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I might not have been a genius in school—more out of a lack of ability to focus on the boring subjects we were taught rather than any real lack of intellect—but it doesn’t take much for me to figure out where I might find my father’s debtors. I force myself to go into his sickroom, holding my breath until I finally let it out all in a rush, a little lightheaded.
It’s actually quite clean. The bed is just a mattress now, stripped of the sheets and pillows it was made up with while he was alive. They’ve been binned now, the empty bed looking all the more bare and stark for the fact that it’s surrounded by the detritus of my father’s life, all of it still untouched because I haven’t been able to bear to go through it.
The liquor bottles are long gone, the pills thrown out, all trace of the sickness that ravaged him disappeared. But his books and papers and all the rest are still scattered about, and I dig through them until I find the notes from his debtors, telling him long before he died that he needed to pay up.
He didn’t, of course. And now those chickens have come home to roost.
I take the IOUs, all of them, and retreat back to the other side of the flat. Georgie is in his own room now, sleeping, and I check in on him before leaving the IOUs in my bedroom and going to the bathroom to take a quick shower, conscious as ever of the length of time I’m in there using the hot water.
Tonight, though, I make sure to wash my hair and use what’s left of my good soap, the kind I got from a farmer’s market that’s made with goat’s milk and smells like lavender. I wash my hair with it too after my usual cheap shampoo, just to give it some extra fragrance, and examine myself critically in the mirror as I towel off, going over in my head what I came up with to say when I saw the evidence in my father’s room, the amount that he’d amassed. More than I’d thought at first, for sure.
I’m Noelle Giles. My father was George Giles. I know he’s left a great many debts, and I’m here to pay them. How, you ask? Well, I don’t have money. What do I have?
I’m twenty years old, and I’m a virgin. You can have someone check, if you like. But that’s the only currency I have, and I’m here to use it to pay off those debts, so that my family can be left alone.
I have no idea if it will work. Just the thought makes me shudder—I don’t want to imagine what’s ahead of me—a night, or nights, spent working off my father’s debts by letting the sharks have their way with me. I don’t know how, exactly, I can make sure they stick to their word and write off those debts, once I’ve “paid.” But I’ll figure that all out when I get there. All I can think is that when tomorrow comes, they’ll go after Georgie again, and again, until those debts are paid. And we have no money.
Even if Georgie got whatever after-school jobs are available to a fourteen-year-old boy, it wouldn’t be enough to pay off those debts. Definitely not in the time frame the sharks are bound to want them paid off by—probably not ever, if I take into account the kind of interest they probably charge.
I have one thing of value, and I’m prepared to surrender it in whatever ways I have to if I can fix this. If I can keep my little brother from coming home bruised and bloody—or worse, beaten to death in the street.
Just the thought is enough to make me furious.
It ought to work.I’m pretty enough—a bit on the thin side, my breasts a little smaller than they used to be from the lost weight, but my stomach is flat and my hips still have a slight curve to them. The thinness of my face makes my blue-grey eyes look that much wider, huge like a doll’s and with thick feathery lashes inherited from my father, and my black hair just down to my shoulder blades. I’d cut it all off a couple of years ago when I graduated, into a razor-sharp bob that I thought was stylish at the time, but now I’m glad it’s grown out. The length and slight wave that it has makes me look softer, younger, more innocent—all things that I’m sure will help plead my case when I go to trade on my body to pay the debt.
I fish my nicest dress out of the closet, a blue collared party dress made out of a rich taffeta that matches my eyes. It has a sweetheart neckline that makes my breasts look fuller than they are right now, a fitted waist and a slightly flared skirt that comes down to just above my knees. It’s a relic from a birthday years past, and I’d thought about selling it on consignment a number of times for a little extra money, but I’d held onto it. It’s not designer, just a high street dress, so it wouldn’t have been worth much—not as much as it was worth in nostalgia to me. I’d worn it to the last birthday before my mother died, and she’d helped me pick it out. Now more than ever, I’m glad I hung onto it, even if I know deep down she’d be ashamed of the reason I’m wearing it.
She wouldn’t be ashamed ofme, though, I don’t think. She’d be ashamed of my father, if anything, for putting me in this position. For leaving me and Georgie this desperate.
