The Rubber Woman

by Lindsay Ashford

  ‘Why not?’ Megan frowned.

  ‘Tell you later,’ Pauline whispered, steering her along the pavement to a street corner where two more women were plying their trade. ‘This is Tracy and that’s Kelly, her sister.’

  Megan smiled at the two women who came to greet Pauline. She studied their faces as they took supplies of condoms to stuff into the money belts slung around their hips. Kelly was a pretty girl of about twenty, with long, curly blonde hair and dark eyes. Tracy looked much older. She had the same blonde hair as Kelly but, even in the semi-darkness, Megan could see that her features were ravaged. The lids of her eyes looked swollen and she had dark circles beneath them. Her skin was pitted with acne scars, but there were two long, thin scars on her face as well. One stretched from her left eye to the corner of her mouth and the other ran from her right ear to her nose, following the sharp line of her cheekbone.

  As Pauline chatted to the sisters, Megan began to pick up the threads of their lives. Both had small children and shared a house with their mother, who babysat while they were working. Both talked about having a boyfriend and Megan guessed these men were probably also acting as their pimps.

  There was so much she wanted to ask them but she had to be careful. The women who worked the streets were always wary of people who asked questions. Most of them had her down as a plain-clothes policewoman. Pauline always put them straight on that, but they took a lot of convincing. If it wasn’t for Pauline, she’d never have got a word out of any of them.

  She started with Kelly, who seemed a lot more bouncy and confident than her older sister. First she asked things that didn’t sound too nosey, like the length of time it took to get from home to this part of Cardiff. As they talked, she could feel the barriers coming down. The suspicious look in the girl’s eyes had gone.

  ‘How did you meet your boyfriend, Kelly?’ Megan held her breath. The pimps were what she was most concerned about. The crackdown on the vice trade didn’t seem to be hitting them at all. They still controlled the women and used the money they earned to finance drug deals. She wanted to know who they were. How they operated. But most of the women she talked to were very cagey about the men who ran their lives.

  ‘At school,’ Kelly replied. ‘We’ve been together since we were thirteen.’

  ‘Have you ever wanted to…’ Megan hesitated, unsure how far she could push things. ‘You know, leave him? Keep the money you earn for yourself?’

  To her surprise, Kelly laughed. ‘If I finished with him I’d have to leave home ’cos he’d come looking for me. And anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘why should I leave? Why should I take my daughter out of a school where she’s happy?’

  Megan nodded. ‘And what about your mum, Kelly? Does she know where you go at nights?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The girl brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from her eyes. ‘She doesn’t like it, but she’s okay as long as we never take the punters home. We always do the business in their car, don’t we, Trace?’

  Her sister nodded, opening her mouth as if she was going to speak. The movement made the scar on the left side of her face twitch. Megan waited a moment, but no words came from Tracy’s mouth, just a muffled sound that was a cross between a cough and sigh.

  ‘Mam doesn’t like BJ coming round either, does he?’ Kelly cast a sidelong glance at her sister, a little frown line showing between her pencil-thin eyebrows. ‘She says the rows keep her awake.’

  ‘Rows?’ Megan echoed.

  Kelly nodded, staring at the pavement.

  ‘Is that a black eye?’ It was Pauline who spoke. She reached for Tracy’s chin, angling her face so that the weak light of a street lamp shone onto it.

  ‘No – it’s just a bit puffy, that’s all.’ Tracy frowned, pulling away from Pauline. ‘I put loads of bloody concealer on before we came out, didn’t I, Kell?’

  Her sister nodded again. ‘He is a bastard, though.’

  There was a heavy silence. Tracy stared at Kelly as if she’d given away a guilty secret.

  ‘Listen, Tracy, any time you want to talk…’ Pauline’s voice had lost its harsh, rasping edge. She sounded gentle, like a mother with a hurt child. She fished a card from her jacket pocket and put it in Tracy’s hand. ‘That’s my mobile. Ring me, text me, whatever. Doesn’t matter what time of night. You hear?’

  With a look that said ‘time we were off’, Pauline took Megan’s arm and headed down the street, away from the sisters. When they were out of range she turned to Megan and said, ‘Bastard’s got a whole bloody stable of ’em, hasn’t he?’

