by Claire Askew
‘Johns are supposed to be scared of this?’ she asked, her eyes kind of frozen mid-roll. Her lipstick matched her hair exactly. She had mirror-image tattoos of two cherries on stalks, one on each collarbone. I didn’t know why her place needed a bouncer. I wouldn’t have fucked with her in a month of Sundays.
We met in the nightclub downstairs from the sauna. It was around sevenish, so the place was closed, and I remember how fucking dingy and miserable it looked without its disco ball and strobes going. Vyshnya told me she’d give me a tour of the place, as if I were a john. That way I’d know exactly what I was taking care of.
Back then, before I knew better, I just didn’t get men who went to prostitutes. No . . . sex workers. I’d hear Nella’s voice in my head saying, You mean sex workers, every time, giving me a scolding. It made me miss her. But yeah, I didn’t get it, I was already pretty sure I wasn’t cut out for the job.
The door at the bottom of the covered stair was tucked back slightly from the street, a kind of alcove: no sign, no nothing, just a stainless-steel panel with one buzzer in it. If you didn’t know better, you could have mistaken the door for a regular old tenement stairwell. I watched Vyshnya press the buzzer on the alcove wall with one long, synthetic nail. No voice came over the intercom: just a fizz of static, and the door clicked open.
The stairwell was fairly nondescript, too: narrow, white-painted, strip-lit. I found myself standing in the crosshairs of two CCTV cameras, which freaked me the fuck out, but Vyshnya was already halfway up.
At the top of the stairs was this dim, windowless room. There were table lamps scattered about – some with red bulbs screwed into them like a proper cliché, others with scarves draped over their shades – and two wall-mounted TVs showing the football on mute. The only other light came from the bright square of a kitchen-style hatch set into the wall: I stood there and watched as Vyshnya disappeared through a side door and then appeared in that square.
‘So,’ she said. ‘The john comes in. You greet him. You say, Evening, pal, whatever.’ She’d tried for a Scottish accent and fallen way short, but I didn’t dare laugh. ‘Then you ask, How long for you tonight?’
I think I just blinked.
‘I will explain,’ Vyshnya said, flapping one long-nailed hand to bring my gaze back round. ‘Now I show you the place.’
I followed her out of the pink room, and into a much lighter space with yellow tiled walls and a wetroom floor. There were lockers – dark grey metal ones like the ones from school – along one wall. Along the other were three shower cubicles, one of them clearly out of service and filled almost to the ceiling with rolled-up hotel towels.
‘First, take a shower,’ Vyshnya said, and for a second I got a little hot and bothered, thinking she meant me, right there and then. But she meant the john, of course.
‘They put all clothes in here.’ She slapped one palm against a locker door, and the room reverberated with its clang. I strung along behind her to the far end of the showers, where she opened another door. Behind it was a cupboard full of bathrobes.
‘They are shy, maybe, like some people,’ she said. ‘They can wear this. But most? They just wear the towel till they go home.’
I was still confused as fuck, but Vyshnya was already heading back to the dark TV room.
‘After the shower,’ she said, ‘the men come back here. They sit down, relax. If they want to drink, I bring them anything. I look after them while they wait. If they see a girl here they like, they pick her. If they don’t see a girl, they wait here until one they like comes out.’
There were two women sitting watching the TV. Both were blonde. The man in the towel lounging on the sofa clearly hadn’t picked them. They looked happy enough about that.
‘Now most importantly, they pay for the time.’ Vyshnya crossed to the reception door and folded herself back in behind the hatch.
I almost laughed.
‘You want an hour?’ She addressed me as though I were the john, play-acting. ‘You pay me thirty-five. Forty-five minutes is less, a half-hour is less.’
I nodded.
‘The man decides how long,’ Vyshnya said, ‘you take the right money.’
I just nodded, over and over, like one of those dogs you used to get on the parcel shelves of cars. Okay, I thought, so I take the money. The job kind of reminded me of Blockbuster. Guy comes in, psyches himself up, picks what he fancies for his hour’s entertainment, and I take his money. Except the entertainment here was . . . well, I was trying not to think about it.
