by Fiona Mozley
Then he returns to his cell and waits. He watches through the open grate of the door as girls with placards are dragged past. He recognizes a few. He’s fucked more than one, though he hasn’t visited the walk-up in months. He has lacked desire. It seeped out of him as the seasons turned. He feels cold and hollow and brittle, and his body is strange to him, as if he is a stranger within it.
One of the girls is put in a cell near his. He recognizes her voice as she shouts obscenities at the duty officer.
“Candy?” he whispers.
“Who’s that?” Candy asks.
“It’s Robert.”
“Robert who?”
“Robert Kerr.”
“Who’s that?”
“I’m one of your regulars.”
Silence. Then, “Are you the big tough-looking bloke with the scar on his head.”
“That’s me.”
“The one who likes to do the husband-and-wife role play?”
“You what?”
“You know: under the covers, missionary position. Classic, no-nonsense sex.”
“Well, what else would I do?”
“Look, never mind. What you doing here?”
“Just some bollocks. You?”
“Got picked up after the protest. A bunch of us did.”
Robert heard about the protest. He also remembers what Karl said to him that time about the evictions. Then he says, “I don’t know what I’d do if you lot had to leave.”
“For god’s sake, I’m sure you’d live. It’s not really about you, is it?”
“No. Sorry. It’s not about me.”
Then she says, “Listen, do you know any good lawyers?”
Robert thinks about giving her the number he’s just called. “No,” he replies. “But they’ll fix you up with someone.” He means the police.
Roster arrives with Tobias Elton. The lawyer sits with Robert as he is questioned in an interview room by a policewoman called Jackie Rose. She asks him about Cheryl Lavery—how he knew her, when it was he last saw her. At first he can’t understand the line of questioning, and then it becomes clear she suspects he was involved in Cheryl’s disappearance. Robert loses his shit. Elton tells him to shut up and sit down. Robert does what he’s told.
The police ask Robert if he kidnapped her. They ask if he was put up to it by someone. They say they’re investigating a ring of traffickers. Did you drug her? Did you send her off somewhere? We know you’re in and out of the walk-ups. We know the kinds of people you used to work for. Working for them again?
Elton tells him to keep quiet, so he does. Afterwards, Roster pays the bail, like he always used to. Then Robert and Roster go for a drink at the Behn and the lawyer disappears back to wherever it is lawyers go.
“How long’s it been?” Roster asks as they sit down on low stools either side of a small, round table. “Twenty-five years? Thirty?”
“About that,” Robert replies. “Or a couple of weeks, depending on how you look at it—I see you around now and again, though I don’t come over.” There are two pints of beer on the table, and Robert has put down his brown leather wallet too. “But, yes, over twenty-five years since we last spoke.”
“One or two things have changed since then.”
“So they have.”
Roster wraps a hand around the pint glass. Robert notices a set of knuckles not unlike his own. “I’m working for Don’s daughter now,” Roster tells him. “The youngest.”
“The one he got from the wee Russian?”
“That’s the one.”
“Does she look like her ma or her da?”
“A bit of both. She takes after her dad in temperament.”
“Stubborn?”
“You could say that. Clever. Serious. She can be ruthless like him, but in a different way. Different times, she reckons.” Roster tells Robert about some of the changes Agatha Howard is making to the area.
“Aye, I’ve heard all about that from the lassies. They’re not best pleased.”
“Maybe not, but they can’t win.”
“How’s that?”
“Come on, Rab.”
Robert nods grimly and takes a sip of his beer. Of course they can’t win.
Roster then reinforces the point: “When a terrier’s got his teeth to a rat, there’s no letting go.”
“Aye.”
“And it’d be best for them if they didn’t wriggle around so much.”
“You can’t blame them for wanting to fight it. Some of those girls have been there for years.”
“Can’t blame them, no, but I would tell them to stop it if I were a friend of theirs.”
Roster places a fist on the table, then sticks out the index finger in Robert’s direction and taps it on the wood. Robert gets the point.
“I don’t think they see me as a friend,” he replies quietly.
“They should know you have their best interests in mind.”
“Maybe.” Robert doesn’t want to say anything decisive.
Roster changes the subject, though only in the way a hawk shifts direction after a missed catch to loop back and try again. “You still in that flat in the new tower block?”
“I am, but the tower block hasn’t been new for at least sixty years.”
“I suppose not. It was a nice deal you got there.”
“I earned it, right enough.”
“Did Donald give you the flat outright, or was it just a long lease?”
Robert has never seen himself as a clever man, but even he can tell Roster is reminding him of the debt he owes.
“I think you probably know.”
“Yes, I do. It was a long lease. It would be difficult to get you out but not impossible.”
“To put it bluntly,” says Robert, trying to keep his voice light.
“To put it bluntly,” agrees Roster sharply. Then he sits up on his stool and puts his hand on his knee. “Agatha hopes the police will take care of the walk-ups for her, but I’m not so sure their involvement is a good idea. I’ve been making plans of my own—gathering a few of the old crowd. We just need to take back the building. Rough them up. Scare them off. That’ll take the fight out of them.”
