by Robert White
The well lit environment of the coffee shop revealed the true extent of the young girl's ravaged features.
Her nails were bitten down to the quick. Tiny splashes of pink varnish remained but couldn't hide the damage.
Her cheeks were more pock-marked than I'd estimated in the dim light of Linen Hall Street, but it was the red raw skin around her nose and the damage to her teeth, that gave the game away. She wasn't slim, she was pitifully thin and when she removed her wet jacket she revealed muscle wastage on her upper arms consistent with an elderly woman. He breasts were non-existent and her collarbones protruded grotesquely.
I'd seen all this many times when I was a young nurse working casualty in Leeds. Crack cocaine was an evil drug. It hooks the user almost immediately. Siobhan was an addict.
I was so busy thinking about how bad Siobhan looked, that I hadn't considered how good I looked to her.
"Who are you?" she asked quizzically. "You ain't no fuckin' street whore, that's for sure."
My open comms were picking up the conversation. The boys were listening in and Rick immediately started to chatter in my ear, insisting I stick to my cover. I didn't need the reminder. I was there for a reason. I started my tale.
"You're right, honey. I don't usually do the pavement trade. I had a couple of flats in Liverpool and six good girls working for me. It was a nice little earner; regular clientele too; that was until I had a little trouble with the local coppers.
"I was looking at a twelve month stretch for living off immoral earnings. They froze my bank accounts, took my passport, so I did one over here. I've got a couple of hundred quid to my name. I need to earn and get back on my feet. It's what I know, love. Just like you."
Siobhan looked doubtful.
"So where'd you get all that Kung Fu shite from that you used on fat Barry?"
I smiled at the girl.
"That wasn't Kung Fu, darlin'. I bought that stick off the internet. They even sell a video with it to show you those moves. You know the score when it comes to punters. Most are quiet as mice, but some are real bastards. I needed to protect my girls; send out the message."
Siobhan seemed to accept my explanation. She leaned forward, a sudden conspirator. "Well, you sure sent a message to Barry. He'll be really pissed though; be lookin' for you. He'll mess you up bad."
"Like I said, let me worry about that fat bastard. My main problem is earning some cash and quick. All the girls here are young like you. The punters all seem to want the young meat."
I took a sip of my drink and commenced my pitch; my real reason for offering the sympathetic ear.
"I mean, take tonight, just before you showed up. I see this big flash motor coming up the road, a Rolls-Royce or Bentley or something; older guy inside, grey hair; so I think, give this a go, must be a good tip in this guy; I virtually get my tits out as he gets close; he takes a quick look and drives on; picks up a blonde up the road no more than a kid."
Siobhan took her spoon and scooped foam from her coffee into her mouth. She nodded. "Yeah, I've had him. He's a regular on the run."
My heart did a little dance. I had a feeling he would have picked Siobhan; seventeen, maybe eighteen, tiny frame, no breasts; she could pass for a schoolgirl if it wasn't for the damage the drugs had caused to her features.
She continued her story as if selling herself was the most natural thing in the world.
"He likes 'em young alright; only ever a blowjob though, never a fuck, likes to be a bit rough, grabs your hair and pushes you down on his cock, almost fuckin' chokes you with it, talks dirty all the time and always cums in your mouth, no rubbers for him, he's a bareback rider."
I did my best not to show any shock; after all I was supposed to be on the game myself, but it was heart-breaking to see this young girl in such a state. Where were her parents? What could have brought her down so low that she could describe sex acts with total strangers the way we might talk about the weather?
"I bet he's a good tipper though, he must have a few quid with a car like that."
Siobhan shrugged. "He always gives me a bit extra, he gave me chocolate once."
I drained the remainder of my cappuccino.
"Well, he isn't interested in me. I can't shave twenty years off my age."
Siobhan stood. "I need the loo. If you want him that bad, you could try wearing boots; he has a thing for thigh boots, always asks me to wear them but I've never had the cash to buy 'em."
When the girl returned from the toilet, she was unsteady on her feet. Siobhan had obviously indulged in her habit.
