by Karen Botha
She smiles, and leans back in her chair. ‘I’ve always loved the high life and I am lazy. I admit it.’ She grins, tips her head to one side, and nods. Her eyes are warm with self-acceptance. ‘Some will say that they love sex; it wasn’t the case for me, but I don’t mind it. If by sleeping with lonely men it means I am able to have all the nice things in life, I'm happy. I do enjoy it way better than sitting in some awful clerical role for the rest of my days.’ Her smile turns into a full-blown beam. Her teeth are perfectly white, bleached to match the tips of her nails.
‘But finding an agent, did you go looking or did someone find you?’
‘No, I found her a few years ago, but even then, it was easy enough to find one on the Internet. Mine is a common story. I was on a dating site and got approached by some handsome chap on there, he said keeping our liaison a business arrangement helped his conscience. He offered to pay me a lot of money for what turned out to be quite a pleasurable experience. After that I thought, why not?’
‘Have you always worked with the same agency?’
‘No, I started off with one and moved to my current one about two years ago. It wasn’t for any other reason than I needed a change. A new agency often brings in fresh work. Men grow bored, and they pay because they desire variety. So, you need to move around periodically to keep a healthy client base.’
‘Oh, OK, I didn’t realise,’ I say, chewing my pen. ‘Do your old clients move with you?’
‘Some do, but it’s not something agencies are fond of. But yes, some customers will sign up to several agencies.’
‘Do you ever take private jobs?’
‘No, never. It’s not worth it. Yes, I want the money, but I cherish my life. You're never sure who you are getting if you do this on your own. I wouldn’t even entertain it.’
‘Do any of your, erm, colleagues, do this? Book clients privately?’
‘None in my league. Some of the younger, newer girls do. Think they can be clever and cut out the commission, but that's a short-term game.’
‘So, you operate with different tiers within your industry then? You mentioned lower levels.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. As with all parts of society, we have a hierarchy. To get onto the list for the casino, we must be top class.’
I make notes but only for appearances sake. I’m paying attention taking all her information in. I am, in fact, hanging on her every word. She’s an intriguing person. ‘So, is there any way, as far as you know, that the casino would hand out contact details for anyone other than your agency?’
‘If you ask my agent, then they will tell you no, but I did hear a conversation the other day that made me think twice. It was between two gentlemen at the table and they were discussing someone they took together the previous evening. She sounded terribly young and inexperienced and they got off on it. They were planning on getting another girl from the same place again tonight. I wouldn’t think anything of it, but they were looking round for their handler at the casino. They all have an account manager who looks after their every need. I didn’t see what happened, but I’m assuming they wanted to book.’
‘Are you able to identify the men? Can you give me a name?’
‘No, they’re not my kind of client. Far too crass. I hate those types. I dread to imagine what they do to the poor girls; they’re always on a huge power trip. The gentlemen I meet are way more successful and have nothing to prove anymore. They’re elite businessmen looking for company whilst away from home. They’re lonely, trying to fill a gap.’
It sounds to me like there maybe two layers at play: the high rollers and whales who buy Carri and her friends and then the less salubrious lower tier. These muppets can’t afford her prices and will take girls from a different, unofficial agency. I ask Carri if this could be possible.
‘Erm, like I say, a million agencies each specialise in their own brand of prostitute.’ For some reason, hearing her say prostitute so openly fires a sharp shock through my chest. I recoil before regaining my composure. ‘My understanding of our agreement is that we are the only agency the casino will recommend. But who’s saying that if a client makes demands, their needs won’t be met? Those guys will do anything to keep their clients happy and spending. It's not necessarily that the guys can't afford our rates, rather, we may just not be their kink.’
We tie our meeting up, chatting about some of the fun she’s had as a result of her choice of income stream. I can honestly say, I see the appeal if her line of work doesn’t bother you. I want to ask about her worst client, but I know she won’t tell me, so instead I finish up with, ‘It’s been lovely to meet you. Thank you for your time, you’ve been incredibly helpful.’ And she has.