Roster doesn’t stay much longer. He takes Robert’s most recent phone number, and double checks his address. Then he reminds him again of the favor he’s just done for him up at the police station and heads back towards Mayfair.
Robert finishes his pint and decides to go home. He walks back from the Behn full of booze and memories; drunk on both. It’s like that old man, who Robert thought he would never speak to again, has stepped up, taken him by the hand, dragged him to a local graveyard and started digging. He feels as if he’s standing in front of an abyss he’s been running from for twenty-five years, only to discover he’s been running in circles and that here he is, after all this time, standing in front of it again with nowhere else to go.
He passes Des Sables on his way back to the flat. It’s still in business but only just. Nobody is sitting outside even though the evening is mild, as Robert sees it. Inside there looks to be only waiters. Above Des Sables, there are the flats the girls live in. Precious, Candy, and all those. He thinks about going up now and telling them about the conversation he’s just had with Roster, but isn’t sure what good it would do. They know there are folk out to get them and it’s not like Roster told him anything that would help.
Below the restaurant is the Archbishop’s basement. He thinks again of Cheryl. He feels like falling to his knees, taking his head in his hands and staying that way until he turns to stone.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel
“We’re right at the top. And we don’t have a lift, just these stairs. Would you like a hand with your equipment?”
“If you don’t mind.”
The photographer passes Precious a black canvas bag with a long leather strap. Precious hoists it over her shoulder. It is heavier than she expected. Mona picks up the remaining bags and a folded metal tripod and she, Precious an
d Tabitha begin to climb the stairs.
“I would help too,” Tabitha begins apologetically, “only I’ve got weak ligaments in both shoulders and I’m not allowed to do load bearing. I’m on a waiting list for an operation. Keyhole surgery, but they’ll still knock me out.”
“Right at the top?” Mona asks.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Like the princesses.”
“Which princesses?”
“All of them. They always live at the top of high towers waiting for Prince Charming to come and get them. Like Sleeping Beauty. Wasn’t she in a tower?”
“Forest,” Tabitha corrects her.
“Rapunzel.”
“Was he the dwarf who tricked the lady and wanted her to guess his name, then got caught out by dancing around a fire while shouting it?”
“No.”
The trio get to the top and pause for breath before continuing down the hall to the flat.
They go inside. Mona doesn’t wait to be shown around but immediately walks to the center of the room and begins to set up. “I thought I could take photographs of you in various locations around the flat, like here on the bed and over there on the couch. I want to see how you two live. You know, make it about you as people—your lives, etcetera—not just prostitute—sorry, sex worker—in underwear on bed, you know?”
“You want me to be in my underwear?” Precious asks.
“Not for all of it. Just a couple of shots, for context.”
Precious exchanges a look with Tabitha. She should have been clearer with Mona when they first spoke on the phone. “I don’t do that kind of thing. Sorry, I know to you it must seem all the same—like, I suck cocks for a living so why would I have a problem with some smutty photos, but it’s just not something I personally am comfortable with. You never know with photos these days, where they will end up.”
Mona stops fiddling with her tripod and listens. She remains kneeling but straightens her back. She looks at Precious seriously. Her eyes were bright when they met outside but Tabitha has just switched on their red light, and what was previously green now has no color at all. They are completely black—more black than black—as if Precious is being gazed at by some revenant from a horror film.
“I completely understand,” Mona says. “It’s my fault. I should have talked to you more about my intentions. I definitely don’t want any of the photos to be smutty. Listen, let me talk you through what I’m aiming for, and let me tell you about some of the equipment I use.” She leans over to the bag Precious carried up the stairs and unzips it. Then she pulls out a large, expensive-looking camera and holds it up. “This is my digital camera,” she explains. “It’s big and shiny and new and has lots of buttons. When I take photos with this, they become digital files, and can be uploaded onto a computer and, as you quite rightly say, anything can happen to them. Once they’re on the internet, that’s it. They could go anywhere. Believe me, as someone who takes photos to make a living, this bugs me too. However, with you, I’m going to use something different.”
Mona puts the digital camera back in the bag and zips it away. Next to the bag, there is a wooden box. She unclips the latch and slowly unfolds a very old, very large camera. Precious has never seen anything like it in real life—only in the period dramas Tabitha makes her watch.
“Wow,” says Tabitha, leaning against the doorframe, having been wandering back and forth to the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil.