"Thanks for the drink," she said. "What's your name?"
"Lauren."
"Well nice to meet you, Lauren." Then as an afterthought; "if you do get to pull the rich guy, make sure you have mouthwash; his cock stinks."
With that little gem of information, she was gone, teetering out into the night and her next customer.
It was 2123hrs on the 9th September 2006 when Patrick Ewan O'Donnell stopped his car in front of me. The weather had turned dry and mild and I stood on the kerb edge dressed in my whore outfit complete with PVC thigh-length boots,
He rolled down the passenger window and took a good look. He wore a white shirt, open at the collar and I could see the covert body armour beneath. He was a squat man with powerful shoulders and arms. His grey hair was parted to one side and he was clean shaven. His steel grey eyes disconcerted me at once.
I took a breath.
"You looking for business?" I said, sticking to the script I now knew by heart.
O'Donnell nodded. "I am so."
"Well it's twenty pounds for a blowjob, forty for full sex."
My heart was pounding waiting for the response. What if he drove off now?
He didn't.
"Get in," he said.
I slid myself into the leather seat beside him and he immediately rested his left hand on the top of my boots. I could feel my body start to shake; the involuntary reaction to a sharp increase in adrenalin. It was taken as nerves by O'Donnell the experienced punter.
"Don't be scared, love," he said; soulless eyes betraying the meaning of his words.
He rubbed his hand upward from the boots and onto my bare thigh.
"Nice," he said. "You'll be leaving those on."
I gave him a controlled smile. I was getting myself together; the shaking had stopped and my heart rate had slowed to a hammer pace.
The plan was as simple as possible, using the simplest weapon possible; the more complicated the plan, the more to go wrong. I heard Rick's calm voice in my head.
Remember this guy is not a sloppy politician; remember what he really is; remember he's a terrorist; get him relaxed, take his cash; put the money inside your bag right-handed; grab the Smith & Wesson; no need to take it out; push it and the bag under his chin and double tap. Be quick, one movement; don't give him time to grab you. No talk, no messing.
O'Donnell pushed a button on the dash and my window closed. More worrying, I heard the central locking engage as he moved the car slowly away.
He glanced over as he drove. I found it almost impossible to meet his eyes. They seemed full of suspicion. I even convinced myself for a second, that he knew, actually knew who I was and why I was sitting next to him.
"I've not seen you before, girl."
I did my best to keep my voice level. I knew I had to control this encounter, just like any other street girl would do.
"I just got into town," I said flatly, then added, "so what's it to be, handsome, a BJ or a fuck?"
O'Donnell's head nearly spun off his neck as he shot me the look.
"You are a feisty one after all, eh?"
He smiled for a second, but it was quickly overshadowed by a lingering leer.
"I want sucking off, girl and I'm going to shoot my load all over those boots."
At that very second I needed a bath, but I flicked my hair as suggestively as I could manage and rubbed the back of his neck with my left hand.
; "Hmm, that sounds horny, where we going to park, babe?"
"Just a couple of minutes away; a nice quite spot, don't worry, I use it all the time."
I heard Des in my left ear.
"I'll bet he fuckin' does. Watch this fucker, hen."
We turned into a service yard behind a shopping centre and O'Donnell pulled the car to a halt in a dark corner.
I heard a reassuring double click of a pretzel telling me Rick was close by.
My bag was on my lap, exactly where it was supposed to be.
O'Donnell turned, and with the speed of a man of much younger years, grabbed it and tossed it in the back seat.
"You won't be needing that for a minute or two now."
I thought I was going to be sick. How fucking stupid were we? Lots of girls would carry weapons of various sorts in their bags. O'Donnell was still as streetwise as an alley cat. He wasn't going to get stabbed with a hypodermic whilst enjoying his oral delights, was he?
My mind was working at the double. I had to stay on it and let the boys know my weapon was out of reach. "Hey, handsome! Why'd you throw my bag in the back seat? I need to put my cash in that, love. This is an up-front transaction. I want my twenty quid first, babe."
