The Ghosts of London

by Amy Cross

  "I'm here for an appointment," I tell him. "He ordered a massage."

  "You're a masseur, are you?" he asks, raising an amused eyebrow. "Rubbing the shoulders with oils, that kind of thing?"

  "That kind of thing," I mutter darkly.

  "Must be a fun job," he continues. "You don't just do the shoulders, though, do you? I mean, like, you do all over, right? You really oil them up good."

  "I do what the client wants," I reply. "Whatever he needs after a stressful day."

  "I bet you do," he says with a broad grin. "I bet you bloody well do. Help him blow off steam, yeah?"

  "He won't like it if you make me late," I add, keen to get this conversation over and done with. "He booked me for seven, not five past."

  The doorman pauses. "First you said he's a friend, now you say he's a client. Can't make your mind up, can you? If you want my advice, you should try to get your story straight next time. I mean, it'd be more professional, wouldn't it? When you keep contradicting yourself like this, I can't help but wonder what's really going on, if you know what I mean."

  "Call him," I reply, checking my watch and seeing that I've only got another four minutes before I'm supposed to be at Alexander's door. "He doesn't like it when people are late, so can't you just ask reception to call up and get confirmation? He'll happily tell you that he's expecting me."

  "And why would I waste their time on a wild goose chase?" he asks, with a faint smile. "It's my job to decide who gets in and who doesn't, you see, and I don't go around passing my responsibilities onto other people. That's one of the things I'm paid for, you see; my ability to discern who's the right kind of person, and who isn't. This isn't a bargain basement travel hotel, you know. Unless... I mean, we all know what a massage really means, don't we? In this kind of context."

  "No," I say firmly. "We don't."

  "This hotel has a policy regarding prostitution," he continues. "I have a duty to keep an eye out for that kind of thing -"

  "Fine," I mutter, pulling my phone from my coat pocket and starting to bring up Alexander's suite number. "I'll call him, and I'll make damn sure to tell him that you're making insinuations about his private life. I'll tell him you think he hires whores to -"

  "No need," he says, grabbing the phone from my hands and turning it off, before passing it back to me. With a smile, he steps aside. "Just doing my job, you understand. Can't have a place like this getting a reputation as a house of ill repute, can we? I should check you out thoroughly, but I'll do you a favor on this occasion. Who knows? Maybe some time when you've got a spare couple of minutes, you can do me a favor in return, eh? I get awfully stiff standing on the door like this; I could use a chance to let off steam myself."

  "You couldn't afford me," I reply, before making my way through the revolving door and into the lobby, keen to get as far as possible from that odious little man. I know damn well what he was after, and although there's no way I'm willing to glance back at him, I'm absolutely certain that he's still watching me as I make my way toward the elevators, and he's probably running through all sorts of sick fantasies in his head. This is one of the parts of my job that I hate the most; it's as if people in this kind of establishment have got a sixth sense when they see me, and I know there's no way I could ever pass as 'one of them'. They know what I am, and why I'm here, and the worst part is: they're right.

  "Evening," says the concierge as I reach the elevators.

  "Yep," I mutter, stepping into an open chamber before hitting the button for the penthouse. As the doors slide shut, I turn and look at my reflection in the mirror, and a moment later the chamber starts to rise. Taking a deep breath, I try to relax, but it's difficult; I hate being out and about at night, especially when the client just happens to be Alexander Medion. This is definitely not going to be an easy appointment, but I guess the plus side is that he pays and tips very well.

  I stare at my reflection for a moment longer, noticing for the first time that my eyes look a little tired. After fixing my hair, I look down at the floor indicator panel and watch as the chamber gets closer and closer to the penthouse. Alexander's undoubtedly up there waiting, watching the clock to see if I arrive on time. I just hope that the nauseous feeling in my stomach doesn't get any worse. I always get nervous when I'm visiting a client's home, but something about Alexander fills me with panic. I swear to God, I feel like my stomach is filled with oil or mud.

