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I turn the corner at the end of the passage, more ghosts haunting me as I glance down the dark corridor to where the voices are coming from – the office where the money was kept.And probably still is, I think, swallowing drily, remembering the struggle I had with the bag containing the stolen cash as I fled the building, Belle’s head lolling against me, petrified a hand would reach out and grab me, haul us back as I ran out of the door and down the alley.
I shudder at the memories I’ve tried to suppress – but here they all are in full technicolour as I creep forward.
I freeze.
There’s a shout. It came from the office, only fifteen feet from where I’m standing.Vaughn. It sounds as if he and the woman from downstairs are arguing – something about Darren and why he isn’t here…then something else about money. Angry, raised voices. Vaughn lets out a hacking, chesty cough that seems to go on forever. Briefly, I touch my thigh, making a pact with myself that I’ll have the tattoo lasered off as soon as possible. To hell with the scarring. It can’t be worse than the scars inside me.
I continue up the next flight of stairs, relieved to have got past the office without being caught. I’m met with a chorus of giggles and the sound of beds creaking. Little red hearts hang on the door handles of three of the rooms, indicating they’re in use. Back then, we used red ribbons. I pause, staring at one of the doors, unable to take my eyes off it as I see my hand reaching out for the handle. My skin is smooth, pale and young, and when I look down at myself, I’m wearing stockings and suspenders, a black and scarlet basque laced up so tight I can barely breathe. Slowly, I glance back over my shoulder, my heavy fringe partly covering my eyes as I look up at my punter through lashes as long as spider’s legs.
‘Come on then, honey,’ I say. ‘You want me to make you feel good…?’ I’m a robot, programmed to ignore the dread, the detachment of my senses as another night begins.
I hear the throaty growl of the punter as I lead him inside, smelling the cheap air freshener I’d sprayed around the room after the last john had left, how I’d whipped off the used sheets, hastily tucking in a fresh set, knowing I’d be doing the same in an hour. Then again, then again, then again…
Another shout from the office below, snapping me back to the present. I don’t have long. No time to get caught up in the past.
With my hand still on the doorknob, I ease it open, peeking inside. There’s a girl on her knees, the shocked and panicked face of a fat, grey-haired man as he sees me. I close the door, screwing up my eyes briefly. Not Belle. I open the next door, less carefully this time, not caring if I’m spotted by whoever’s inside. I need to find my daughter – but she’s not in this room either.
‘What the fuck—!’ the girl yells as she’s about to unhook her bra.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say, praying she’ll ignore me, not cause a scene. I close the door, leaning back against the wall for a moment, resisting the slippage of my mind to the past as I burst into the next room. This time they’re too occupied to notice me but again, it’s not Belle.
More noises coming from the floor below. This time a door banging. Someone marching down the stairs. I charge up to the next floor, my bag bumping against my shoulder, the vodka sloshing as I clutch it against my body. The rooms up here mirror the ones below and I look inside all of them, but the first three are empty. I tread carefully along the landing to the final room on this floor, the knot in my stomach about to burst. It’s the room I used often…the room where…
I cover my face, stifling a whimper.
The room where Belle was born.
And the room whereshedied. My dear friend.
The room where a life ended, where a life began. Where lives collided.
I hear voices behind the door.
As I turn the handle, I remember her lifeless body lying on the floorboards, her head bent sideways where she’d fallen, where I’d let her drop down. I’d failed her. I’d killed her. Even now, it’s a jumble in my head – a frantic theatre of terror, screaming, panic; none of it has ever made sense, how it happened. How I could haveletit happen. But I did.
I ease the door open.
At first, I see a girl sitting on the bed, her head hanging down, her long dark hair masking her face. There’s a man standing behind her, his hands on her bare shoulders. The girl is dressed in a short, flimsy outfit made of sheer white lace. She’s wearing black high heels, and her long legs are crossed at the knees, her hands wrapped coyly around her body.
She’s weeping quietly.
The man is much older, naked apart from his underpants, his belly sagging over the waistband, tattoo sleeves blackening both his arms. He has an unruly beard on his chin and straggly, unkempt hair.
Belle.
‘Get off her!’ I shriek, just as I hear another commotion in the hallway several floors below – a man’s voice echoing up the stairwell.
Darren.
‘Belle, it’s me. Come now!’ I rush up to her, sweeping the hair off her face. At first I think I’m mistaken, that I’ve got the wrong girl and it’s not my daughter because I barely recognise her face – caked in thick foundation, her cheeks hollow from blusher, her lips full and pouting behind ruby lipstick. Her dark, made-up eyes slowly stare up at me and I see that she has mascara streaks on her cheeks.
I grab her shoulders, swiping the man’s hands away and shaking her gently.
‘Belle, get up. Now! Come with me, hurry.’ I grab her hands, but her arms are limp and heavy and there’s a vacant look in her eyes that tells me she’s taken something. ‘Fuck off and get out,’ I yell at the punter, who’s already hopping into his jeans.
‘We…we were just talking…’ the man whimpers, zipping himself up.
I drop to my knees and pull off the ridiculous heels Belle is wearing, grabbing the robe that’s lying on the bed and wrapping it around her shoulders. I cup her face in my hands.
