‘What are you looking for?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
Stephanie put her hand on her hip, as she always did at this moment, allowing her gown to fall further open. In the right mood, it felt like a tempting tease. Today, it felt cold and sad. She watched his eyes roll down her body. ‘I start at thirty and go up to eighty. For thirty, you get a massage and hand-relief. For eighty, you get the full personal service.’
‘Sex?’
She wanted to snap but managed to restrain herself, forcing a smile instead. ‘Unless you can think of something more personal.’
Grant frowned. ‘What?’
Stephanie saw the fog of alcohol clouding his eyes. ‘So, what do you want?’
‘The full … thing … service …’
‘That’s eighty.’
‘Okay.’ When he nodded, his entire body swayed.
‘Why don’t we get the money out of the way now?’
‘Later.’
‘I think now would be better.’
‘Half now, half after?’
‘No. Everything now. It’s better this way.’
His mouth flapped open, as though he were about to protest, but no sound emerged. So he stuffed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of fives and tens. As he came close, she smelt the alcohol on his breath and the body odour that is peculiar to sweat. With fat, pink fingers, he sorted through the grubby notes and handed them to her.
She counted quickly. ‘There’s only seventy here.’
‘It’s all I got.’
‘It’s not enough. Not for sex. Perhaps there’s something else you’d like?’
He grinned stupidly. ‘Come on,’ he slurred. ‘Ten quid. That’s all it is …’
‘Yeah, I know. Ten quid too little.’
‘It’s my birthday on Saturday.’
Stephanie was aware of her irritation rising to the surface, the blood flushing her skin. ‘So come back then. And make sure you bring your wallet.’
Her change in tone seemed to have a sobering effect upon him. He straightened. ‘What do I get for seventy?’
The words seemed to echo in her skull. What do I get for seventy? The question was not new, nor was the contempt in the voice. Yet Stephanie had suspected there might come a moment like this. For several days, she had known something was wrong, but she had refused to accept it. Initially, she’d tried to ignore it, to convince herself she was imagining it. Later, as she felt the cancer of anxiety spreading within her, she had tried to crush it with reason. And when that had failed, she’d tried to blot it out chemically.
It had nothing to do with Grant. It could have been anyone. What do I get for seventy?
‘You don’t.’
Grant looked perplexed. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You said you went from thirty up to eighty. Now what do I get for seventy?’
‘You don’t understand. I’m not doing anything. Not for seventy, not for eighty, not for one hundred and eighty.’ She thrust his money back at him. ‘Here. Take it.’
He swiped her hand away, the notes fluttering to the floor. ‘I don’t want it. I want –’
‘I know what you want. But you can’t have it.’
He took one step towards her and it was enough. Her right hand had already reached behind her and found what she knew would be there; on the table, by the bowl – an old champagne bottle, half a candle protruding from the top, its neck coated in dribbles of cold wax.
She swung her arm with all the might she could muster, creating a perfect arc. The glass exploded against the side of his face. Splinters showered on to the naked floorboards. Stephanie watched the lights go out in Grant’s eyes. He managed to raise a hand to his lacerated cheek but he was not aware of it. He lurched one way and then the other, before collapsing. The floor shook beneath the impact of his body.
It took Joan ten seconds to waddle through the door. She looked at the body on the floor and then at Stephanie, who was crouched over him, still clutching a fragment of the bottle’s neck in a way that suggested she might yet drive it into him.
Joan put a hand to her mouth. Stephanie turned to look at her, not a trace of an emotion on her face. Through her fingers, Joan muttered, ‘Oh shit, what’ve you done?’
Stephanie walked past her without a word and headed for the room next door. She shrugged off her gown and picked up her coat. Joan followed her into the room. ‘What’re we gonna do with him?’
Stephanie looked for the small rucksack that contained her worldly belongings. She opened it, checked nothing was missing and then fastened the straps. Then she started to put on her coat.
‘West’s gonna go fucking mental,’ Joan said. ‘We’ve got to get this wanker out of here.’
Stephanie looked at her. ‘If I were you, I’d get out of here. Right now. That’s what I’m going to do.’
‘You can’t just walk out. He’s downstairs, for God’s sake. For all we know, he could’ve heard it. He could be on his way up here right now.’
‘Exactly. And when he finds out about this, how do you think he’s going to react? Do you think he’s going to look for an explanation? Or do you think he’s going to look for someone to take it out on?’
Joan’s expression darkened. ‘Well, it won’t be me, love. I ain’t the one that done it.’
‘Fine. That’s your decision. But it’s not mine.’
‘I ain’t going. And you ain’t, neither.’
Joan reached for the phone. Stephanie grabbed her bag and ran.
Whoever answered the phone on the third floor took their time. The door was still shut when Stephanie passed it. The heels on her shoes slowed her on the uneven stairs but she reached the ground floor and was halfway to the front door when she heard the shout from above, followed by the multiple thump of descending boots.
She knew she had to lose them immediately. If her pursuers saw her, they’d catch her. She turned right and then right again, out of Brewer Street and into Wardour Street, before taking the first left into Old Compton Street and another first left into Dean Street. She never dared look back.
It wasn’t yet ten in the evening. The area was busy, which was a blessing. She turned right at Carlisle Street and only stopped running when that led into Soho Square.
The distance covered wasn’t great but her lungs were pleading for mercy. She slowed to an unsteady walk. It was then that she noticed that her coat was still only half-buttoned, which explained some of the astonished looks she’d seen on the faces that had blurred past her. Black underwear and a suspender-belt were all she had on beneath the coat. And given her appearance, she suddenly realized that if her hunters were asking pedestrians for the direction she’d taken, she’d be the freshest thing in the memory of just about everyone she’d passed.
She fastened the remaining buttons to the throat and forced herself into another run. She’d known she was unfit, but she’d never guessed that her physical decline had become so acute. For the moment, fear compensated but she knew it wouldn’t last.
She took Soho Street out of the Square and then crossed Oxford Street