  Damn it, I feel like I'm about to throw up.

  Chapter Five

  Katie

  "Excuse me, is this East Street?" I ask, as a friendly-looking woman hurries past me without so much as a pause.

  Sighing, I look down at my laminated map and try once again to work out exactly where I am. Now that night has fallen, the streets of South London are becoming much more difficult to pick out, and I've been walking for almost an hour now without any luck. I turn the map upside down for a moment, hoping for a moment of clarity, but as I wipe rain drops off the laminated surface, I can't help but worry that maybe I won't ever find Rachel's flat.

  Above, there's a faint rumble of thunder, and it's clear that soon there's going to be a lot more rain.

  "You lost, love?" asks a nearby voice.

  I turn to see that a guy is watching me from under a nearby awning. He's smiling and he has a friendly face, and he doesn't look to be much older than me, but there's something about his eyes that I find kinda off-putting; he seems to be staring at me without blinking at all, and it's as if he's studying me the way a predator studies its prey. I instantly bristle at the idea that he's sizing me up, and I try to look as world-weary as possible.

  "I'm okay," I mutter, before looking back down at the map. Hoping that he'll leave me alone, I focus on trying to get a better idea of which way I've walked since I left the tube station; after a few seconds, however, I start to feel as if I'm still being watched, and although I don't want to look back over at the guy, I finally break my resolve and glance in his direction.

  "You're looking for East Street, right?" he continues, taking a puff on his cigarette before hurrying over to join me in the doorway. Grabbing the map, he tilts it ninety degrees. "I heard you asking that woman a minute ago," he continues. "You're close, but no cigar. Not yet, anyway. See here?" With his little finger, he traces one of the longer streets on the map. "You're right here," he adds, tapping a spot near the top. "You're standing right by that little smudge."

  "Are you sure?" I ask, realizing that if he's right, I must have been walking in the wrong direction for a couple of miles. I was so sure that I'd managed to get my bearings, and now I realize that I couldn't have been more off-course if I'd tried. Every step since the tube station has basically been a complete waste of time.

  "I've lived here all my life," he continues with a grin. "East Street's down that way, although it depends which end you want, 'cause if you look here, it divides at the roundabout, yeah? That's why people get confused. To be honest, it's a bit of a bugger."

  "Huh," I reply. "Okay, I think I get it now. Thanks."

  "It's a cold night to be out," he replies.

  "I'm okay," I tell him, feeling as if I should at least be polite since he helped me. "I'm just trying to find my sister's place."

  "Alright," he replies, with a deep sniff. "As long as you've got somewhere to stay, 'cause trust me, you don't wanna be caught out without a roof over your head, if you know what I mean." He takes another puff on his cigarette, and his eyes still seem to be fixed on me with a little more intensity that I'd like. "How old are you?" he asks suddenly.

  "Old enough," I reply. "I really should be -"

  "You're not a runaway, are you?" he continues, ignoring my attempt to politely slip out of the conversation. "I see 'em sometimes. Kids, wandering the streets, looking totally lost like they don't know where to go." He stares at me for a moment. "It's not a good time to be out and about on your own. I mean, it's never a good time, but right now it's a very bad idea, if you catch my drift. You need to stay safe. It's
an amber alert on the mean streets, if you get where I'm coming from."

  "I'll be fine," I tell him, before turning and starting to hurry away through the rain. As I get to the edge of the pavement, however, I realize that he's followed me; I tell myself that it's just a coincidence, and that he just happened to be going the same way, but as I cross the road I feel him tapping my arm, and when I get to the other side I turn to him. "I'm okay," I say firmly. "Please, just leave me alone."

  "Just take this, then," he replies; reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small business-card, which he hands to me. "I'll leave you alone now, love, but take this, just in case you need it. I'm completely above board and I just wanna help if you need anything." He pauses. "I know what it's like to be alone in the city," he adds, "and I figure if I can help just one person, then I'm kinda giving back for all the people who helped me a few years ago. Know what I mean?"