Lucy
I’ve not heard from Adam and although I don’t blame him, I have that horrid sinking in the pit of my stomach. My diary is full of private clients this morning which is usually a great distraction, but I’m struggling today.
‘I’ve just finished relaying my patio, all the bending in the cold killed my back I can tell you.’
‘Yes, I can feel it.’ To be fair, his back is tight. A muscle pings free on cue.
‘I laid all the slabs and then shaped them with a grinder. It's mint now, but do you know how much stones cost?’
‘No, I’ve not laid any recently.’ I try focusing on my client and his conversation instead of recent events.
‘Well I spent £1000, and it’s not a big space. And I even used some that my mum had spare from when she did her garden. Looks the bollocks though - I’ll show you a picture when we’re done.’
My phone which I leave at the foot of the massage table as a safety precaution lights up with a call from Paula. The music playing via a Bluetooth speaker pauses.
‘Oh, sorry about that! Someone’s calling.’ I apologise to my client as the room falls quiet.
It’s odd. Paula knows only to text me because of this exact situation. I wonder why she’s calling. The screen lights a second time, now with a new voicemail alert.
The whole of the next forty-five minutes are torture. Paula knows she shouldn’t call me and yet, she did. What would make her do that? It must be something important.
When my client leaves, I have two minutes to listen to Paula’s voicemail and call her back before my next appointment. I ignore her message and get right on with calling her.
‘Is everything OK?’ I check as soon as she answers.
‘No, I left you a message. Didn’t you listen to it?’
‘No, I’ve only got a few minutes so just returned your call. It's quicker. What’s up?’
‘Adam was arrested.’ I’m silent. Not again. Not another one. ‘He’s asked me to investigate some strangeness.’ Paula continues.
‘I’m not sure I want him to call me now. At least that’s a problem solved.’ My voice is soft, gravel sticks in my throat.
‘Oh gosh, I’m sorry Lucy! I didn’t think. No don’t fret. I'm sure he's innocent. I met with him yesterday and could do with a bit of back up on some surveillance I need to do this afternoon. His number plates were apparently stolen, and Jerome has dug up an address. I want a closer look at it. Fancy coming along?’
‘Paula, I’m not so sure. Like I said why would I invite any more lunatics to my door? I think I should steer clear.’
‘Listen he's a good one. Trust me! Are you free after lunch or not? It’s not Adam you’re helping, it’s me.’
She reels off where I should meet her. Against my better judgement I agree to be there when I’ve finished my last booking. Why she can’t call one of her cop friends is beyond me. I have a horrid fear I’m getting embroiled in a situation best left alone.
When I reach the address she’s given me, I seriously worry for my safety. The clientele on the train changed as we got nearer to my stop, pre-warning me of where I was alighting. Groups of grubby youths hang around in gangs on the street corners, smoking an unknown substance. Something about the place sends shudders down my spine, this is not helped
when the volume of the closest group of teens raises and turns into a collective jeer. Thankfully Paula’s already here and waiting for me in her car outside. I hop into the warmth as her heater blasts. ‘Won’t we stand out hanging around here?’
‘Possibly, but what alternative do we have?’ Paula replies.
‘I'm not sure. Why are we here?’ I ask.
‘I need for you to be my watch.’
‘Oh, Paula, this doesn’t sound good. What’s going on?’
And then she fills me in. She tracked down Adam’s number plate to an exact same car. Well actually Mo did, via a not-so-official Automatic Number Plate Recognition search.
‘It wouldn’t be a stretch to find out what car he has. But the fact that someone has gone to all this trouble does mean they’re motivated…’
‘And that’s not good for Adam!’ I finish her thought for her.
‘Indeed…’
She parks up on a side street, a few doors down from an old-fashioned stone-rendered semi. She fills me in on the details of the case whilst I survey the lone house. One side of the semi has yellow bars up in place of where you’d find a picket fence in more salubrious areas. The makeshift boundary has a sign for ‘Tyres.’ Next door is a standard semi.
‘It doesn’t appear the kind of place you’d have a car like Adam’s, does it?’ Paula looks at me, pulling her chin down and eyes up.
