Chapter 8
One month later. The Prince’s Estate,
East London, UK
She stepped through the doorway and walked to the middle of the dimly lit room. He didn’t notice her or the cold, drafty air she brought with her…yesterday Monte Carlo, today London’s East End…God I love my job, never a dull moment.
She glanced around, her eyes adjusting to the light. A grubby brown sofa sat cowered against a wall; torn, stained, hidden beneath soiled clothes and crumpled greying bed linen.
With its rusty chain hanging dejected to the floor, an upturned tandem bicycle leaned against a bookshelf. Bulging black garbage bags huddled together in a corner, supporting each other’s weight. Takeaway cartons, beer cans, and old newspapers scattered the floor, camouflaging the filthy, thread-bare carpet. Well, he’s definitely not house-proud.
A child’s distant cry caught her attention. She spun her head towards an open window and its partially drawn burgundy red curtains stifling the bright sunny day and the chatter of children at play. A small gap in the heavy material showed the bobbing blonde ponytail of a little girl standing outside the apartment, giggling with her friends. Squeals and shouts danced along the concrete walkway of their make-believe world.
They were four floors up in a damp, crumbling, council block—not an ideal playground—but children possess the ability to create magical realms wherever they are.
She turned to look at him and took a deep breath. An immediate mistake. The stale pungent smell of sweat, semen, cigarettes, and old trainers hit her senses. She covered her mouth in disgust and rasped at air through her black suit jacket’s cuff. Urrgh, for god’s sake, do you ever wash?
Smells always get to her. As with music or old photos, smells conjured up deep hidden memories, whether welcome or not. Tugs to the heart, or in this case, bile to the back of the throat. She swallowed hard, forcing back the threatening retch.
The sooner she got out of there the better. It was time. Grabbing the lapels of her jacket, she gave a sharp tug on her collar. It stood up, framing her long neck, glossy blonde hair, and beautiful face.
Placing hands on her hips, chest out, and legs apart, she stood tall, squaring her athletic body to face him. She gave a discreet ‘I’m here’ cough.
He didn’t look up.
She coughed again, louder.
Nothing.
The little girl outside gave a shrill squeal of laughter, catching the man’s attention. He looked over at the curtains with small beady eyes, listening, biting his lower lip, anxious to see what the children were up to. But a computer screen fought for his attention and won. He remained seated, scrolling through images and text.
She coughed again.
Nothing.
He didn’t notice her; she was used to that by now. They hardly ever did, but it was always best to check since some were more in tune than others. Some of the people she had to deal with lived in their own selfish bubble with no thought for anyone but themselves. Being ignored was normal for her. He was no different.
Except, he was different. He was one of them, the reason she was there, the reason she did this job, the reason she’d been delayed in her journey.
A few feet away from her, he sat behind a cluttered desk and large screen. Busy fingers clicked across a keyboard. He can type fast…hours spent surfing the deep dark web, no doubt.
She cocked her head to one side, studying this chubby, diminutive man’s outline. A lock of blonde hair untucked itself from behind her ear and fell over her face. Not caring, she didn’t tidy it away like the old her would have, but she was no longer a slave to unruly hair, to looking good, to vanity. Such a relief.
She continued studying her man, her next job, staring at him through the wayward curl. Do you know Dick, Richard Michael Parker? Is he a friend of yours?
She sashayed over to his desk, taking her time, moving slowly into his space to get a closer look at his face. She peered down at him, examining his features like a plastic surgeon deciding what work to carry out.
He looked a bit like Dick Parker, and they would be around the same age, with the same stocky fat build, the same sweaty eagerness and glassy-eyed look, the excited stare of taking something that didn’t belong to them, of taking something special, something out of bounds, something beyond their normal reach, and getting away with it.
She’d been only four years old. To a four-year-old, everyone towered like a giant.
He looked the same as Dick—dumpy, pallid, and pathetic. Why had she been frightened of a man like him? He was just flesh and bones, a cowardly bully, nothing special. Ahh, but he is special. He’s one of them.
Dick had told her she was special, but she didn’t want to be special. Special gets you noticed. Special gets you picked off from the herd. Special gets you attention you don’t need. Special attracts bad people. Special fucks up your life.
He leaned leisurely back in his chair, legs apart, dressing gown falling open and exposing pink, sweaty skin and a flaccid sallow cock. His breath quickened as he stared at the screen. His right hand clutched at the mouse, gliding the flashing cursor from one image to the next. The monitor’s flickering light dappled his eager, shiny face.
She watched his mouth open with concentration as his tongue absentmindedly licked the corner of his lips. His gaze darted through images, excited, squinting with smiles as something he liked popped up. His right hand dropped to his lap, giving his cock a quick squeeze, easing it into life.
She guessed Dick hadn’t changed much over the years. He’d have gained weight and his thick dark curly hair would have thinned and greyed; and, like this man, his dark beady eyes would have shrunk, sinking deeper into his face, framed with age-crumpled skin, no longer full of the energetic youth she remembered.
She would recognise Dick again. She was confident she would, but memories could play tricks, especially when something that bad happens. Those memories never quite leave a person. The fundamental act remains intact, no matter how much protective, emotional scaffolding you put in place to forget it. You smell the same as him, you bastard.
She leaned over the desk to detect what engrossed the man so intently. His stench of sweaty feet and stale semen swirled in her nostrils. A memory flashed in her brain of a clammy hand clutching hers, guiding it, making tiny fingers do as they were told. She shook her head...not now.
Moving in closer, she focused on the man’s computer and noticed a chat box open in the middle of the screen, lines of text rolling down it. His screen name, PrincessB07, shared comments with Sienna2006. His excited chubby fingers jogged across the keys, creating another line of text. He pressed enter, pinging the message up the line of conversation—It will b r secret.
Behind the chat box Amy witnessed images of young children, in various stages of undressing, scroll across the screen. Dirty gnarled hands pushed, pulled, and manipulated their innocent bodies. Child porn.
Amy’s heart sank. A wave of tremors swept through her, ushering bile up her throat. She threw her hand over her mouth to tame her repulsion.
She closed her eyes as the scaffolding started to fall away. Wait, wait, not yet!
She edged nearer, holding the back of his chair. She bent close to his face and blew a long, cold breath across his cheek. He shook his head in annoyance, swiping his hand through the air as if chasing a pesky fly, but his eyes did not leave the screen. He can feel me. Good!
Ping. The noise excited him.
He had a reply to his message—My mum told me not to do that.
She moved in closer, eyeball to eyeball, daring him to acknowledge her. His rancid breath disgustingly warmed her cheek.
His fat fingers replied—It will b r secret. Your mum won’t know… ever.
“Well, I’m here…just for you.” Amy whispered.
He ignored her.
“I’m ready,” she sighed.
He took no notice.
“What…don’t you want me?” she cried in mock horror.
Tearing at her blouse, Amy unfastened the top buttons to reveal her braless cleavage.
He gave no reaction.
“Don’t you like what you see?”
She cupped her breasts and thrust them into his face.
Nothing.
“Too old, am I?”
Nothing.
“Good.”
She could see him, but he couldn’t see her. She was dead.