  ‘BJ, you mean?’ Megan replied.

  Pauline was counting on her fingers. ‘There’s Cheryl Parry – that girl with the broken leg – for one. Tracy Jebb, number two, and I know of at least one other.’

  ‘What about Kelly?’ Megan asked. ‘They wouldn’t have the same…’

  ‘No, not her,’ Pauline cut in. ‘She’s all right, Kelly. Got more sense than most. I think her fella’s a lazy bastard but he’s not a proper pimp. Just takes her money and spends all day in bed smoking dope.’

  A car pulled into the kerb just ahead of them. As they watched, a woman got out, smoothed her red mini skirt over her thighs and tottered along the street towards them. She looked older than the other women they’d met that night, and as she got closer Megan realised she’d seen her before. She was the woman Pauline had walked past without speaking to. The one she’d said she’d tell Megan all about later.

  The woman was painfully thin. Her halter-neck top revealed bony shoulders and arms like matchsticks. Her eyes darted this way and that like a nervous bird watching out for a cat. Megan suspected she was one of the many crack addicts who worked the streets to get the money for their next fix.

  These women were treated like outcasts by the ones who didn’t take drugs. It wasn’t because they were on crack, but because their habit made them desperate. They’d do anything for the price of a ‘rock’. That meant they often charged less than the going rate, which drove the prices down for everyone else.

  Megan turned to ask about the woman, but there was a strange look on Pauline’s face. There was a deep furrow between her eyebrows and her lips were pulled so hard over her teeth that all the blood had gone out of them.

  As the woman passed she gave a sudden jerk of her head and a gob of spit landed at Pauline’s feet. Megan stared, open-mouthed, from the girl to Pauline, expecting a torrent of abuse. But Pauline said nothing. She stood, rooted to the spot, just staring into space.

  ‘Who was that?’ Megan whispered.

  She heard Pauline draw in her breath before answering. ‘That was Rosa. She’s my daughter.’

  Chapter Three

  Megan and Pauline were sitting in the all-night café on the edge of the industrial estate. The harsh strip lighting made Pauline’s face seem even more lined, and her skin had a yellowish tinge caused by the years of heavy smoking. The only other people in the café were a couple of long-distance lorry drivers whose trucks had made the tables vibrate when they pulled up outside.

  Pauline took a new packet of cigarettes from her bag and peeled off the cellophane wrapper. She lit one up and took several drags, staring into her mug of black coffee, as if she was working up to what she had to say.

  She and Megan had pounded the streets of the red light district for two hours after bumping into Pauline’s daughter. Pauline had clammed up when Megan had asked about Rosa. Then, when it was almost midnight, she’d turned to Megan and said: ‘I’m ready for a chat now – shall we go to the greasy spoon?’

  The food served in the all-night café was the sort Megan was trying to cut down on. Since she’d been staying in Cardiff she’d put on half a stone. These late-night outings with Pauline nearly always ended with burgers or bacon sandwiches in places like this. Tonight all she’d ordered was a coffee. As she lifted the big white mug to her lips, Pauline began to talk.

  ‘I was fifteen when I had Rosa,’ she said, flicking her cigarette into the blue metal ashtray that
sat on the table between them. ‘I never knew who her father was.’ She sniffed. ‘Could have been any one of about twenty blokes I had the month I got caught.’ She looked up. If she was expecting some sign of shock or disapproval Megan gave her none. She simply returned her gaze, saying nothing, waiting for her to go on.

  There were tears in the corners of Pauline’s eyes, but the muscles of her face were clenched. She looked as if she was fighting to hold back her feelings. Megan wondered if she’d told this story to anyone else.

  ‘I’d only been on the streets a couple of months. I didn’t know it was that easy to get pregnant.’ She sent a plume of smoke billowing towards the ceiling. ‘Kept working till the day before she was born.’ Her head shook slowly. ‘Made a fortune, you know. Punters really go for it, the dirty bastards.’

  Now it was Megan’s turn to shake her head. She hadn’t known this – that pregnant prostitutes were a special turn-on for men who paid for sex. Why? Her mouth was forming the word when she snapped it shut. She knew in advance what Pauline’s answer would be: there would be no words, just a shrug.