O'Donnell took out his wallet, pulled a fifty pound note, folded it and pushed it roughly down my bra.
"There's your money, girl; good money, big tip for you. That's 'cause I want to take my time, see."
He grabbed my top and yanked it downward, revealing both my breasts; my fifty pound note fell onto my lap. I snatched it as my character would as he licked his lips and pawed at my boobs.
"You are a good looking woman for a whore, real good looking."
His next sentence stopped my heart.
"But you're not a whore are you, my dear."
I heard Rick in my ear.
"I'm ten seconds away if you need me."
I don't know how I did it, but I heard myself saying, "Then what am I, honey?"
O'Donnell shook his head and wagged a knowing finger.
"You're one of these married women who do it for kicks, aren't ye?"
My world started to breathe slightly and I heard Rick's command 'standby'. I regained my modesty and pulled my top back over my boobs.
"What if I am? Do you care who sucks that dick of yours?"
O'Donnell was sold. I could see it. The leer had returned. He reclined his seat, the soft whirr of the electric motor like thunder in my ears.
Then he undid his belt and trousers and pulled them below his knees revealing his erection. He looked down at it proudly.
"Get down on that, girl."
I needed another reason to get the bag.
"I'll just get a rubber out of me bag."
Before I could reach behind the seat, he grabbed me hard by the hair.
His temper flared. He was close to psychotic. Even in his fifties O'Donnell was a powerful bull of a man and I wished I'd kept faith with my wig as I felt some hairs tear from my head.
"I don't do fuckin' condoms, love. I've paid you for bareback and that's what I'm havin'."
He was forcing my head down toward his crotch.
I pleaded; "I have to do it with a condom, babe! You were right! I'm married, I do this for kicks; my husband doesn't know; if I catch something, he'll get it too!"
O'Donnell released the pressure slightly and looked into my face. He was very close, his nose almost touching mine; I could feel his warm breath on my cheek. I was terrified of him. His gaze was so intense it seemed to block out everything else around it.
"I don't give a fuck what you want, girlie. Now get down on me now and make it good too."
I had two choices and I didn't like either of them.
I could go ahead and perform oral sex on this disgusting excuse for a man; allow him to defile me further by ejaculating on my legs and when it was over I could casually get my bag and blow his brains out; or I could fight him for the bag and risk everything.
I had seconds to decide.
O'Donnell may have been one of the most feared men in all Ireland, but he was a fool.
The second I took his penis in my right hand he let go of me, lay back and closed his eyes.
Could I do this?
My bag rested maybe three feet away and miraculously it had fallen with the opening toward me. The zip was closed.
I knew I only had a few seconds before O'Donnell got impatient with his hand-job. I leaned toward him and planted my mouth on his, kissing him deeply.
With my left hand I fumbled blindly for the bag and incredibly I had it open in seconds. His tongue pushed into the roof of my mouth and he moaned as I worked him.
I pressed my left hand deep into the bag until I felt the pistol nestled in the centre pocket. I gripped it, curling my finger around the cold trigger.
"No need to take it out; one swift movement; don't give him time to grab you."
I pulled my mouth from his and looked into his face. He looked vaguely puzzled as I pushed the cheap plastic handbag under his chin.
Rick said no talk, but I couldn't resist.
"This is for Cathy," I said.
The first shot was so loud that it completely deafened me. I hardly noticed the second.
Both rounds entered his head from under his jaw and lodged in his brain. He was dead with the first bullet. Blood poured from his nose like an open tap. Pints of it ran over the bag and my wrist as his heart continued to pump after his brain was actually dead. His legs twitched and his bowels released.
I stared at his bulging eyes and gaping mouth where seconds earlier, my lips had been.
I felt suddenly sick.
The shadow at the window stopped any thought of vomiting. It was Rick.
He beckoned me to switch off the car ignition. I was shaking uncontrollably and struggled finding the electronic key.
Suddenly the door was open and Rick took charge. He stood me on a plastic sheet and ordered me to strip. Mechanically I removed all my clothing and stood naked next to the Bentley, shivering and disorientated.
