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Molly dug her fingernails into it and let out a sob.
‘It means you’re safe, silly,’ Hannah said, squeezing onto the stool beside her. She put her arm around Molly, pulling her close. ‘It means he trusts you, won’t let you go. You’ll never be on the streets or go hungry again.’
Molly stared across at her. But what if shewantedto go? There was no way she was staying here forever. What was the point of Hannah having her dream of a family and starting her own business, in that case? Was it all make-believe? Molly had dreams too, and they didn’t involve sticking around here. Problem was, she was barely saving any money. All the takings from the punters were collected by Darren or Luba, ending up in Vaughn’s hands. Her regulars sometimes gave her a few extra quid as a tip, but most of that went on weed, tobacco and vodka.
‘Come on, you,’ Hannah said, getting up. ‘Don’t be glum. It’s Saturday night and the end of the month. Payday soon.’
Molly looked up at her. ‘Payday?’
‘We might get a bit extra, depending. Fifty, a hundred quid if we’re lucky. I’d find somewhere safe for it though, you know, as other girls come and go. Don’t want it going missing, right?’ Hannah spat her gum into the bin and carried on moisturising her legs.
Later, as Molly lay on her bed after the last punter had gone, she stared up at the ceiling, counting.Eighteen, nineteen, twenty…twenty-three, four, five…Each time, there was a different number of stars. They reminded her of her old bedroom – a distant memory now. She wasn’t sure who’d stuck the luminous constellations on the polystyrene tiles above her bed at home, but they’d been some comfort when the arguments had raged downstairs. Fist on bone. Bone on wall.
She closed her eyes, forcing sleep to come. It had been a busy night and she was exhausted, but she was too overwrought to succumb to rest. Visions of the evening’s punters flooded her mind – the one whose back was covered in black hair, matted and sticky from sweat. Another who’d made strange noises. The ones who’d called her names that weren’t hers –darlingandbabyandkitten. Sometimes they said they loved her, that she was their little angel, their princess, their special girl.
She didn’t think she was any of those things. She tried to block it all out.
One man who visited each week cried when she touched him. Hot, wet tears dripping onto her skin. Mostly he just wanted a cuddle, said his wife didn’t understand. He told her that she was different, that shegothim.
Molly didn’t think she did.
Thirty-seven, thirty-eight…or was it thirty-six…?Her eyes jumped about, forcing her to start counting again. Sweaty man had gone on for ages, wearing her out and causing Luba to thump on the door. She was strict like that, took no nonsense from the punters. And she’d shown Molly where the buzzer was if there was any bother and she needed help. She’d not had to press it yet though.
As she tried to fall asleep, she imagined she was back home, her mother sitting downstairs with a bottle and a fag, oblivious to where Molly was, let alone if she’d eaten or been to school that day. Social services had visited over the years, of course they had. That was down to a teacher at school when she’d been caught nicking someone’s lunch box because she was so hungry. But her mother had a way of becoming something close to normal at just the right time – a woman teetering on the right side of being able to cope when they paid her a visit, rather than ‘the alcoholic cokehead who had completely lost her shit and lived for the next man who would clamber into her bed and make everything OK again for a while’ kind of woman.
Molly reached beneath the covers and scratched the skin on her legs. It was sore and itchy. After her last punter, she’d wanted to scrub herself. As he left, he’d given her a crisp twenty-pound note, for which she thanked him, staring at the floor. She found it too hard to look them in the eye for fear of what she might see. Then, in the shower – a cold one as all the hot water had gone – Molly had squeezed the last out of a bottle of bleach. She did this every night, and her skin was blistered and raw in places. She’d carefully washed over the new tattoo, hating every line of it. She’d been branded like a cow – a mark of ownership.One of Vaughn’s girls.
Now, lying in her bunk, a couple of tears rolled out of her eyes onto the thin pillow. She didn’t want to be here, but she had nowhere else to go. She didn’t suppose that her mother had even bothered looking for her when she eventually noticed that she’d gone. Sure, she’d run away before, but the freezing nights and lack of food had always sent her limping home. This time had been different though. A switch inside her had flicked. There was no going back now.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HANNAH – NOW
I cruise through the housing estate in second gear, peering left and right, searching for number forty-eight. I’m not even convinced I’m on the right street – most of the signs have either been graffitied over or torn down – and my satnav has been sending me round in circles for the last ten minutes. To make matters worse, the house and flat numbers don’t seem to follow any order, jumping all over the place.
It could be anywhere in the UK, Limehouse Fields. For those not in the know, it might even sound exotic – perhaps an executive development of big new builds, or the name of a country house down a long drive, or a street surrounded by lime trees and green open space. But, as the locals know, Limehouse is none of these things – rather it’s a sprawling nineteen-seventies sink estate mainly made up of housing association flats and a few private rentals with landlords who don’t give a toss about their tenants or properties, judging by the evident state of disrepair as I drive down the same road for about the third time.
‘Whereareyou, Leanne?’ I mutter, swerving to avoid a cluster of full wheelie bins in the road. One has been tipped over, its contents spewed onto the tarmac. Just ahead, there’s a group of teenagers walking towards me and I’m about to pull over to ask them for directions but think better of it when I get a closer look. Reminiscent of my own angry youth, they reek of trouble even at this distance – and my fears are confirmed when a couple of lads step in front of my car, bringing me to a forced stop, with the others in the group flanking me on either side.
The tallest of the boys pats my bonnet. ‘Nice car, missus,’ I hear him say through the glass. A cigarette dangles between his bony fingers and he’s wearing a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. The others peer in my windows either side just as I manage to shove my phone in my bag and knock it into the passenger footwell, hoping they don’t spot it.
I dare to put the window down an inch. The last thing I want is for them to sense my fear.
‘Any idea where forty-eight Brownside is, lads?’
They stare at me – pinched faces shrouded by grey hoodies, suspicious eyes sizing me up.
‘That’s Leanne Stokes, ain’t it?’ a girl says when the boys remain silent. One of them kicks my tyre.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Do you know her house?’
The girl points to a block of flats further down the street. ‘Top floor,’ she says. ‘Wouldn’t leave this for too long though.’ She taps on my roof, laughing.
I stare at her, wondering if they’re going to follow me and either strip my car or nick it while I fetch Leanne. It’s a risk I’ll have to take. I’m already cutting it fine for the meeting at C-Tech.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and flick my window up, inching forward so the boys in front are forced to step aside as I drive off.
Leaving my car in the parking area behind the block of flats, I find the concrete stairwell and venture up into Brownside. It’s dark and the graffiti-walled entrance smells of piss and fags. When I reach the third floor, I press myself against the wall to allow a couple of men down, each of them in black anoraks and dirty sweatpants. As they pass, they leave a strong smell of weed in their wake.
