Kiley watched Claude spar three rounds with a big-boned Yugoslav, work out on the heavy bag, waited while he towelled down. They sat on a bench off to one side of the main room, high on the scent of sweat and wintergreen, the small thunder of feet and fists about their ears.
‘Sorry about last night,’ Claude offered.
Kiley shook his head.
‘Like, when I saw you reach inside your coat, I thought… See, not so long back, me and Cyril we’re escorting this high-roller out of the club and he’s offerin’ money, all sorts, to let him stay. We get him outside an’ I think he’s reachin’ for his wallet an’ suddenly he’s wavin’ this gun…’ Claude grinned, almost sheepishly. ‘I wasn’t goin’ to make that mistake again.’
Kiley nodded to show he understood.
‘This girl you looking for…’
‘Adina.’
‘Adina, yes, she there. Nice lookin’, too. You and she…?’
‘No.’
‘Just lookin’ out for her, somethin’ like that.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Mr O’Hagan, he heard you was there, askin’ for her.’ Claude frowned. ‘I don’t know. I think he had words with her. Somethin’ about stickin’ by the rules. He don’t like no boyfriends, no one like that comin’ round.’
‘She’s okay?’
‘I reckon so.’
‘I’d like to see her. Just, you know, to make sure. Make sure she’s all right. She has a friend in London, works for me. Worried about her. I promised I’d check. If I could.’
Claude tapped his fists together lightly as he thought. ‘Come by the club later, you can do that? But not so late, you know? Around nine. Mr O’Hagan, no way he’s there then. Cyril or I, we meet you out front, take you in another door. What d’you say?’
Kiley said thank you very much.
The dressing room was low-ceilinged and small, a brightly lit mirror the length of one wall, make-up littered along the shelf below. Clothes hung here and there from wire hangers, were draped over the backs of chairs. The other girls were working, the sound of Gloria Gaynor distinct enough through the closed door. Adina sat on a folding chair, cardigan across her shoulders, spangles on her micro-skirt and skimpy top. Her carefully applied foundation and blusher didn’t hide the bruise discolouring her cheek.
Gently, Kiley turned her face towards the light. Fear stalked her eyes.
‘I slip,’ she said hastily. ‘Climbing down from the stage.’
‘Nothing to do with O’Hagan, then,’ Kiley said.
She flinched at the sound of his name.
Kiley leaned towards her, held her hand. ‘Adina, look, I think if you came with me now, walked out of here, with me, it would be all right.’
‘No, no, I-’
‘Come back down to London, maybe you could stay with Irena for a bit. She might even be able to wangle you a job. Or some kind of course, college. Then you could apply for a visa. A student visa.’
‘No, it is not possible.’ She pulled herself free from his hand and turned aside. ‘I must… I must stay here. Pay what I owe.’
‘But you don’t-’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. You don’t understand.’
‘Adina, listen, please…’
Slowly, she turned back to face him. ‘I can earn much money here, I think. In a year maybe, debt will be no more. What I have to do: remember rules, be respectful. Remember what I learn for my diploma. Which moves. And my hands, always look after my hands. This is important. A manicure. When you dance at table, be good listener. Smile. Always smile. Make eye contact with the guests. Look them in the eye. Look at the bridge of the nose, right between the eyes. And smile.’
Tears were tracing slowly down her cheeks and around the edges of her chin, running down her neck, falling onto bare thighs.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please, you must go now. Please.’
‘I Will Survive’ had long finished, to be replaced by something Kiley failed to recognise.
He took one of his cards from his wallet and set it down.
‘Call,’ he said. ‘Either Irena or myself. Call.’
Adina smiled and reached for some tissues to wipe her face. Another fifteen minutes and she was due on stage.
The Basic Spin. The Lick and Flick. The Nipple Squeeze.
The Bump and Grind. And smile. Always smile.
In the following months, Adina phoned Irena twice; both calls were fragmentary and short, she seemed to have been speaking on someone else’s mobile phone. Sure, everything was okay, fine. Lots of love. Then, when Kiley arrived one morning at his office, there was a message from Claude on his answerphone. Adina had quit the club, something to do with complaints from a customer, Claude wasn’t sure; he had no idea where she’d gone.
Nothing for another three months, then a card to Irena, posted in Bucharest.
Dear Irena, I hope you remember me. As you can see, I am back in our country now, but hope soon to return to UK. Pray for me. Love, Adina.
PS A kiss for Jack.
It is cold and trade on the autoroute north towards Budapest is slow. Adina pulls her fake fur jacket tighter across her chest and lights another cigarette. The seam of her denim shorts sticks uncomfortably into the crack of her behind, but at least her boots cover her legs above the knee. Her forearms and thighs are shadowed with the marks of bruises, old and new. An articulated lorry, hauling aggregate towards Oradea, slows out of the road’s curve and approaches the makeshift lay-by where she has stationed herself. The driver, bearded, tattoos on his arms, leans down from his cab to give her the once-over, and Adina steps towards him. Smile, she tells herself, smile.
CHANCE
The second or third time Kiley went out with Kate Keenan, it had been to the theatre, an opening at the Royal Court. Her idea. A journalist with a column in the Independent and a wide brief, she was on most people’s B list at least.
The play was set in a Brick Lane squat, two shiftless young men and a meant-to-be fifteen-year-old girl: razors, belt buckles, crack cocaine. Simulated sex and pain. One of the men seemed to be under the illusion, much of the time, that he was a dog. At the interval, they elbowed their way to the bar through louche suits and little black dresses with tasteful cleavage, New Labour voters to the core. ‘Challenging,’ said a voice on Kiley’s left. ‘A bit full on,’ said another. ‘But relevant. Absolutely relevant.’
‘So what do you think?’ Kate asked.
‘I think I’ll meet you outside later.’
‘What do you mean?’
She knew what he meant.
They took the Tube, barely talking, to Highbury and Islington, a stone’s throw from where Kate lived. Across the road, she turned towards him, a hand upon his arm.
‘I don’t think this is going to work out, do you?’
Kiley shrugged and thought probably not.
Between Highbury Corner and the Archway, almost the entire length of the Holloway Road, there were only three fights in progress, one between two women in slit skirts and halter tops, who clawed and swore at each