‘Simple, no?’ Vyshnya said.
I had to admit that it was. She frowned at me then.
‘But also,’ she said, ‘very important. You help me look after these girls, understand? Most men who come here, they are very good, respectful. They pay the right money. But some men are not good, they hurt my girls, or they try to . . . how do you say in English? Bargain with me. We do not bargain here. And for these men, I need . . .’
She was looking me up and down again, with some distaste.
‘You need a bouncer,’ I said. ‘You want me to kick the bastards out on their arses.’
I saw Vyshnya smile for the first time, then, though there was no warmth in it. ‘You understand,’ she said.
I looked down at myself. I was wearing the clothes I’d been standing up in when Toad drove me away from that car park. I’d been wearing them for three days. Three days among these men and women and I was already ashamed that I’d ever considered combat trousers a good idea. I wasn’t bouncer material. Or I wasn’t yet.
‘Better get down the gym, then,’ I said, but Vyshnya’s smile had faded.
‘Some of my girls,’ she said, ‘have come a long way from their home. They have been tricked, they have been treated bad. Your Solomon’ – she spat the word out like it tasted bad in her mouth – ‘he has told lies to them. Had his men use them badly, with no pay. It is wrong.’
I couldn’t help but nod. After all, I agreed with her.
‘I look after them.’ Vyshnya was still speaking. ‘Try to make this home for them. You are part of this too. This is your job, too. Look after my girls.’
I thought about Tsezar, what had happened to him. ‘I promise I will,’ I said. I glanced down at my sorry self once again. ‘I mean . . . I’ll get there.’
Birch yawned. She couldn’t help herself: it was after four. She had no desire to sleep, she only wanted to stay up and hear what Charlie had to say, but her body was beginning to rebel. Her thoughts were in a fractious knot, and a thin thread of fear was beginning to pull the knot tighter: Charlie was in serious trouble. In fact, Charlie was serious trouble. In less than an hour she was supposed to get up and get ready to go to work. What was she meant to do with him?
‘Can I ask you something?’ she said.
‘Sure.’
‘I want you to answer me completely honestly.’
He looked her in the face, and didn’t blink. ‘Scout’s honour,’ he said. When she frowned at him, he changed his answer. ‘Okay. Thieves’ honour.’
She winced, remembering her conversation with Amy. It felt like weeks ago now. ‘I was going to ask,’ she said, ‘if I knew everything that you’d done in the past fourteen years . . . would I have grounds for arresting you?’
Charlie smiled, then folded the smile away again when she didn’t return it. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘you definitely would.’
Birch put her palms over her eyes, let her neck slacken. She weighed her own head in her hands. ‘I thought so.’
‘Nella.’ Charlie pulled her gaze back up to meet his. It was earnest, almost pleading. ‘I’m afraid that’s what I need your help with,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Birch thought of her mother then. Towards the end, every visit had involved sitting in the padded lady-chair beside her mother’s clanking hospital bed, listening to her talk. They’d talked about a lot of things, but often the conversation had meandered back to her mother’s primary preoccupation: Charlie. Her miss
ing boy.
‘One day,’ she’d said to Birch, only a couple of weeks before she died, ‘one day you’ll find him, Helen. I know you will. He’ll come back to us.’ The us made Birch’s heart hurt, as though someone had closed a fist around it.
‘When he does,’ her mother had said, ‘we’ll forgive him, do you hear me? I already forgive him.’ She’d lain back and closed her eyes, clacked her dry throat against nothing. ‘You have to, as well. You have to promise me you will.’
‘I will, Mum,’ Birch had said, with the conviction of someone who thinks the thing they’re promising will never come to pass.
Now, she looked at her brother. ‘Tell me what you need,’ she said.
‘Okay . . .’ Charlie took in a lungful of air, and she watched his shoulders rise and fall.
‘The guy I was . . . working with,’ he said, ‘the Glaswegian polis. He offered me immunity. In return for grassing on Solomon and the boys, he said whatever I’d been up to while . . . well, while I’ve been away. That would all be wiped. A blind eye turned.’
Birch screwed up her face. Yep, she thought. Bingo.