I leave my hair down, slipping on the patent nude heels I bought to go with the dress, and tap a little blush onto my pale cheeks. A swipe of drugstore mascara and a little rosy lipstick, and I’m ready to go.
My stomach is in knots as I check in on Georgie, who is still sleeping. I leave a note on the table,Gone to speak with debtors, be back soon,and close the door carefully behind me, stepping out into the cold chill of the London evening.
Somewhere in the city, it’s bright with holiday décor, lights strung up and streetlamps wrapped with garlands and bright buttery light glowing in decorated shop windows, but not in our part of the city. The neighborhood where we live is run down and shabby, and I step around dubious puddles and am careful not to look at the men who pass by as I pull my worn black wool coat tighter around me, my old leather gloves not doing much to keep my hands warm.
We haven’t even had a snowfall yet. Even though it would make it harder for Georgie to get to school and me to work, I still would have been glad for it, if only because it would make the streets seem a little prettier, bring a little holiday spirit into our rundown part of town. As it is, my heart aches every time I think of Christmas. It hasn’t been much of a holiday since our mother died, but I tried to do something every year for Georgie—a few decorations, a small tree, a gift underneath it for him and our father.
There won’t be anything this year, though. No tree, no presents, because there’s no money. At this point, the greatest gift I can think of would be for our father’s debtors to leave us alone, so we can try to figure out how to start fresh.
I don’t even know what my life is going to look like now. But I’d like a chance to figure it out.
I look down at the address on the slip of paper.Market Street.I turn down street after street, only to find myself in a nicer neighborhood than I’d imagined. It’s no ritzy part of London, but at least the houses and flats don’t look as if they’re falling in on themselves, and the sidewalks are less cracked. The address leads me to a street with a handful of exotic restaurants—L’Orange, Bistro Italia, The Genie’s Lamp,and a few bars, all the way to a dark building that, when I glance into the windows, looks like a speakeasy. When I step inside, the smell of cigars and alcohol hits me in a warm wave, and I look around, taking in the Art Deco décor and the long mahogany bar. It’s all meant to look luxurious and high-end, but a closer glance reveals that the velvet seats are a little threadbare, the tables scuffed in places, the bartop not quite as shiny as it could be.
The bartender looks at me. It’s a Tuesday night, so it’s a bit dead—there’s a handful of patrons but nothing too busy. He’s shining glasses, and I notice that he looks like he’s in his late twenties and handsome. He doesn’t look like the kind of ruffian that would have beaten my brother up earlier. It makes me wonder if I’m in the right place. “You lost, little lady?” he asks, not unkindly. “You look lost.”
I swallow hard, taking a step up to the bar. Behind him, a row of glass bottles wink and shimmer in the light, with names I’ve never seen before. I’ve never tasted a drop of hard liquor in my life, just the wine I’d be allowed a glass of at holidays—once again, before my mother died. Now, after my father’s descent into alcoholism, I wonder if I ever will.
They all look like the enemy to me, culprits pointing directly to the reason I’m here, the reason I’m about to offer myself up like a lamb to the slaughter just so my brother and I can have a chance at a fresh start.
“I don’t think I’m lost.” I clear my throat, taking a step closer. “I’m Noelle Giles. My father was George Giles—I’m here about his debt.”
The bartender’s eyes narrow. “Youarelost then. I don’t know about any debt. But all the same, I don’t think this is the place for a pretty little thing like you. You should get going.”
It’s tempting. I could turn tail and run. I could go home, tell Georgie I tried. Maybe get our things together and leave town for good. Surely they won’t chase us outside of London. I wouldn’t have to offer up my body to pay off a debt that isn’t even mine, give my virginity to god knows how many men before they’re done with me. We could leave, start over somewhere else. Make new memories, a new life.
With what money?Georgie was right earlier when he said we’d spent our last bit leftover from rent on food. I don’t even have the money for a train ticket out of London for us, let alone lodging or food wherever we end up. And outside of London, it will be harder for me to find a job. Without a permanent address, it’ll be difficult to get Georgie enrolled again. People would come asking questions.
