Price to Pay, A (5 page)

‘Madison, have you ever been missing this long before?’

‘No. Never been missing at all. Not for a few nights.’

‘I have. And she said there’s been stuff on the local news, didn’t she?’

The other girl listlessly ran her fingers across the soft surface of the beanbag. ‘She said. How do we know? Got no television, internet, radio, newspapers; just those shit magazines and whatever she decides to tell us.’

The other girl looked irritated. ‘So … what? Nina’s lying to us? Why would she do that?’

Madison said nothing.

The other girl turned back to the magazine, plucking a Malteser from the packet at her side. ‘She wouldn’t lie.’ The Malteser went into her mouth.

‘You’ll be turning into a right lard-arse,’ Madison muttered with a grin.

The other girl held up a middle finger, one cheek now bulging.

‘You get better tips if they fancy you,’ Madison added. ‘Nina said.’

The girl crunched down on the sweet, brown eyes lifting to the doorway. ‘I’ll do a bit on the running machine later.’

‘Yeah, right. Like you didn’t do yesterday. Or the day before. Your arse’ll split those hot pants when you try and get them on.’

The other girl started laughing. ‘Fuck off, it will, Mads. Besides, I’ve got the tits – you haven’t. Only thing I’ll be splitting is customers’ hearts.’

Madison cackled with laughter before peering down at her own, modest cleavage. ‘A handful’s fine.’

‘Handful?’ She made her voice go squeaky. ‘Yeah, if you’re some kind of midget with little, teeny-weeny handies.’

‘Sod off,’ Madison giggled as she reached for the computer print-outs lying on the carpet beside her.

The main image was of the interior of what looked like a small casino. But beside the card tables was a dance floor and running down one side of the room, a bar. The photographer had used some kind of lens or filter to add a golden haze to the rows of bottles, gilded decor and massed ceiling lights.

The clientele was exclusively male. Some wore suits, others were in tailored shirts and smart trousers. All had black hair and dark skin. Several had neatly trimmed beards.

Sprinkled among them were a few girls. They all wore the same outfit: gold hot pants, gold high-heels, gold waist jackets over crisp white blouses. Some were carrying trays of drinks, two were up on a low stage dancing, others were just chatting with customers.

The wording at the top of the sheet said, Club Soda. An exclusive club for those with discerning tastes. Chartres Street, Beirut, Lebanon.

‘Chloe? Did Nina tell you one of the girls got a five-hundred-quid tip last week? Just for carrying drinks to a table.’

‘I know. But it’s two fifty just to get in the place. Thirty-five quid for a whisky and Coke. Arabs, isn’t it? They’re all loaded.’

Chloe gave Madison a mischievous look. ‘What do you reckon you’d get for tugging one of them off in the toilets? Twice that?’

Madison’s face fell. ‘Shut up!’ She looked nervously towards the corridor. A heavy door blocked the stairs up to the ground floor. ‘Nina would flip if she heard you say that. It’s not like that.’

‘Oh, I love you, Mads, you’re so fucking innocent.’ Chloe smiled. ‘All places like that are like that.’

‘No touching,’ Madison said. ‘All they’re allowed is to talk to us.’

‘Not even for a grand? Not to shag, only a hand-job.’

‘Shut up, Chloe.’ Madison struggled out of the beanbag and looked uncertainly at her friend. ‘Would you? For a grand?’

‘Any day. Easy money. What about Liam? Would you give him one?’

‘Liam? Who brings down the food and stuff?’

‘Yeah. When he was showing us how the running machine works, I was checking his arse. Good and tight, it was.’

‘Liam? He’s like thirty or something. That’s gross. Besides, I don’t like his eyes. It’s like the pupils are too big. Black thoughts, he’s got.’

‘And? What does that matter? I’m talking about his body. And after a week down here, I’m thinking old Spencer would be worth it.’

‘Creepy Spencer? From the care home? I worry about your head, Chloe.’

Chloe laughed raucously. ‘OK, maybe not Spencer. But Liam? Get him in the back bedroom. I’d have some of that, oh yes.’

Madison tied her hair back in a ponytail. ‘Anyway, he’s got the hots for Nina – no question.’

‘You reckon?’

‘God, yeah. When she’s talking, watch him – not her. It’s like he’s hypnotised, head bobbing away like one of those stupid plastic dogs you see in the backs of cars.’

‘Missed that,’ Chloe sniffed. ‘Still, I could handle sharing him. I’m not selfish.’

‘You’re wrong, girl. Up here.’ Madison tapped her temple. ‘I’m having a go on the rowing machine.’

