Bitter Sweet

by Mason N. Forbes

  31

  Surprisingly, I slept well, ate the breakfast this time and had a shower. A change of clothes would have been nice; the jeans were now into their third day.

  I was moved to the courthouse. Time ticked away. I could have sworn that police and public sector clocks moved at a slower pace than those on the outside.

  Every time the door to the cells opened I looked at the custody officer, expecting him to call out my name. Was the court busier at the start of the week? I didn’t know; such speculation kept my mind occupied.

  The door opened and this time the custody officer looked at me. I stood up, saving him the bother of calling out my name.

  As the door to the court opened, I heard an unexpected buzz of voices, naïve or just plain dumb; I didn’t override the automatic response to seek out the source. I looked to the right. The buzz ceased. I stopped dead in my tracks, horrified. The custody officer bumped into me. A good sense of balance and the door handle kept me on my feet. There was no going back to the cells. Anyway, they’d seen me by that stage. How had they known, flashed through my mind as I lowered my head and averted my gaze. I had seen Mike amongst them, looking harrowed. Our eyes had locked, fleetingly, his filled with compassion.

  With my head bent I entered the defendant’s box and glanced at Oscar, accusingly. He rose from the defence table and crossed over to where I sat.

  ‘You could have warned me.’

  ‘I saved you half an hour’s mental anguish.’

  ‘Very considerate.’

  ‘Mike’s car is at the side of the courthouse. He’ll whisk you away afterwards.’

  ‘At least someone has used their head.’

  ‘It’s a courtroom. They are not allowed to take pictures.’

  ‘It’s that bastard Driscoll’s doing.’

  Oscar closed his eyes. ‘They were tipped off.’

  The Clerk of the Court cleared his throat.

  ‘Chin up,’ Oscar said. ‘And remember, I’ll do the talking.’

  What the hell! I raised my head and gave the press a level stare. Amongst them sat a few with sketch pads – might be all you get. I resisted the urge to smile at the thought.

  The Clerk of the Court began the proceedings. I paid close attention; however, my concentration wavered now and again towards the prosecutor, Dougal Alexander. There was something about the man, he looked as if he could make the front cover of a high-class men’s fashion catalogue. Why was he such a dandy?

  Harkins maintained an expedient grip on the proceedings and within ten minutes bail had been agreed – I had to surrender my passport.

  The press were on their feet, ready to bombard me with questions. One phone appeared. Harkins banged his gavel and wagged a finger. The phone disappeared; its owner apologised, turned and casually made his way to the doors of the court. Damn, I’d bet the clever bugger had got a photo.

  Oscar lifted his satchel. Mike joined him, took off his jacket, draped it over his arm and they both approached me.

  ‘Timing is going to be critical,’ Mike said.

  It was clear that he wanted to give me a big hug, but his demeanour was businesslike.

  ‘I go first,’ Mike said. ‘I’ll have my car as tight to the side exit as I can get it. Tina you go out directly behind Oscar. He will try to block the press.’ Mike handed me his jacket. ‘On the left are the toilets, make it look as if that’s where you are headed. Walk, don’t run. When you reach the toilets push the door open. Then walk really fast to the exit, okay?’

  ‘Got it.’

  Mike left the courtroom with the last of the press. Oscar and I waited.

  ‘Sorry about that with the press,’ Oscar said. ‘I didn’t want you coming into the courtroom all nervy or spitting bullets. Odds on, it would have been the latter.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘They saw your natural reaction. One of horror and that is how an innocent person would react.’

  Maybe he was right, but I couldn’t swallow my hurt, yet. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I want out of here.’

  I put on my oversized sunglasses and the baseball cap with the bill canted right down, and held Mike’s jacket ready to cover my head. Oscar opened the door and marched out, only to be blocked by the throng of journalists. The questions flew thick and fast. He held up a hand. ‘One at a time please.’

  I sidled to the left and got as far as the toilet doors.

  The first call rang out; ‘Miss Thompson?’

  I increased my pace. The cameras began clicking and the flash guns flashed and whined. I gave the exit door a hard shove. The press were hard on my heels, their feet pounding along the corridor. I jumped the couple of steps. Mike had the passenger door open. Going fast, I slid into the seat and yanked the door closed.

  ‘Go!’ I yelled, pulling Mike’s jacket over my head.

  On the main road, Mike accelerated away from the last of the pursuing journalists.

  ‘I can’t go home,’ I said, ‘they have my address.’

  ‘Once we get well clear I’ll phone and see if we can get you into the apartment.’

  ‘Did you bring my phone with you?’

  ‘In the glove box. The laptop is still in the footwell.’

  I switched on the phone and looked for a local news site. Under breaking news were two headlines.

  Crew Street station bomb hoax. Tina Thompson charged with being a public nuisance.

  The press hadn’t worked out the connections yet as the second one read:

  Tina Thompson charged with human trafficking.

  I switched the phone off and sat back into the car seat, blankly staring out the window.

  Mike drove into a supermarket car park. He phoned and arranged to take me to the apartment in an hour’s time.

  He placed a hand on mine and said softly; ‘Tina you need some clothes and some food.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said lamely.