“I use a photographic technique called palladium glass printing.” Mona pulls from another box a rectangle of glass like a single pane from a sash window. She passes it to Precious who instinctively holds it by the edges, as she would a photograph. “I take glass plates and coat them in a photo-sensitive substance. Where light hits it, it darkens, so when light is directed onto it in a controlled manner, by a lens, the brightest parts are black and the darkest parts remain clear. And a negative image of the scene is produced. Then I project the image onto the photosensitive paper, then develop and fix it with other chemicals. When you use this technique, the result is so detailed and beautiful, Precious, everything about you will be captured, but it won’t be harsh like modern cameras can be. It will be soft, and skin tones will be rendered in shades of silver. You’ll sparkle. It won’t look anything like porn. And it won’t be digital so it can’t get on the internet. Yes, for a few shots, you might be in your underwear, but I’ll also focus on details of your life, on the flat. I want to see you in your environment. Have you heard of a photographer called Diane Arbus?”
Precious says that she hasn’t.
“I have,” Tabitha interjects.
“Have you?” Precious swivels around to look at Tabitha. She strongly suspects Tabitha is lying to impress their guest.
“Of course,” she insists.
Mona explains, “She was an incredible photographer, famous for her environmental portraits; those that situated her subject within their surroundings. Let me see if I can find an example.” Mona takes out her phone, types, then scrolls. She turns the phone round and shows Precious a photograph of three identical girls—triplets—sitting on a bed. They are wearing matching white shirts and dark skirts and their dark hair—all cut the same length—is held back with matching hairbands.
Tabitha comes closer to look, and leans over Precious’s shoulder. The cups of tea she was making have been forgotten. The kettle boiled and switched itself off some time ago. “God, triplets are freaky, aren’t they? Twins are bad enough but triplets are even worse.”
“Well exactly,” Mona agrees. “Arbus is playing with us. The girls are identical, yet there is no symmetry in the image. A lesser photographer would have lined them up perfectly and stood at the end of the bed and the photograph would have been an exercise in precision. But Arbus subverts our expectations. Nothing is lined up. Everything is out of kilter. And so cramped. You can see the girls’ other two beds on either side. The curtains and the wallpaper are very fussy. It’s all too much. It’s claustrophobic. We’re invited to think about the lives the girls lead, what it’s like to be one of three. You can tell as much about a person from a photo of their bedroom as you can from a photo of their face.”
“More,” agrees Tabitha, sycophantically.
Not to be outdone, Precious contributes too. “We know that better than anyone.”
“I bet.” Mona nods towards the bed Precious, and now Tabitha, are sitting on. “Is this where you sleep?” She directs the question to Precious but Tabitha answers.
“God no. That would be like sleeping at the office. This is where Precious does her thing. We’ve got a little bedroom out the back. The bed’s actually much more comfy than this one though. We’ve got a memory foam mattress.”
“You say ‘we.’ Are you a couple?”
Precious and Tabitha exchange a knowing look. “You see, Mona, that’s a good question with an answer that is, for some people, very easy to understand, and for other people extremely difficult to understand,” Tabitha says.
“I’m very open minded.”
“I’m sure you are, Mona. The thing is, when I met Precious she was in her mid-twenties and I was in my mid-thirties.”
“You were forty.”
“Whatever. I was a working girl, booking a room in this building in shifts. That’s how some of the girls here work; not all of us live here, and I didn’t back then. Anyway, I was wanting to wind down, move towards the maid side of things, see if there was someone younger who could use my help.”
“Excuse me, but what do you mean by maid? Are you her cleaner?”
“I do cleaning and laundry. But it’s more than that. A maid looks after her girl, helps her out, is there to watch out for her when she’s got a dodgy client. Anyway, about ten years ago now—”
“Closer to twenty.”
“I met our Precious. Back then she was working at a beauty treatment place up in north London. It was dead fancy. Lots of rich clients, and celebrities and that. I could tell she hated it, and obviou
sly saw she was gorgeous so could make a packet in my line of work. And I made the suggestion.”
“And you became a prostitute, Precious? Just like that?”
Precious shrugs. “The money was better and the people were nicer.”
“At first it was occasional. She was living down Peckham way bringing up the boys. She came up here every now and then. When they were teenagers they went to live with their dad’s mum in Crystal Palace, and me and Precious moved into the flat together. We knew each other really well by that point. An intimacy develops, you know, when you do our work. Like a lot of maids and their girls, we share a room.” Tabitha goes on with her story. Precious knows she’s enjoying it. “Are me and Precious a couple? Well, let’s see. I love her more than I love anyone else in the world. I live with her. I share my finances with her. I go on holiday with her. I sleep in the same bed as her. I cook for her and she cooks for me. She looks after me when I’m under the weather. I run hot baths for her after she’s had a hard day at work.”
“You knit hats and scarves for my sons and granddaughter.”
“I knit hats and scarves for her sons and granddaughter.”
Tabitha stands back and puts her hands on her hips as if she’s proved some kind of point. “Sounds like a couple, doesn’t it? But what’s missing?”
“The obvious thing. Are you romantically involved or just friends? Do you have sex?”
Tabitha throws her hands into the air and smiles at Mona enigmatically. She says nothing more.
After a brief pause, Mona asks, “Well, do you?”
Tabitha laughs. So does Precious. Tabitha loves bringing people to this point.
“With all due respect, love, that’s none of your fucking business.”