  "I'll keep it in mind," I tell him, pocketing the card before turning and walking away. This time, I speed up in an attempt to get away from him, and eventually I glance over my shoulder and see that he's stopped following me. With a sense of relief, I carry on along the pavement, ducking through the crowd as I make my way toward East Street. I'm starting to realize that there are parts of London that are more dangerous than I'd expected, but I figure I should be okay now; all I have to do is find Rachel's flat, and then we can look after each other.

  We're sisters. We're supposed to stick together.

  Chapter Six

  Rachel

  "I'm so glad you could make it," Alexander says as he walks across the main room of the penthouse suite and opens the drinks cabinet to reveal a dazzling array of bottles and glasses. "Can I offer you anything? Wine? Gin? A brandy, perhaps?"

  "No," I say, trying not to sound nervous. "Thanks, but... I'm good."

  "You don't drink while you're working?" he replies, closing the cabinet again.

  "I don't really drink at all," I tell him. "Not anymore."

  He raises an eyebrow.

  "That wasn't supposed to sound mysterious," I continue, momentarily flustered. "I just decided to more or less quit a few months ago. I spent most of my -" I pause as I realize that I'm on the verge of letting things get a little too personal. My policy has always been to keep a distance from the clients, and Alexander Medion is the last person in the world I need to open up to. "As you say," I continue, "I'm working, so it wouldn't be appropriate for me to drink. I need to keep a clear head so that I can focus on your needs."

  "Huh," he mutters, eying me with a curious stare. "That's probably a wise choice. So many people try to self-medicate with alcohol, and it never works. Frankly, I think it's a rather desperate form of self-deception. I only drink socially, and even then, I moderate my input. The bottles I keep up here are mostly for my visitors."

  "I'm sure you're a very good host," I reply awkwardly.

  "I do my best." He pauses, still watching me as if he's trying to make up his mind about something. "In my line of work," he continues, "it's important to make an effort to impress one's visitors. I deal with a lot of very powerful, very rich men, and most of them have extremely fragile egos. They're like children, really; treat them well, and they'll usually give me exactly what I want, but in order for that process to work I have to remain entirely sober and ensure that I attend to their needs." He pauses. "I'm sure you know what it's like to focus on someone else's needs, Rachel. In that respect, we're quite similar."

  I smile politely. The truth is, I hate this kind of small-talk. We both know why I'm here, and I wish clients could just be honest about what they want. Then again, I guess the build-up is part of the excitement for them, which means that a significant part of my job involves acting, playing the part they need me to play in order to make them feel special.

  "So what kind of massage do you want today?" I ask, making my way to the sofa and setting my bag down. "It was shiatsu last time, wasn't it?"

  "Well-remembered," he replies with a faint smile. "I'm glad I made an impression. This time, however, I think I'll need special attention paid to my shoulders. I think there's a bit of a knot in there, and I'd rather get it sorted now, before it gets worse. I'm afraid I've got quite a lot of money invested in this new dam project for the river. As you can imagine, it's giving me a few sleepless nights at the moment." He reaches up to his collar and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "Please," he continues, "join me in the bedroom when you're ready."

  I watch as he makes his way through, and then I take a deep breath and try to relax. This kind of false cordiality is precisely why I never usually visit clients in their homes, and as I glance at the door to the balcony, I can't help but shiver at the sight of the black and orange night sky; I don't like being out late, especially when I know I won't be able to get home any time soon. Still, Alexander is Alexander, and as Carmella has reminded me so often, he's by far our best client, and for some crazy reason he seems to have taken a particular liking to my services. He never hires any of the other girls these days, and the word on the street is that he doesn't use any other massage parlors. For at least the past year and a half, I've been the only girl he hires in the whole of London.

  Lucky me.

