mike tapped the mouse and the clip began to play. Martha sucked in a deep breath; unconsciously her hand drifted to her mouth and she gripped her
index finger between her teeth.

‘His name’s Erjon,’ Martha said, when the recording ended. ‘Don’t have a surname. A real little shit. Albanian or Bulgarian – don’t suppose it makes much difference.’

‘Do you know anything else about him?’ Mike asked.

‘That’s about it. What are you thinking?’

‘Take this to the police,’ Mike said. ‘It’s the only option.’

Martha shook her head. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘It’s admissible.’

‘No,’ Martha said. ‘That’s not the point. The police are split personalities; you’re always dealing with two people; the uniform and the real person.’ Martha glanced at me and then back to Mike. ‘Most of the police in this town are okay, as far as police go. But you’ve
got one major problem and it’s that Irish git Jim Driscoll. Although his mother, God bless her soul, was a good woman, local too.’

That comment seemed to encapsulate Martha’s view of the world. To make it complete the only thing missing was some quip or other about pikys.

‘This Jim Driscoll, he’s a policeman?’ Mike asked.

‘Not just a policeman, a detective sergeant. Puts him slap bang in the right place; not too high a rank, but his age gives him a ranking-detective status.’

‘He’s the one,’ I said, ‘who does the smoothing out.’

Martha nodded. ‘You could put it that way. For whatever reasons the police bosses seem to trust him with our line of business. And his hand is always open.’

‘Why,’ I asked, ‘is he not stopping this Erjon and why is he allowing these girls from south-eastern Europe to operate?’

Martha smiled wryly. ‘
The police maintain a balance; certain areas are off limits. Driscoll takes backhanders maintaining that balance. He is coming up to retirement and I guess he is trying to put something aside. I can’t prove it, but I’d guess Driscoll is on the take from Erjon.’

‘You must be joking,’ I said. ‘Erjon is a whole different ballgame. A few backhanders well . . .’

‘You tell me, Nina. There’s at least two sets of girls, all from the Erjon’s neck of the woods, working in the town. They’ll be in here next.’ Martha made a sweeping gesture to indicate the Merchant Building. ‘Girls trafficked, forced to work, cut prices – all the dirt of the trade.’

Martha tilted her head and looked at the floor. ‘I’ve seen it all before. I’m too old to go through it all again.’ She looked up. ‘You wait and see: you’ll all get tarred with the same brush – all the do-gooders will come rushing in to save the likes of you and me from the evils of prostitution.’ Martha leaned her head back and laughed. ‘They won’t believe that we haven’t been coerced. It’ll be a farce.’

The amusement on Martha’s face was replaced with a serious look. ‘I’ve lived all my life in this town. I wouldn’t want to even guess as to how many councillors and aldermen have fondled my breasts. If I don’t know it, then it’s probably not worth knowing.’

Martha placed her hands on my shoulders. ‘
Nina,’ she said. ‘I’ve experienced a lot of shit over the years – that’s why I’m getting out. In fact, at the end of the month  the lease runs out. A bit of advice. If you get too involved, you’ll get hurt, or worse still you’ll be drawn into the centre of it. That’s not a good place to be. It’s better to help in small ways and remain unnoticed.’

Her words struck home.
She was known for giving good advice; however, I suspected she was holding something back. I wasn’t sure whether to press her for more information. I rapidly assessed my position. I could get out anytime I wanted – even if it meant paying the lease until it ran out in July. Graduation day was at the end of June and after that I planned to exit the game, anyway. In fact, there were few if any reasons for me to continue, financially there was enough stashed away. But it irked, having to lose out, having to watch the cash dwindle. The customers, well, I’d miss a few of them, although with time they would become vague memories.

I looked into Martha’s eyes. ‘Should I get out now?’

Her hands fell from my shoulders. ‘That you must answer for yourself.’ She stepped back and propped herself against the sofa. ‘If it helps, I’ll tell you what’s likely to happen.’ She glanced at Mike and then back to me. ‘There’ll be a raid. The press will be told it’s all part of operation “Whatever.”  Or they’ll be told it’s a hot tip. The police will mop up those foolish enough to have drugs or cash about; they’ll get some girls who aren’t entitled to be in the country. If they’re lucky a few trafficked girls will be rescued. But, the gangs – the likes of Erjon will move into the vacuum. That’s the absurd bit about it – heartbreaking, really.’     

At least Martha was being honest, warning me of what was to come, still something made me want to hang in. I couldn’t see myself closing the door, today: I had client bookings for the rest of the week – they’d have to be cancelled. Ivonne would need my help, but I didn’t want her anywhere near where I lived, just as she wouldn’t want me near her private life, which meant I couldn’t walk away from the apartment right now.

I glanced at Mike.

‘Sounds like it going to get messy,’ he said. ‘It’s your decision.’