  32

  The next morning Mike fetched me from the new apartment and we went straight to my bedsit in his car – the police still had mine. At seven in the morning there were no journalists about. One of the guys in the house, who was up that early, told me that there had been quite a circus the previous afternoon with the press interviewing anyone they could. I fetched everything that I needed – clothes and all my study books.

  Having watched the story of my court appearance unfold on the internet news, a ghoulish desire to see it in print got the better of me.

  ‘Stop,’ I said, seeing a newsagent’s.

  Mike braked hard, divining what I wanted. I jumped out off the car, hurried into the shop and grabbed half a dozen papers including the local rag. I avoided looking at the front pages until I was back in the car.

  Obviously, the local rag led with the bomb hoax. I was shattered when I looked at the national papers. I had made the front cover of all the tabloids with a full facial taken leaving the courtroom. Thankfully the sunglasses and the baseball cap went a long way to hiding my face. I opened one of the papers; on the inside page was an artist’s sketch, and a photo of me – it looked dramatic – leaping towards Mike’s car.

  I closed the paper. I was front-cover national news. I stared at the title.

  Heartless Tart.

  33

  Back in the apartment I sat down and started to read the articles. Mike brought me a mug of tea and put a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘It’s outrageous,’ I said.

  Mike grunted in agreement. He was being sensible by keeping his mouth shut.

  ‘They even tried interviewing my mum. I’ll have to phone – don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Um.’

  My dad had died when I was twelve – one of those inexplicable tragedies; a blood clot in the brain. His death had devastated me and my mum, of course. I think his early death had catapulted me into the tomboy phase, one which had lasted until I left school and discovered my feminine side. Or maybe it was just that I was more like my dad; sports, outgoing, adventurous. The Taekwondo had helped
fill the gap of not having a protective father about.

  Mum had taken his death real hard; she still hadn’t got over it, I reckoned. She’d always lived her life in the yummy-mummy strawberries and cream milieu. And with the death of my father she had kept herself ultra busy with church fayres and charities.

  ‘She’ll take it hard,’ I said. ‘The reaction will be; how could you?’ I set the paper down. ‘Next will come; what will my friends and the neighbours think?’

  ‘Instinctive reactions.’

  ‘I wonder if my brother will get in touch. He’s in the Far-East, works for BP.’

  ‘Uh, huh.’

  ‘No doubt my mum will blame herself for me becoming an escort. She’s like that, always looks to see if she’s at fault.’

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. It was my decision.’

  ‘And why did you?’

  ‘Money, Mike, money. When my dad died the life insurance paid out, left us with a roof over our heads and no mortgage. Mum got a good pension, well comfortable – enough that neither I nor my brother qualified for the full maintenance grant. My brother got scholarships and I didn’t. I suppose that was down to my dream of being a model. Went from tomboy straight to thinking I was the next catwalk wonder.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I did. Anyway, in my first year at university I did the sums. The bedsit costs three hundred a month, add in the university fees, books, food, clothes, the list goes on and on. I knew I’d finish with a degree and some thirty grand of debt – not even what I’ll get as a first year salary. Then I’m supposed to find a deposit for a flat, or continue to pay exorbitant rents. It’s debt, debt, debt.’

  I glared at Mike.

  ‘You don’t get it. Your generation, the generation which brought in the university fees, didn’t have to pay them. Your generation sits in government, forces us to pay fees and to crown it all, we have to pay twenty percent VAT, from borrowed money.’

  ‘You’ve got a point,’ Mike said, ‘and you can’t even offset the interest.’

  ‘More than one point. And some clever toad in Whitehall has it all worked out. We as students are investing in our future. Get the word; investing. At least you got that right, interest and costs can be offset against profits. The profits on my investment, well what do you know, they’re subject to income tax.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that,’ Mike said, sitting down on the sofa opposite.

  ‘No you can’t.’ I looked at the newspaper again. The national press had labelled me a heartless tart, I was facing a jail sentence with next to no chance to reveal the truth and prove my innocence.

  ‘Was it worth it?’

  ‘No friggin’ way.’ I threw one of the papers at Mike. ‘The worst nightmare. Exposed as a hooker? Accused of human trafficking? No.’

  Mike set the paper down and crossed his hands. ‘I didn’t mean the exposure—’

  ‘Well, you should have.’ I glared at him. ‘You’re blinkin’ curiosity got the better of you again.’

  Mike opened his hands. ‘Talking helps.’

  ‘A punch bag would be better.’ I jumped up from the sofa and went to the window – penthouse apartment, super view. I was way too bitter to care.

  I turned to see Mike looking at the ceiling. ‘Have you nothing better to do?’

  ‘I was just wondering,’ Mike said, ‘if the ceiling would take a punch bag.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’

  ‘I’ll fetch one if you like?’

  I curled my lip. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘Yes, I mean no, not yet.’ I sat down opposite Mike and looked into his eyes. ‘I’m sorry about the outburst.’

  He shrugged. ‘I understand.’