‘No, but what does this have to do with Adam?’ I ask.
‘This is where his car has been spending a lot of time.’
‘You've found all of that from the ANPR?’ I ask.
‘Well, no, but once I knew enough, I had Jerome hack into their local CCTV. There’s loads round here.’ She gestures upwards with her hand, pointing out cameras I’d never noticed before. ‘Makes my job a little easier.’
‘Hmm… and so why am I your lookout? What are you up to?’
‘I need to get closer to that house, find out what's going on.’
‘Well why can’t you use the drone again?’ I think it’s a fairly logical question.
‘Oh Lucy, have you seen the windows!’ Paula tuts.
‘Oh, yeah.’ They’re all boarded up. We sit for only a short moment, but time passes slowly.
‘So, what happens then? Will you wait until someone comes along and walk past?’
‘We’ll wait and see who, if anyone is coming and going. And when I’ve built up enough courage, I’ll go and knock on the door and pretend I’m their meter reader.’ She shrugs as though she does this every day.
‘Really, Paula! You’re going inside the damned house?’
‘Well, how else am I going to find out what’s going on?’
I have no idea, but there must be a safer way. ‘What am I watching out for?’ I ask instead of showing my inhibitions. I am a massage therapist and before that, I worked behind an ultra safe corporate desk. I’m not cut out for this and furthermore, I didn’t sign up for it.
‘Shall I buy doughnuts?’ I joke, trying to ease the tension.
She stares at me and slings me an I-get-what-you’re-doing smile. Her mouth doesn’t open, nor does her smile reach her eyes.
‘Are you sure you want to do this? I’m sure Adam will understand. This could be dangerous. He wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.’
‘Lucy, the riots in London are dangerous, you have nutters high on any injectable chemical coming at you with iron bars for fun. This is only pretending to go and read a meter in a dubious looking house.’
‘It’s more than that. You realise these people are mixing with serious criminals, who, for whatever reason are trying to finger someone else for their wrong doings? I bet they’re involved in human trafficking, Paula!’
Before I can make any headway in convincing her this is a bad idea, she says, ‘Right, I’m off. We’ve sat here long enough cogitating.’
My heart jumps in my chest as if escaping this ludicrous situation. I crack a window, feeling as if the air has been sucked out, a vacuum buzzing in my head. She’s out of the car already.
‘What shall I do if something happens? What am I waiting for?’
‘Anything at all that could be suspicious. If I’m over five minutes, call Mo - or Steve.’
She stalks off down the street. It's only at this point I notice she’s wearing a characterless fleece jacket, the likes of which wouldn’t be out of place on any innocuous meter reader. She heads up the path of the run-down house. A scrawny woman with a hooked nose and her thinning hair scraped back smoothly from her painted eyebrows opens up after Paula’s knocked three times. It seems to take far too long and I wonder what they were doing in preparation for speaking to an uninvited visitor. The stud through the woman’s top lip catches the light as she speaks with Paula, eventually moving to one side to let her in. The old PVC door closes.
I check the clock.
15:03
Come on Paula, get out of there before 15:08.
The clock ticks over to 15:07, my emotions are like a steam train threatening to explode. Still no Paula. I’ve been holding my phone this entire time; it’s sweaty in my palm. I swipe to call Mo, I don’t have Steve’s number anymore. By the time Mo answers, it will be 15:08 anyway.
Come on! Answer!
‘Hi, you’ve reached Mo, please leave a message after the tone and I’ll call you back as soon as I’m able.’
That had to happen, didn’t it? ‘Mo, it’s Lucy. Paula has been doing some undercover work, and she’s been inside longer than five minutes. She asked me to call you if that happened. Please call me back urgently.’ I leave our address and my number for good measure.
15:09
My shoulders are resting somewhere up by the roof of Paula's vehicle. My tongue sticks to my palette. I unlock my seatbelt and slide over to the driver’s side where Paula has left the keys in the ignition. I could be sick as I start the car and creep up the road. My foot shakes on the accelerator as I approach the front of the house. I should go slow enough to have chance to get a visual, but I can’t risk being seen. If something hasn’t gone wrong, and she’s only taking her time in there, I don’t want to endanger her further.