Rick handed me wet wipes to clean the blood from my wrist and some splatters to my face. It seemed to take an age to wipe it off and I didn't think I would ever be clean again.
"There are clothes on the back seat," he said, pointing at our hire car.
Rick held an incendiary grenade in his right hand and was about to torch the Bentley together with my whore clothes, the wet wipes and the weapon.
He suddenly stopped, leaned into the car and examined O'Donnell. He cocked his head to the left to get a better look at the grotesque mess that was his face. I could only dream of what was going through his head after ten years of searching.
"You okay?" I asked.
He straightened, nodded and pulled the pin on the grenade.
"Just a minute," I said. "Get me that mouthwash out of my bag, will you."
Rick gave me a look that said, 'let's fuck off now', passed me the bottle and I took a big gulp before spitting it out on the floor.
Rick rolled his eyes.
"Are you getting dressed now?"
"I had to kiss him, you know."
"I know."
I rinsed again before throwing the empty bottle into the Bentley.
I grimaced. "Should have sucked his cock instead."
Rick Fuller's Story:
I quite like the Emirates. It has its faults and downsides, but in the main I do like it. I figured it was a good place to debrief and have some R and R.
The Sheraton in Abu Dhabi is one of the older hotels in the city. It looks like a strange sandcastle, every building in the city seems taller than the eccentric structure, but it has a good beach, a top gym, six great restaurants, wonderful service, even a pub for Des.
In September the weather is predictably hot and dry, but without the murderous humidity of the summer months and I looked forward to the shopping in nearby Dubai.
The roads are fabulous and as Cartwright and his team had kindly managed to find some, if
not all of my money stolen by Goldsmith and Co; and our fee for O'Donnell had already been processed, I was itching to rent some nice wheels.
After taking a cab from the airport I'd been shown to my executive suite, which would be my home for the next few weeks, by my personal bellboy, a very helpful Filipino guy by the name of George.
I immediately found the gym. I should have slept, but there was an itch that needed scratching. Maybe because of the way the job had gone down in Belfast or maybe it was just nervous energy, I don't know, but I beasted myself for over an hour. All the TV's in the gym replayed news footage of the Twin Towers from five years earlier. I had noticed a small anti-American demonstration on the Corniche as I arrived. I always have a wry smile for the Emirati men who take part in these events, wearing Nike baseball caps and drinking Coke.
The irony is not just lost; it vanished with the oil money.
The 'breaking news' covered an incinerated corpse found inside a burnt out Bentley Continental in Belfast, believed to be a senior politician.
By the time I'd finished my weights, Sky had named O'Donnell as the victim and 9/11 'remembered' had dropped to second spot. We were headline news.
La Mammas is a good Italian. I'd eaten there many times when I'd been out to an arms fair in the city in 2004. The tableware and presentation is excellent and the portions are large enough to satisfy a dour Scot.
At exactly one p.m. the three of us sat around our table, rubbing roasted garlic bulbs onto warm Ciabatta bread washed down with a very pleasant Giacomo Conterno Barolo Monfortino. I love a classic Barolo-style wine; and the Monfortino is one of the oldest, aged in casks for many years and made with native Italian Nebbiolo grapes. It has a deep, mineral flavour mixed with berry and spice; at eight hundred Dirham a bottle, not cheap.
It is best served with white truffle ravioli or grilled lamb, but I ordered Cacio e Pepe; a pasta dish with Pecorino Romano sheep cheese and black pepper. Lauren plumped for boneless oxtail with celeriac puree; Des ordered a pizza and to my horror demanded chips with it.
We ate in relative silence. Des rarely spoke when eating as he considered it a distraction from the process of devouring everything on his plate as quickly as possible. I'd complained about his table manners many times but he always explained that if he didn't eat quickly the 'big lads' would get it; a reference to his childhood days, when school dinners were sometimes the only hot meal of the day for poor Glaswegian kids, and the bigger you were, the more you got to eat.
