‘Where’s Estelle?’ the Baby asked.
‘Come in, Estelle asked me to take care of you today,’ Bridget said nervously, stepping out in front of the man. The Baby must have come straight from the office – she hoped he had his own nappy on underneath that bespoke Savile Row suit because there were some lines she just would not cross, even in the line of duty. As she led him up the stairs and to her room, she got the feeling he didn’t much care who was looking after him, just as long as someone was. He was one of the less perverted of Estelle’s clients, and that was saying something.
Bridget slowly undressed him, hanging each item carefully on a mahogany clothes horse. She pushed him on to the bed and sat down next to him, pulling him close to her and wrapping her arms around him.
‘I’m hungry, I need milk.’ He nuzzled into her.
‘Oh, um … I don’t …’
‘Estelle usually keeps it in a bottle in the fridge. You need to warm it up though.’ He seemed annoyed at having to tell her these things.
‘OK, sorry, just wait there.’ She rushed out of the room, silently cursing Estelle. This was not the deal.
She found the milk in the fridge and put it in the microwave. She pushed the button and stared at the red digital clock counting down. When it got to zero, the clock went back to the actual time and looking at it, she realised with a pang that she ought to be with Sam right now. All week she looked forward to her Friday visits with Sam. They would drive out to the Double Locks pub and huddle together in the corner. She began to worry again; it wasn’t like him to be late, he was never late. That feeling was creeping under her skin, the feeling that if she didn’t hear from him soon she may never hear from him again.
She took the bottle and shook it to disperse the heat. As she walked back to the bedroom, the door to Estelle’s room opened and out walked the man they all referred to as Hitchcock. Bridget had never seen him up close before; he was fiercely private. She could only just see Hitchcock’s eyes, very dark, staring at her with a mixture of disdain and scrutiny. There was something familiar about him. She had always assumed that he was called Hitchcock because he looked like the famous director – no one used real names in this game – but he was tall and slim, his dark hair peeking out from under his fedora. He looked nothing like the original Hitchcock. He turned away quickly and Bridget ducked into her room to find the Baby curled up on the bed in a babygro, sucking his thumb. She rolled her eyes and walked towards him. She could hear Estelle and Hitchcock arguing at the front door before it slammed shut. A moment later, her bedroom door opened and Estelle walked in. Flustered, she took the bottle from Bridget and sat down next to the Baby, beginning to stroke his hair.
‘I can take over now; he had to go.’
‘What were you fighting about?’
‘He wasn’t happy about bumping into you, that’s all. I told him earlier I had the place to myself. I thought you would be out. Come on, Baby.’ She lifted the Baby’s head on to her lap and put the bottle in his mouth – he suckled away. Bridget supposed as kinks went, it was a pretty harmless one.
‘I’m going to take a shower, then,’ Bridget said, before quickly exiting the room.
Their hot water wasn’t working again so Bridget gathered her things and went to ask Dee, who lived upstairs, if she could use her shower.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘No, it’s cool. I was just getting ready to go out. What do you think of this?’ Dee did a twirl in what was obviously a stolen dress: blue sequins with a low neckline. She was a notorious shoplifter; some of the gifts she had given Bridget in the past attested to that. Dee was in between flatmates – previous tenants always looked for another house share after spending a few weeks with Dee and her sticky fingers.
‘You know those earrings of mine you like, the vintage blue crystal ones? They would look really nice with that dress. They’re in our bathroom downstairs, if you want them.’ Bridget smiled at Dee. It was always better to offer her things before she took them anyway.
‘You’re a star. Maybe tonight I’ll meet my millionaire,’ Dee said, blowing Bridget a kiss as she made her way down the stairs to the floor below.
Bridget loved the feeling of hot water. Living in this house felt dirty, everything felt wrong. She wished she could be back home with her family, or even call her mother, but that wasn’t an option at the moment. She washed her hair for the first time in a week, feeling the filth and grime hidden underneath the layers of hairspray. Dirty hair held a style better. Estelle would make her hair pretty again with rollers and a curling iron. Bridget was never any good with that stuff. Luckily she was naturally quite appealing, in fact she looked better without make-up on, but the men here weren’t interested in natural beauty. They wanted the hot plastic on their arm, with the push-up bras and the fake tans; they wanted the glamour-model look, not the girl next door. Mostly Bridget just provided dates, unlike Estelle, who was all about the extra-curriculars – that’s where the real money got made, that’s where you got to meet the important men. Bridget hadn’t proved she could be trusted yet.
She turned off the water and ran her fingers through her hair, it squeaked between her hands as she worked through the tangles. It felt so good to get all that shit off her. She threw a towel around herself and headed into Dee’s lounge, where she spotted several things of her own that had gone missing in the last few days. She didn’t begrudge Dee; she knew it was something she had no control over, and none of those stolen things meant anything to her anyway. Nothing in this life meant anything to her, except Sam.
She walked down the stairs back to her flat, wearing just her towel. The door was ajar. Something was off. She pressed her back against the wall and peered through the gap. She could see Dee’s foot, her blue patent shoe hanging off at the heel. Bridget crouched down and peered in further, she could hear a noise coming from inside. Don’t panic, she thought to herself. You know what to do. Still, her stomach twisted as she saw what was inside the room.
Dee was laid out on the ground, eyes wide open, her face frozen in an expression of surprise. Bridget could see her body moving as she struggled for breath. Blood pooled beneath her, and her legs were wet with red. Bridget could see a five-inch slash mark high up on the inside of her thigh. Her femoral artery had been cut; she would be dead within minutes. One thought entered Bridget’s head.
Shit. They know who I am.
Bridget started to move forward into the flat, knowing she had to get her phone. It was barely six feet away. Dee’s eyes moved towards her, flashing her a foreboding look, a warning. She saw a tear falling from the side of Dee’s head on to the floor as her eyes filled with an emptiness Bridget was all too familiar with. This wasn’t the first dead body she had seen, but it was the first time she had actually witnessed someone die. She couldn’t think about that right now. Remember. What do you do now? Whoever had