15:10
The house appears quiet. Driving past has elicited nothing. I settle down the street. Ugh, now I can’t see anything, and my back is to the place. I get out and then back in again; my legs are weak, wobbly.
Unused to the car or the situation, I turn her 4x4 round with a rather dubious three-point turn, parking up on the same side as the house.
I have it! I scrabble around. If I can work out how to open the bloody boot of the car, I bet Paula still has Jerome’s drone. She wouldn’t have had the chance to drop it back to him yet and she wouldn’t risk, her dog, Boob, jumping all over it with her over-bearing excitement. If luck is on my side, I’ll be able to take a stealthy check on her wellbeing without risking blowing her cover.
15:11
Yes, it’s here! Now, I just need to try to remember how to use the damn thing. Breathe, Lucy, you can do this. I calm my racing pulse and ignore the trembling in my stubby fingers as I press the ‘on’ button.
The drone wakes up, humming with life. Thank goodness. Prodding a few buttons, it takes off and all of a sudden I don’t feel quite so alone anymore.
I jab the area on the pad displaying the garden of the house. It hovers off over the fence and out of sight. I watch the screen searching for any movement. My senses are on fire, fine-tuned for any change. They needn’t have been. I hear Paula shouting before I see her. The back door swings open, and she’s shoved out by two savages. She’s crying out, all the way as they shove her up the concrete path. Either side of the path lies remnants of discarded tyres, an old mattress, and a broken kitchen chair. One man grabs her arms which are secured behind her back, whilst the other removes three separate locks from a back entrance into an old asbestos garage.
In theory, I’d fly the drone to the back of the garage to see if she’s been driven away or held in there. I try, I do. But it d
oesn’t work out. By the time I’ve figured out the manual controls, and located the front of the garage, nothing is happening, but have I missed it?
I fly the drone back, with fingers shaking so much they’re difficult to control. The air around me is sticky, closing in on me even though I’m outside. I’m being strangled by panic. Think Lucy. What would Paula do?
Paula
When she opened the door, the woman was standing in a stark hallway. The wooden floorboards were not fashionably stripped, instead they were splattered with paint and dirt as old as the house. The walls had been papered in a floral and stripe navy combo somewhere around the 1980’s and not touched since. The border had bubbled loose where a leak had made its way from the now-stained ceiling. All the doors were closed, but an arch lead into an equally disrepaired and quite frankly, filthy kitchen. Hushed female chatter filters around the corner, beyond where I can see.
‘Is it under here?’ I ask, moving with more authority than I feel towards the cupboard beneath the stairs.
‘I think so,’ the woman says, her voice toneless.
There’s been a lock on it at some point, but it’s removed now, leaving holes in the wood. The space is clear, nothing in there, barring the meter I’m supposed to read. And a rag in the corner. I commit the pink and mauve pattern of the fabric to memory. I notice metal fixings screwed into the stone floor, the type you’d attach a bike to, to prevent it being stolen. Except, it’s not the kind of place you’d fit a push bike.
I run through the process of taking the electricity reading before asking, ‘I couldn’t trouble you for a drop of water, could I please? I’m parched.’
I smile sweetly, all the while thinking I’m going to have to take a sip out of some filthy beaker. Even if I’m ill for a week afterwards, at least I’ll get a visual of who’s around the corner. I walk towards the kitchen maintaining my amiable smile. See? I’m no threat.
After a brief silence, the woman follows me in and pushes around to stand in front of me, blocking my way. But she’s too late. I've seen what I came in for. A group of dark haired, olive skinned girls, and I mean young, teenage girls huddle on the concrete floor in the farthest corner of the kitchen. Each wears a unremarkable beige t-shirt and black shorts, revealing their bruised limbs. As I round the entrance to the excuse for a kitchen, they cluster closer together, eyes wide. Their babbles in a language I don’t recognise are either a whispered cry for help or a warning. I can’t tell.