‘He said he’d get me out,’ Charlie was saying. ‘Said they’d spring me and put me in – whatever, I don’t know. Witness protection. A safe house, all that jazz. I thought I’d get a whole new identity, a clean slate. Another chance to be a person, you know?’
She realised she was shaking her head. ‘Wow,’ was all she could manage.
‘Anyway.’ Charlie hadn’t caught the snark in her voice. ‘He kept promising, like, Yeah yeah, just a bit more info, pal, just give us this and then I’ll be in touch. My arse. I realised that I’d put myself between a rock and a hard place. Polis were starting to sniff around. The guys were all whispering about a mole. They knew someone was grassing and I figured it wouldn’t take long for one bright spark to figure out that it might be me. And might be would be enough.’
Birch was nodding. ‘So you ran,’ she said.
‘Yeah. This Operation Citrine – I knew it was coming. I figured it would be big, anyone on the scene would be arrested, and hopefully some would be charged. If I went then I’d have a couple of days before they realised I wasn’t just in custody with the rest. And I thought a couple of days would give me time to . . . get some assurances, you know?’
Jesus, Birch thought. Did fourteen years as a gangster really leave someone this naïve? ‘So you ditched out, what? Sunday night? Monday morning?’
‘Early hours Monday,’ he said. ‘Went AWOL. I was meant to be down there to translate for the boat captains coming in . . . as well as extra muscle.’ He looked down at himself, and his face was apologetic – his first acknowledgement of the fact that he was almost unrecognisable, physically. ‘But I figured when the shit’s going down, no one misses the translator.’
‘So . . . you went to see your contact?’
‘The polis? Kind of. I stayed in Glasgow instead of heading over here with the crew. Then I texted him. He wanted to meet in the fucking Buchanan Street Bus Station.’ Charlie scoffed at himself.
Okay, good. He’d maybe realised his mistakes, then.
‘Anyway, I texted him I’m out – look, pal, here I am, that’s me out. Take me to the safe house, whatever. And there was just something about the way he replied. I realised I’d been had: if I waited at the bus station he was going to come and arrest me.’
Birch nodded. ‘Yep,’ she said. ‘How did I guess?’
‘All right, all right,’ Charlie said, not looking at her. ‘No need to rub it in. Anyway, this was Monday, first thing in the morning. Broad fucking daylight. I’d nothing with me – you’ve seen I’ve nothing with me. I didn’t have time. I thought if I didn’t show up to meet him, he’d be there at my door with the battering ram. I just ran. Got on the first train to Edinburgh – from Central, so I didn’t go too near Buchanan Street. And now here I am. Fucksake – yeah, I know I’ve been had.’
Birch was quiet for a moment. She kneaded her temples with her forefingers: she had a sleep-deprivation headache, and it was developing like fog over water.
‘He was always going to arrest you, Charlie,’ she said, at last. ‘Whatever deal he was going to make would only ever have been done with you in custody.’
Charlie didn’t look at her. He knew he’d been naïve.
‘But, for what it’s worth,’ she went on, ‘I’m proud of you for informing. You finally started to do the right thing.’
Charlie laughed a cold laugh. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Every inch the policewoman, eh? Proud of me. For being a fucking grass.’
‘Yes.’ There was heat in her voice. ‘Look what you’ve put on the line. I mean, you were stupid, Charlie, you don’t need me to tell you that. But you chose right. You put yourself at risk, and chose to do the good thing. You need to keep doing that now.’
‘You know’ – Charlie got to his feet, making Birch jump – ‘I don’t love that you’re a fucking police inspector. I mean, what the fuck? Do you know how scared I was, coming here? I thought you might just arrest me on the spot, soon as you found out where I’d been all this time, who I’ve been running with. I’m still sitting here afraid that you’re going to whip out the handcuffs and take me in. I mean . . .’ Charlie flailed one long arm, and Birch saw the power in it. The power, and the anger. ‘Yeah, I’m not as smart as you. I believed that guy when he said I’d get immunity, and now I’m running from the Glasgow polis, and running from the cunts I’ve grassed on, and I’ve sat here and asked you, straight up, for help. I’ve basically begged you. My own sister. And you’re just sat there like some hard-faced bitch telling me I’ve been stupid.’