  ‘I know you do, but still, I’m sorry.’ I kicked off my shoes and brought one foot up on to the sofa. ‘I don’t regret being an escort.’ I looked at my neglected fingernails. ‘I did it for the money. Maybe there was a bit of rebellion as well. The tomboy fails to be a catwalk wonder and rebels. Once on the job, I started to live out my own sexuality – that faded. There were men with interesting lives and stories – that was an attraction. Some of the men were sweet,’ I smiled at Mike, ‘way too sweet.’

  34

  Once Mike left I changed the privacy settings on my social-media profiles to ultra private. Too late, some so-called friends had already un-friended, leaving nasty messages. There were a few childish attempts at humour from the guys.

  I phoned my tutors and told them I’d be working at home this week. I phoned Ivonne and brought her up to date.

  I phoned my mum. The conversation went exactly the way I had predicted. It had fizzled out with; “Take care, I’ll be in touch.”

  I ploughed my way through the newspapers, some contained pretty accurate biographies, including where I had been to school, which university I was attending and even my degree course – Sports and Exercise Science with Psychology.

  By lunchtime nervous-energy burnout had left me hungry and tired. I ate and then fell asleep.

  I awoke in the late afternoon and over a cup of tea analysed the whole chain of events, starting with the very first phone call from Erjon seeking an appointment. One fact became evident; Driscoll had, by charging me, shifted the focus of attention away from the incident at the warehouse. In fact, so successfully that the national media was absorbed with the heartless tart, who’d made a bomb threat panicking and endangering the public in her utterly immoral attempt to make money.

  I took Oscar’s advice, set out my study books and got stuck in, determined to obtain a first-class degree and left the outside world to chatter and twitter about hookers, escorts and tarts.

  The story of the heartless tart faded as the week progressed, allowing the politicians, the bankers and the TV personalities to regain the front pages. Five days of isolation in the apartment with the black and white print of text books and a backlit computer screen, left my eyes red and sore. On Monday I forced myself to resume the normal life of a student on campus.

  I faced the accusing looks with hard blank stares. The girls either continued to treat me as the person I had been before my exposure as an escort, or moved away from me as if I were some kind of ogre. The guys for the most part grinned foolishly, I got some calculating looks and, of course, the odd locker-room prank – men were men. Most of the guys – which didn’t surprise me – were unable to behave normally at the mention of hookers, escorts and tarts. And the word tart seemed to possess endless innuendo.

  Part VI

  35

  I sat my last exam on a Friday morning. A pre-trial meeting was scheduled with Oscar for the following Friday afternoon and the trial date was set for the Wednesday after that. Twelve days which didn’t allow any time for relaxation or celebrations. With that foremost in my mind, I met up with Ivonne early that Friday afternoon in a coffee shop. She congratulated me on finishing the exams and asked how I was. We chatted a bit before getting down to business.

  Eileen had tracked down the owner of Martha’s ex-apartment. He lived in London, had bought the place as an investment and had engaged an estate agent to act on his behalf. The agent had let the apartment, three years ago, to a man from the city whose bona fides had checked out. The rent had always been paid, promptly, by cash into the specified account. However, a woman had been present on the couple of occasions when the agent had needed access. That woman must have been Martha. When Eileen attempted to locate the man who had rented the apartment, she had drawn a complete blank.

  Tracking down the keepers of the two black BMWs had been child’s play, and fruitless. The cars were registered to a construction company in the north of the city. On the day of my escape with the girls in the buses, the two cars had been reported as stolen, only to be found abandoned the next evening. The owner of the construction company had no criminal record and no known criminal associations. He was, however, originally from Bulgaria. Two and two make four.

  Ivonne had asked around an
d had also drawn a blank. Martha had disappeared, and, not even in a puff of smoke.

  We stared at our coffee cups.

  ‘What about the cop you’d been dating,’ Ivonne said, ‘could he find something out?’

  ‘Paul?’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘You’ve no choice.’

  ‘Even if he could, he’s too straight to tell me.’

  ‘Try him,’ Ivonne said, stirring the last of the foamed milk into her cappuccino.

  My phone and my car had been returned by the police and Paul’s number was still stored in the phone’s memory. For some reason I’d checked.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, putting it off, ‘but if Eileen can’t trace Martha, then how can Paul?’

  ‘Maybe the police have a file of sex workers?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s called Driscoll.’

  Ivonne set the spoon down.

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘Markus has just started at a nightclub.’

  ‘As a bouncer?’

  ‘What else? He said he’d get me in.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Fully recovered.’

  ‘We’ll start there,’ I said, ‘do a tour of the nightclubs, massage parlours and the track. Ask about if anyone knows Martha.’

  ‘Might get some nastiness, especially on the street corners.’

  ‘Forget it,’ I said with an ironic smile. ‘They’ll all recognise Tina the heartless tart.’

  36

  By eleven o’clock that night we’d covered most of the nightclubs. They didn’t really start to fill up until late and accordingly the owners and the managers had been sympathetic. Once I had explained that finding Martha was a last ditch effort to clear my name, a few had volunteered to ask around. I didn’t bother to explain that in all likelihood, Martha knew nothing. I was hoping against hope that with all her years in the business she might know, or know someone, who knew something incriminating to use against Driscoll.