  Removing my jacket, I pause to check myself in the mirror by the door. For my age, thirty-four, I don't think I look too bad at all. Sure, there are younger girls working in the business, but some people like someone a little older, someone with more experience, and I think I can still just about cut it. I've learned over the years to always be very honest with myself about how I look, and I'm fairly sure that I've got a few more years in me yet before I have to start rethinking my career choices. Still, I'm closer to the end of this lifestyle than the beginning and for this reason, among countless others, I can't afford to turn away high-paying, high-tipping clients like Alexander Medion.

  Or to keep them waiting.

  Grabbing my bag, I head through to the bedroom, where Alexander has already stripped down and is wearing nothing more than a small beige towel around his waist. As ever, I'm impressed by his almost theatrical physicality: the man certainly takes care of his body, with rippling muscles and a toned chest giving the impression of great power. So many of the men who come to get a massage are small and flabby, so it's certainly a pleasant change to work on a man who really looks after himself and whose body is at its peak. When Alexander hires me, I feel like a mechanic who spends all day working on old bangers before being asked to tune up a classic car.

  I smile politely before opening my bag and starting to take out the various bottles of oils that I'll be using. Alexander watches for a moment, before turning and getting onto the bed. I feel a shiver of anticipation pass through my body as I finish arranging my equipment; the truth is, with Alexander, it's never entirely clear how far he's going to want things to go. Sometimes, he really does just want a massage, whereas on other occasions he likes to have a little happy ending. Hell, some nights, he likes things to go even further, which is acceptable to me so long as he remembers that the price increases accordingly.

  Plus, there are certain rules.

  "You seem tense," he says after a moment, lying on his front with the towel covering his buttocks.

  "Me?" I reply, grabbing the first bottle and pouring some oil onto my hands. "I'm absolutely fine, Alexander, thank you for asking." I walk over to him and climb onto the bed, before arranging myself next to his waist and then passing a leg over him until I'm straddling his body, my weight resting on his butt. "It's you we're here to take care of, though," I add, reaching down and starting to spread the oil across his hot, toned back. "As always, you must tell me if you want anything done differently, but other than that, I hope you'll be able to relax."

  "I'm sure I will," he replies calmly. "I feel as if I'm in very safe hands. I asked for you specifically, you know."

  "I do."

  "Carmella tried to offer me the services of one of your colleagues, but I was very insistent. I told her that if you weren't avail
able tonight, I'd prefer to wait until you can fit me in."

  I smile as I continue to massage the oil into his skin, making sure to cover the whole of his back as well as his shoulders. I can already feel the tension in his muscles, and as I start to gently knead his tightness, I can tell that it's going to take quite some time to get the knots out. This is always my favorite part of any appointment: the moment at the beginning when it truly feels like just a massage, before any of the other bullshit starts getting brought into the mix. As I run my hands down the sides of Alexander's torso and start gently massaging his waist, however, I'm forced to remind myself that this is highly unlikely to be just a massage. He's going to want more.

  Sometimes, though, I feel as if I've barely got anything left to give.

  Chapter Seven

  Katie

  "Who?"

  "Rachel," I say, shivering as I stand on the pavement and wait to be allowed inside. "Rachel Banks. She's my sister. She lives here."

  "Never heard of her," the guy says. "You sure you've got the right address?"

  Trying not to panic, I haul my backpack off my shoulders and open the top, before pulling out my set of laminated notes. I fumble through them until I find a print-out of the email Rachel sent me just before Christmas, when I asked for her address so I could send her something. Wiping rain away, I take a look at the address, before showing it to the guy.

  "Weird," he mutters. "I haven't been here long, though. Hang on, I'll get Gavin."

  I open my mouth to ask if I might be allowed to step inside out of the rain for a moment, but the guy has already hurried up the stairs. Holding the laminated print-out between my teeth, I start rubbing my arms in an attempt to warm up a little, although after a moment I notice that some men standing outside the local takeaway are laughing at me. I immediately stop what I'm doing and force myself to stand completely still, even though I'm freezing cold and the rain is continuing to drive down.