  There were so many things about this sordid trade that didn’t make sense. Like the men who would pay extra for sex without a condom, knowing the girl could be carrying any number of diseases, including AIDS. Did they get some extra kick, she wondered, by dicing with death?

  As she watched Pauline light up another cigarette she tried to picture what she must have looked like at fifteen. She thought about the children’s homes she’d run away from. Had anyone in those places ever bothered to explain the facts about sex?

  Pauline’s daughter had been born thirty years ago, but the same old story was being repeated right now, out there on the streets. Girls who were still kids themselves were having more kids. And for what? To grow up with no better hope than their mothers of doing something decent with their lives.

  ‘She was six weeks old when I gave her up.’ Pauline was staring at a dirty mark on the wall. ‘Never even had a photo of her.’

  ‘How did you find her?’ Megan bit her lip.

  ‘Oh, you’ll laugh when I tell you.’ Pauline’s mouth twisted into a half-smile. ‘It wasn’t long ago. About six months.’ Pauline nodded slowly, staring at the wall as if it was a screen showing scenes from her life. ‘She was standing on a corner and I went up to her. Tried to give her condoms.’

  ‘What happened?’ Megan held her breath.

  ‘She spat in my face.’ Pauline shrugged. ‘That’s what she does every time she sees me. Just spits at me. Can’t blame her, I suppose.’

  ‘How did she know…I mean, how did she recognise you?’

  ‘Someone had told her about me. Told her my name. She’d got hold of her birth certificate, see, so she knew who her mother was, but didn’t know where I was.’

  ‘But why did she spit at you?’ Megan frowned.

  ‘For caring more about strangers than I’d ever cared about her.’ Pauline’s hand covered her mouth, as if she was afraid her lips would start to tremble with emotion. ‘That’s what she said. She says it’s my fault she’s ended up on the game.’

  ‘Why? How could it be your fault if someone else brought her up?’

  ‘She said the folks who adopted her were mean to her. She kept running away. Police kept fetching her back. Then, when she turned sixteen, there was nothing they could do. She got in with a bad crowd and started on dope. That led on to the other stuff. And she had no job, no qualifications…’ Pauline’s mouth turned down at the edges in a look of hopelessness. ‘So it was the old story.’

  ‘How often do you see her?’

  ‘Most nights.’ Pauline sighed. ‘At first she used to ask me for money. I knew it was for drugs. When I said no she cut me dead. She never speaks to me now. I pick up the odd thing about her from the other girls. Sounds like she’s speedballing.’

  Megan’s eyes widened. Speedballing was the word for mixing heroin and crack. The drugs were injected together in liquid form straight into the user’s bloodstream to give a monster high. It was more risky than almost anything out there. Rosa was heading for an early grave.

  ‘And I think she’s probably got at least one kid.’ Pauline added this in a matter-of-fact voice but her eyes were brimming with tears.

  Megan bit her lip. No wonder Pauline was so upset. How awful to think you might have a grandchild. A grandchild you would never get to see.

  ‘If she has got one, it won’t be living with her,’ Pauline sniffed. ‘State she’s in no social worker would let her have a kid in the house. Plus she’s got bloody BJ on her case.’

  Megan looked at her. ‘You mean she’s another of his women?’

  Pauline nodded. ‘I only found out last week. Saw her getting into his car. Christ,’ she lit up yet another cigarette, shielding the flame with nicotine-stained fingers, ‘I was in a state when I was her age, but not nearly the bloody mess that she’s in!’

  The two women sat in silence for the next few minutes. Pauline dragged on her cigarette, pulling her lips hard around the end of it so that her mouth puckered into deep ridges. Megan didn’t know what to say. It must be pure torture, she thought, for her to have to see her daughter out on the streets, night after night, knowing she was on a path to self-destruction. And the child, if there was one – Pauline’s own flesh and blood – what would become of him or her if anything happened to Rosa?

  Pauline stubbed out the dog-end of her cigarette and scraped her chair noisily as she got to her feet. ‘Come on,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I promised someone a lift home. She’s just round the corner, but I might need your help getting her to the car.’

