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‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You know, the usual sort of thing. His birthday is in two weeks.’ I lean forward, keeping my voice low.
Gail huffs out and digs around in the space beneath the desk. I hear the chink of bottles hidden beneath as she bumps them, pulling out a red folder and slapping it on the counter in front of me. There was always a stash of booze stowed under there to keep us going when there was a lull, to get us in the mood, to make us not care.
It seems impossible that this place has remained the same all this time, while I’ve become a completely different person. I take everything in – the furniture, the carpet, the fish tank, the couple of cheap ceramic ornaments on the windowsill – it’s all familiar. From a life I don’t recognise any more.
‘Have a look, then,’ she says. ‘New ones are marked with a gold sticker. It’s payment up front.’
Gail disappears into the back room for a moment, leaving me to peruse the folder. I can hardly bring myself to open it. Then Belle’s scarf catches my eye again so, after giving a quick glance at the man, who’s still absorbed in his phone, I slide it over and stuff it in my bag. I don’t want anything of my daughter left here.
As expected, the first few photos are of girls with vacant eyes, posed like dolls. One has a gold star stuck on the top right corner of the plastic sleeve protecting it and the name ‘Rosy’ handwritten in black Sharpie marker below. Next is Tilly, then Candy, followed by Serena and Wendy and Coco. Blonde, brunette, redhead…they’re all there. Coco barely looks sixteen and has ‘innocent’ written beneath her name. I swallow it all down, fighting the urge to lash out – to hurl the chairs through the windows, smash the fish tank, rip out the pages of this folder and set light to them. I’m boiling with anger that my girl is caught up in this world – not dragged off the street, like me, but prised from a loving family home. And it’s all because of me.
The next page takes my breath away.Belle. A gold star. ‘Super-sweet angel’ is penned beneath her name. I retch, tracing my finger over her face, trying to ignore the rest of the semi-naked photomontage. The woman comes back to reception.
‘Made your mind up?’
‘This one,’ I say, tapping Belle’s photo. ‘Is she new?’
‘Yup,’ Gail says, glancing over to the door as it opens. A tall blonde girl sashays in, her pink see-through negligee billowing around her. She can barely walk in her six-inch heels. ‘You’re up, Mike,’ she says, beckoning to the man. The girl goes over to him, drawing him up by his hands, little gurgling sounds coming from her throat as she giggles.
‘Is she here now?’ I ask the woman, once the other two have left. ‘This girl Belle?’
Gail nods, causing me to stifle a gasp. ‘Yeah, she’s around.’ Then she frowns. ‘Look, we get clients wanting all sorts here, but you…well, if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look the type…’ Her eyes drag up and down me, her suspicion growing.
I hold up my hands, force a laugh. ‘I know, I know,’ I say, pre-empting her question. ‘I explained everything to Luba earlier. I just wanted some time to think about it. I’m hoping it’ll inject a bit of…passion into our marriage.’ I whisper the last bit.
Gail nods with a blank expression. ‘If you say so.’
‘Luba was going to show me around, perhaps meet a girl, but she got waylaid. Would it be possible to meet Belle now?’
‘Don’t know about that. The boss will be back soon.’
I tense up at the thought of Darren finding me here. Vaughn is somewhere in this building, probably upstairs in the office. Briefly, I imagine him dragging himself up there, the effort it would have taken, his nurse helping. He was never a fit man and always seemed ancient, even back then. ‘I’ll only take a couple of minutes. Please?’
It’s then that my blood turns cold as I hear a voice calling from upstairs. An older man’s voice – gravelly and distorted. Demanding and rude.Vaughn.
The woman rolls her eyes, slamming the folder back under the desk. ‘Hang on while I see what he wants,’ she says, sighing. ‘Wait here a moment.’
A moment, I think, watching her leave. How long is that? Long enough for me to run upstairs, search every room for my daughter, grab her, tell her that she mustn’t make a fuss, that we need to get out?Yes, I tell myself.Yes, it is. But I need a diversion, something to distract the woman.
Think.Think.
I dart behind the desk and crouch down, swiping the folder and other papers out of the way, as well as empty sandwich packets and drained takeaway coffee cups. At the back of the shelf, I see four bottles. Most are nearly empty, but one looks unopened. I grab it, my eyes flashing over the label. Finnish vodka – sixty per cent alcohol.
You can do this, Hannah…you can do this. My eyes mist over with tears as I remember sneaking the occasional bottle to take up to the top floor if we’d run out, how we’d pass the booze around, swigging long glugs, washing our insides out after a long shift. Cleansing ourselves any way we could.
I twist the top off the bottle, then pull Belle’s scarf from my bag, soaking it with a few shots’ worth of vodka. Then I double the long scarf in two and twist the wet cloth into a rope of sorts, stuffing the narrowest end into the neck of the glass to make a wick.
It’s insurance, I tell myself –just a threat if it’s needed. My brain is in panic mode, as if I’m someone else watching myself do things I didn’t realise I knew how to do. A mother’s instinct kicking in.
I stand up and come out from behind the desk, clutching the bottle and scarf against my body with one hand, while reaching with the other into my jeans pocket for the lighter I bought earlier. I open the door and listen out. From the first floor, I hear voices – a man and a woman having a heated discussion. And then I creep out into the hallway and take a deep breath, ready to go up, thanking God that I know every nook and cranny of this building.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
HANNAH – NOW
The stench of alcohol fills my nostrils as I tread quietly but quickly up the creaky staircase. I can’t waste time. Any one of the doors could burst open with Darren or Luba or the other woman, Gail, spotting me. If I’m caught, it’s over.
At the top of the stairs, I creep along the narrow first-floor landing, the knot in my stomach tightening with every step. I feel sick as I pass by Darren and Luba’s quarters, where they would often have arguments well into the early hours – the sound of breaking glass, thumping, screaming that we tried to ignore. I see the familiar dent still in the plaster from Darren’s fist one Sunday morning when he was in a rage about something, with Luba sobbing and begging him to stop as he went around punching things. We girls would peer down the stairwell from the top-floor banisters, fearing he’d come up and take it out on us.