‘You work it!’ Chloe shot back, reaching for the Maltesers.

Madison paused in the doorway. ‘Anyways, two hundred quid for every shift? And a share of the tips as well? They can wank their own selves off, the dirty bastards.’

Chloe burst out laughing again.

‘I
remember it being on the news,’ Jim said from his position on the kitchen floor. Iona’s mum’s dishwasher was pulled out from the wall. He continued to examine the tubes and wiring behind it. ‘They had to shut the M602 before Salford, didn’t they?’

‘No – she went off a bridge over the M60 near Denton. That was a different one,’ Iona replied, her laptop on the kitchen table before her.

Moira made a clucking sound. ‘So many young lives wasted. How terrible this world can be.’

‘So why are the CTU interested?’ Jim asked as he reached for a pair of pliers.

‘Oh,’ Iona said, now regretting that she’d brought the girl’s suicide up. The fact that so much of her work couldn’t be discussed with anyone outside the unit was made more awkward by Jim’s lack of success in his own application to get in. ‘It might be linked in with some other stuff. The reason why I mentioned it is this other person you can see at the edge of the picture. I can’t stop thinking about what she must be going through: trying to talk the young girl back, then watching as she drops off the edge. The way the woman turns round and walks off, shoulders hunched …’

‘Ow, hen.’ Moira’s Scottish accent had been softened by her whisper. She stroked her daughter’s hand. ‘Whoever she was, she tried. At least she did that. She’d be feeling a lot worse if she hadn’t.’

‘Yeah, but now she’s probably traumatised. Now she’s got that memory. She’ll be able to hear the traffic screeching below. Poor woman.’

It was quiet a moment before Jim gave a cough. ‘Your seal’s petrified, Moira.’

The older woman’s eyes lingered on Iona for another second. ‘Didn’t even know I had a seal behind there.’ Her voice lifted. ‘Is it well trained? Would a fish make him happier?’

‘Mum,’ Iona grimaced.

Jim wriggled out from behind the machine, a rubber ring in his fingers. ‘That’s where the water’s coming from. The rubber’s all cracked. Water’ll have been draining into the base of the machine. That causes this floating switch to rise up and cut the power.’

Moira’s eyes sparkled as she glanced at Iona. ‘He’s clever. Isn’t he clever?’

Iona rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, Mum. You don’t need to remind me.’

Jim looked mildly embarrassed as he shut the lid of his toolbox and climbed to his feet. ‘I can get you another one in the morning. I’m not back on duty until lunch, so I’ll pop by and fit it before then. I’ll leave my toolbox here.’

Moira glanced at the sink full of dirty plates with a smile. ‘No bother to me. It’s Wasim’s turn to wash up.’

‘What’s my turn?’

Iona looked to where her father’s deeply sonorous voice had come from. He was standing in the doorway, a loose thread hanging from the elbow of his tatty beige cardigan.

‘That washing-up,’ Moira said, pointing at the sink. ‘Jim’s solved the mystery. We need a new seal. Arf, arf.’

Wasim turned towards Jim. ‘That’s all? Well, I thought we were looking at a new machine.’

‘No, that one should see you for a while yet,’ Jim responded, retrieving a bunch of keys from by the sink. ‘Right, I’d better be off – I’m meeting Mark. We’re going out to Hayfield.’

‘You’re not racing around on your mountain bike, are you?’ Moira asked. ‘You do realize it’s dark outside?’

Jim gave her a broad smile. ‘Best time for it. No ramblers to get in our way.’

‘He’s mad.’ She looked at Iona. ‘Tell him he’s mad.’

She held up her hands. ‘I’m not getting involved.’

‘Thanks for tea, Moira. As tasty as usual.’ He plonked a kiss on her cheek. ‘Was, see you about, mate.’

As the two men shook hands, Iona busied herself with the computer. This was when things got uncomfortable.

‘Iona?’

Glancing up, she saw him leaning down, a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. She turned her cheek and, as he kissed it, she gave his forearm what she hoped was an affectionate squeeze. ‘See you soon, Jim.’

‘Yes. OK.’ He backed away and reached for his jacket. ‘Cheers all.’

‘Oh.’ Moira jumped to her feet. ‘We’ve got some chutney for you. Green tomato. Wasim made it, so it’ll knock your bloody block off – the amount of chilli he shoves in.’

‘Just how I like it,’ Jim grinned.

‘It’s in the back porch.’

As Moira and Jim left the kitchen Wasim approached the dishwasher. Stopping short of it, he regarded the machine almost affectionately. ‘A seal. Who’d have thought?’