That was also an honest answer. We’d agreed to placing the mini cameras and to track Erjon with his mobile phone. Why had we done it, why had we taken the risk? To stop Erjon ruining my life. Now it all seemed like a naïve attempt to stop criminal elements from encroaching into a business already fraught with problems.

‘Erjon is going to win out?’

‘Looks that way,’ Mike said. ‘He’s nothing to you.’

‘It’s the way things work,’ Martha said. ‘If there’s a raid, the police will be seen to be doing their job, the press theirs and society will be titillated, or go about tut-tutting for a day or two and then life will go on.’      

That, I suppose, was the sum total of the advice that I was going get. 

Martha hooked a leg over the arm of the sofa. ‘The way the law stands this business will continue to invite the illegal mistreatment and exploitation of women. It’s a supply and demand thing. I’m not talking about the demand from the punters – that’s something else. The supply side is what interests me, because I’m the supply side. I provide a service – it creates cash, fast cash, and with that comes the demand to control that cash. That means there is a demand to control the supply side – the girls. The criminal’s opportunity. And that’s the part the law doesn’t want to look at.’

‘The media would have us believe,’ Mike said, ‘that criminalising the punter would stop men paying for sex?’

‘Bloody joking, that would make it worse – like prohibition, everything would go underground, playing into the hands of those who want to take our cash.’ Martha shook her head. ‘What the punter and the service provider do might be a moral problem, but only if you want to make it into one.’  

‘Despite what they’re doing in the States?’ Mike asked.

‘Don’t know much about that. Probably the same old chestnut – trying make men see it as immoral.’

‘Can anything be done?’ Mike asked.

‘What
, put myself out of business?’ Martha laughed. ‘But, I know what you’re getting at. Tidy it up, make it safe.’ She shifted her weight on the arm of the sofa. A searching look came into her eyes. ‘The demand for paid sex has always been there, probably always will be.’

‘Why?’ Mike asked.

His curiosity had been piqued. He leaned forward and stroked his chin.

‘Why does a client visit an escort?’ Martha said. ‘All sorts of reasons. Female company, not getting it a home – that’s a biggie. The wife wants cuddly-cuddly, all sweet and romantic, drifting into the bedroom wrapped in the intimacy of desire. A woman seeks intimacy first and then sex – men are wired the other way around. Then there are the sex fantasies; the man is afraid to live them out at home; scared of being called weird.’

Martha shrugged. ‘All in a day’s work.’

‘And your own opinion?’ Mike asked.

Martha squinted at Mike. ‘There’s the Golden Egg theory. There are people who’ll pay five thousand quid for a healthy female egg. A man’s sperm is not even worth two a penny. Work it out yourself. A sperm donor will be lucky to get a hundred quid – how many tens of thousands of sperm are in that one ejaculate? Only one sperm is needed.’

Martha leaned forward. ‘Biologically women are simply
valuable
to men.’

She shrugged. ‘Anyway, men are always paying for sex. They buy dinner and gifts – jewellery, clothes, perfume. Do women buy men gifts? No. Men want sex, men need sex and they’re always bartering for it.’

Mike nodded.

‘And,’ Martha said, ‘barter works both ways. The Casting Couch being the most famous. How many women use sex, or the allure of sex, to get a promotion, a raise or a job?’
She glanced at me and winked. ‘I’ll take cash any day.’

‘And the best clients?’ I asked.

‘Bloomin’ obvious. The ones who want no nonsense, no attachment sex.’ She looked at Mike. ‘What about you? Why do you visit Nina?’

‘At first it was curiosity.’

Martha snorted. ‘Curiosity, ha.’ She smiled at Mike. ‘That’s a new one. Sure about that?’

Mike blinked.

‘Anyway,’ Martha said, ‘you came here and found something you weren’t expecting: Nina.’

‘That’s true,’ Mike said.
‘I like her. That was clear from the first moment . . . I like her too much for my own good. Maybe I can see what she could become.’

Martha chuckled. ‘If she put her act together, she’d be making £500 an hour in London or New York.’

‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

‘
I know you didn’t,’ Martha said. ‘Still doesn’t allow you to be cheating on your wife?’

‘I don’t cheat.’

‘Oh, right,’ Martha said, raising an eyebrow. ‘I see.’

‘Emotion is like a current.’ Mike glanced at me. ‘It’
s not two beacons of light locked permanently together. Emotion is a state of being.’

‘I’m not with you,’ Martha said.

‘It’s a misconception to say you love only one person. I love my wife, my children, my dogs. Then there is empathy for friends, employees and so on.’ Mike spread his hands. ‘Emotion doesn’t live in a little box with a neat little set of rules – that’s the nonsense of fairy tales.’

‘Bleedin’ hell,’ Martha said. ‘I’m impressed. A man who thinks.’