At that, Birch was on her feet, too. ‘Listen, sunshine.’ She pulled herself to her full height, squaring up to him. ‘You abandoned me – abandoned us – for fourteen fucking years. Fourteen years, and not one word from you. Not one clue. I searched for you, Charlie. The reason I am a fucking police inspector is because I wanted to find you. I went out of my wits, for years, trying to find you. I looked everywhere. And you were in Glasgow, the whole time. I could have walked past you on the Byres Road and never known it. I mean . . . you left me all alone, with Mum.’ She could feel tears forming now, unwanted. ‘You left me, and I had to look after her, all the way through . . .’ It was no good. Her face crumpled.
‘Yeah,’ Charlie hissed. ‘That’s another thing! I’ve been in this house what? An hour and a fucking half, and you’re only just now informing me that my mother is dead. What kind of cold-hearted . . .’ He flung his arm out again, and gulped in air. ‘You’re a fine fit for the fucking polis, Nella, let’s just say that.’
Birch’s knees gave way. She sank back into her chair.
‘Better that,’ she said, ‘than a fine fit for the Glasgow gangland. Better that than some rent-a-thug who just happens to have a second language.’
Charlie looked down at her, his jaw working. ‘Now you listen—’
That red mist again. Birch thumped the arm of the chair with one fist. It hurt. Then she was back on her feet. ‘No, you listen,’ she said. ‘Okay? You’re in my house, you’re asking for my help, you sit down on that couch and you listen.’ Birch heard her screeching voice ring in the chimney.
‘I tried to tell you about Mum. I put it in the paper, on Facebook, everywhere. I don’t overshare, but I did then. I thought, If by some slim chance he’s still out there, I need him to know. I tried, okay?’
Charlie held up his hands: don’t shoot. ‘All right,’ he spat. ‘All right. I admit, I knew before I got here. Just keep your fucking voice down.’
She pointed at the spot on the couch where his muscled bulk had left a dent. ‘Sit down,’ she spat.
Charlie obliged, scowling. As he settled himself again, she felt a pang of recognition. He looked just like his child-self, sulking after a telling-off from their mother.
‘It was awful,’ she said, ‘okay? It was bloody slow and bloody painful. And right to the end she was asking for you. Right to the end she
was watching the door like you might walk in. The last day, I was with her. And this is how convinced I was that you were dead, okay? We got to the last hour or so, and she was basically passed out – I knew she was slipping away from me. And I said to her – I actually said to her – Mum, it’s okay, you’re going to go and be with Charlie now. And then . . . she hadn’t smiled in weeks. She’d barely opened her eyes in days. But then, when I said that, she smiled. She smiled big. And she looked actually peaceful, for the first time in ages. Like she believed it was true. And to think, the whole time you were stoating around the fucking Gorbals or something, alive and well. Do you get that? Do you get how mad I am with you right now?’
Her brother’s face was wet. She could see the gas fire’s light shining on his cheeks.
‘Yeah,’ he said, all the fight gone from his voice. ‘I do, Nella. I’m sorry.’
He raised one hand, then, slower this time. And this time she let him reach over and put it on top of her own. His palm was hot and dry. Touching him felt like brushing up against a stove: she felt a strange warmth radiate through her.
‘I mean.’ With her free hand, she daubed the tears off her face. ‘It’s . . . it’s not okay, but . . . it’s okay. It happened. And no matter what, I’m glad you’re back.’
Charlie smiled a sad, shy smile. He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back. In her head, she heard her mother’s voice: Good girl.
From that first shift at the sauna, I guess I was officially a criminal. With the translation stuff, I might have had some sort of out – I didn’t know what I was looking at, I was coerced, whatever. But as soon as I was on Solomon’s payroll, that was it. Of course, that’s not how you think about it as it’s going on. Seems weird to think about it that way now, like, Oh, I was just this good, God-fearing boy, officer; and then suddenly, boom: gangster. Technically that’s what happened, but it wasn’t how it felt.