Seeing him then send a despondent look at the full sink, Iona reached for the keyboard of her laptop. She muted the sound then clicked on the CCTV footage of the A57 where it passed over the M60 at Denton. The girl was hard to spot, at first; the pole of a streetlamp obscuring part of her thin frame. In fact, it was only when the member of the public began speaking to the girl that you became aware of her presence by the railings.

With her back to the camera, the person – a woman in a long white parka-style coat with a fur-fringed hood – advanced cautiously forward, one hand held out at waist level. She was obviously trying to reason somehow because the girl began to shake. A rejection or a dismissal of what was being suggested. A car passed them, brake lights showing as it slowed down for a second. Then it continued on its way once more. Iona found the callous indifference of the driver depressing.

The woman edged forward once more, hand still out. The girl kept her head bowed, eyes on the racing traffic below. Then her hand let go of the lamppost and she stepped out into the air. Immediately, she dropped from view.

‘Iona?’

‘Mmm?’ She looked up. Wasim had pushed his sleeves above his elbows and was turning off the tap. From in the porch, she heard Moira saying goodbye. The back door closed.

‘I said, are you OK? With Jim …’

‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘How could I not be? The guy saved my life. He risked everything for me – his career, everything.’

Her father smiled patiently. ‘Yes, but you two were—’

Iona cut in. ‘He was my boyfriend, I know. But that’s irrelevant.’

‘It can’t be easy, him coming round each week –’

Moira bustled back into the room. ‘When will you give that poor man another chance?’

Iona flicked an angry glance at her. ‘What do you mean? I have to take him back through a sense of guilt?’

Moira’s step faltered. ‘No … but … he’s trying so hard, hen. Don’t you think he deserves another chance?’

‘Mum, I don’t love him. I …’ She felt tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve tried. Christ, I’ve tried. I care about him, but …’ Her voice lost its strength. ‘That’s all.’

Her mum crossed her arms, ‘Maybe your old feelings will return – in time.’

‘Moira!’ The anger in Wasim’s voice startled both women. ‘Will you leave the issue be? You cannot manufacture feelings for someone. It’s not possible.’

‘I’m not saying that,’ she replied. ‘All I’m saying is, feelings she still has might be rekindled if only she would—’

‘He’s still drinking, you know?’ Iona sat back, watching her mum’s face cloud over with confusion. Good, she thought. Time you took those blinkers off.

‘He’s not. He said he wasn’t.’ Moira gestured at the empty bottle of red wine on the side. ‘He didn’t touch a drop.’

‘He’s not stupid, Mum. Of course he wouldn’t. He’s lying, though, when he says he’s on the wagon.’

Moira’s head shook. ‘Hen … you can’t go pointing your finger like that –’

Iona stood. ‘Come on, then. He’s on his bike, yeah? It’s eight o’clock on a Friday night. He’s not meeting Mark to do any night riding. He’s going home via an off licence to drink himself stupid.’

Moira lifted her eyebrows. ‘That’s an awful thing to suggest.’

Iona grabbed her car keys. ‘I know which way he cycles home; I did it with him often enough. He’ll cut across Chorlton-cum-Hardy nature reserve, on to Barlow Moor Road where he’ll stop at the cheap booze shop. That’s the one he always used to use on a Friday. He rotates between them, you see. A bit from here and a bit from there.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ There was a defiant, doubting edge in Moira’s voice.

‘Because I lived with him for almost three years! I sussed him eventually. He’ll get the booze and then he’ll go home for the night.’

Wasim squirted viscous green liquid into the sink. ‘That’s a very unfair thing, Iona, to spy on him.’

‘I know, Dad. And I feel awful suggesting this. But Mum needs to see. You both need to know. He’s not being honest with any of us. If I’m wrong, you can chastise me all you like.’ She turned to Moira. ‘Are you coming?’

H
e watched the house from the end of its backyard. The shadows were thick here. Trailing leaves from a creeping plant shrouded him. With the black hood of his coat drawn about his face, he was all but invisible.

Some lad had almost fallen down the rear steps earlier on. He’d stumbled across a patch of paving lit a honey colour by the kitchen window’s glow. He’d managed to halt his stagger less than two metres from where the man stood.

Swaying, the youth drained the last of a can and tossed it to the side. He’d then undone the flies of his trousers and begun to piss. The man kept absolutely still, listening to the spatter of liquid as it hit the ground before his feet. The lad had muttered to himself for a bit before starting to wiggle his penis from side to side, amusing himself with the pattern he was making in the grass.