  Megan wondered why this woman was being singled out for special treatment. Pauline’s duties weren’t supposed to include a taxi service for the women who worked the streets. She soon found out why. The woman was so drunk she couldn’t stand. She was slumped against a low brick wall, a can of Special Brew in her hand, and a clutch of empty ones lying on the pavement beside her.

  ‘Hiya, Pauline!’ she shouted. The words were slurred but Megan could detect a Scottish accent. ‘Can ye wait a minute?’ The woman tried to get to her feet, swaying dangerously as she did so. ‘I need a piss before we go.’

  Pauline grabbed her arm before she fell against the sharp edge of the brick wall. ‘Okay, love,’ she said in low, soothing voice. ‘Just do it here. I’ve got you. No-one’ll see. Just mind me sodding boots, that’s all.’

  Megan whipped her head sideways and stared at the wall. The sound of urine trickling down the pavement was very loud in the quiet street. Suddenly she remembered something Pauline had said her on her first night in the red light district. She’d been telling her about a woman who’d just been arrested. She said the woman had complained about the back seat of the Vice Squad car being all wet.

  ‘I didn’t like to tell her,’ Pauline had said with a wink, ‘but I know why the seat was like that.’ There was a woman, she said, in her mid-forties, who was an alcoholic. She slept rough in an old shed and never bathed or washed. Pauline knew that this woman had been arrested the previous night. ‘She must have wet herself on the back seat – and that other girl sat in it!’

  Megan had been amazed that anyone like that could operate as a prostitute. Why, she’d asked Pauline, would any man want sex with a woman in that state?

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised, love,’ Pauline had cackled. ‘She does all right, old Cora McBride. Takes them up the alley and only charges them a fiver. Some of her blokes just pay her with a can of Special Brew.’

  Megan blinked as a stream of urine trickled past along the bottom of the wall. This must be her. This must be Cora McBride.

  She had pressed Pauline that first night, wanting to know about the woman’s life. What, she asked, had happened to bring her to such an awful state?

  Pauline had told her that, like herself, Cora had had a daughter. A little girl called Kirsty. When she was five years old Cora’s pimp had beaten the child to death.

  Megan heard the
trickle stop. Heard Cora grunt like an animal as she hoisted herself up. Christ, she thought. Why? Why are things like that allowed to happen? Women controlled by violent men who went on to beat and possibly kill their children…

  ‘This has got to stop.’ She said the words aloud, to herself, as Pauline hooked her arm under Cora’s to help her down the street. But her words were drowned by the sound of a car screeching to a halt beside them.

  Megan could hear the throb of a heavy bass beat coming from the sound system inside. The car was a black Dodge Crossfire with alloy wheels and spoilers front and back. The music thumped louder as the window slid down.

  Megan could see only the vague shape of a face. Before she could step closer the engine roared and the car sped away.

  Something fluttered out of the window as it went. It was something small and white. Pauline bent to pick it up off the pavement. Megan could see that it was the size and shape of a business card. As she watched, Pauline read it, rolled her eyes at the sky, then screwed it up and threw it into the gutter.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Who was that?’ Megan bent to pick up the screwed-up ball in the gutter.

  ‘BJ.’

  As Pauline spat out the pimp’s name Megan smoothed the crumpled white card. It had Pauline’s name and mobile phone number printed on it and the logo of the charity she worked for.

  ‘He must have taken it off Tracy Jebb.’ Pauline sniffed.

  Megan nodded, remembering how Pauline had urged the woman to get in touch any time of the day or night. So BJ had roamed the streets looking for Pauline, just to give her a warning. She wondered what he’d done to poor Tracy. Would she have been given another beating just for having one of Pauline’s cards in her pocket?

  ‘Can we go home now?’

  Cora McBride was still hanging on to Pauline’s arm. She looked a truly pathetic sight. Her hair, long and greasy, hung over the shoulders of a jacket that was too big for her. There were beer stains all down the front of it. She wore a skirt whose pattern clashed violently with the jacket and had a large wet patch over her left thigh. Megan shuddered to think what had made that.