For that was what she had become—a filthy junkie. Almost longingly, Mira thought of the luxury flat, the endless supply that never dried up. Nothing ever dried up when Redmond was around. She knew he was into all sorts of dodgy deals, although he had never discussed his business with her. Instant gratification was the name of the game when he was there to look after her. An ordinary man, a normal man, would say wait when she asked for something—a fur, a car, anything she desired; but he would always get it for her, straight away— whatever it was.
He would get her the drugs if she went back right now.
She knew it. She was almost desperate enough to do it. Almost.
But worse than the desperation was the fear of what he would ultimately do to her. She thought back to those choking, awful moments with the rubber thing over her face, his hands around her throat, and knew that she had done the right thing.
No. She daren’t go back. He’d be furious that she’d walked out on him. God knew what he would do to her. She shuddered with fear at the very thought.
But, somehow, she had to get some stuff.
She had no family to turn to and she had no friends from way back. If Redmond wasn’t normal, it was true to say that Mira wasn’t normal either. She had never been able to form friendships in school and college like other girls did; if she got close to it, she always blocked it off, turned away, grew cold, afraid that they would discover her dark and disgusting secret. She had the mark of Cain upon her, she was cursed, she was a whore.
She walked alone. Until she met Gareth.
Gareth was nice. He was so gentle, so nonjudgemental. She met him one night outside one of the Soho clubs and he didn’t seem repulsed by her, as most people did. He gave Mira a smoke of his weed—that was nice, too. She said she was looking for some supplies, and he said he had some supplies, and took her home with him to his little bare flat in a horrible graffiti-strewn square concrete block. A place where she would never have been seen, before. Now, she barely noticed her surroundings, stark and horrible though they were.
Gareth had a little dog, a stupid yappy little ball of white fur; she disliked dogs, her uncle had kept dogs, but she petted the thing and made a fuss of it because she wanted him to like her and let her stay the night.
If he wanted sex, then that was perfectly okay with her, but Gareth didn’t make any moves in that direction. He just poured the drinks and they sprawled out with Dinky the dog, and soon he produced some LSD tabs. They took some and he started telling her about his life.
‘My stepdad threw me out. I got in the way of his “relationship” with my mum,’ said Gareth dreamily.
‘Poor darling,’ she said, although she barely cared. She was away with the fairies, looking at the wild colours on the ceiling, the dancing, twirling shapes—even Dinky looked pretty after she’d taken acid; he became a ball of writhing kaleidoscopic worms moving like oil across the threadbare carpet.
‘Your voice is funny,’ said Gareth. ‘So posh. Anyway, she had a bit of cash from when her dad died and so she helped me set up this flat,’ said Gareth. ‘Did I already tell you that?’
Mira shook her head. He was spaced out. Well, so was she.
‘She was afraid of the bastard, my…my mum. But she saw me right. Once I got the flat, I got a job in one of the hotels up West. I thought I’d get a live-in job, that’s what I wanted because believe me this ain’t the fucking Ritz, know what I mean? But I couldn’t, so I had to make do with this and go in on the Tube. It’s not too bad, but I might move on soon.’
She nodded.
‘What about you?’ he asked.
‘Nothing to tell,’ she said. ‘No family.’
‘None at all?’
‘None.’
He let Mira stay the night, and then the next, and the next, until she was a fixture. They were bound together in mutual failure, two hopeless losers sheltering here against the world outside. He got a spare key cut and gave it to her.
A few weeks went by, and Gareth went on working odd hours at the hotel up West, while she walked the dog and turned a few tricks on Gareth’s unmade bed to get a little cash. Gareth got the drugs; they watched the telly together in the evenings and then shot up if he didn’t have to go out to work. Everything was cool.
Then she came home one day and Dinky was barking his head off inside the flat, which was weird because Gareth was home; he only ever barked like that when they were both out. She put her key in the lock, annoyed with the stupid little mutt, the neighbours would complain, fuck it, they were always complaining anyway, they lived to complain, saying the telly was too loud, that they were laughing too much, playing records into the small hours.
Fuck them. And fuck that damned dog.
She opened the door and there Dinky was, yap, yap, yap, silly thing. Then she looked inside.
A hot spasm of shock sucked all the breath from her body.
Gareth was hanging dead from the light fitting in the middle of the ceiling. The flex was around his neck. Mira fell back against the half-open door. A noise like a wounded animal emerged from her mouth.
She thought of Redmond, with his hands around her throat, or that awful rubber thing over her nose and her mouth. Redmond, who always liked to play around with throttling people, choking them.
‘Haven’t you heard of autoerotic asphyxia?’ he’d asked her once in that lovely soothing voice of his—she’d fallen in love with his voice, with that southern Irish lilt. She’d been nervous and started to object. ‘It heightens the sex, that restriction around the throat, it adds to the pleasure. So long as you keep the airways open, it’s perfectly safe.’
He’d told her to put something in the mouth—her mouth—a golf ball, an orange, keep the airways open, and she’d been lying there freaked out, terrified, naked, almost shitting herself with fear, with him choking her, and no, no, no, it didn’t feel sexy; what it felt like was the most frightening thing she had ever been subjected to, and she wanted out.
Gareth had been strangled with flex.
She knew who’d strangled him.
Gareth was dead because Redmond had come looking for her, and, thank God, oh thank Christ in heaven, she hadn’t been here. But Gareth, poor bloody Gareth, had been here and he wouldn’t have told on her, would he? No, Gareth wouldn’t have told.
But now look; he was dead.
Bile surged into her throat. For long moments the room and the nightmare in it spun and blackened, but then her head cleared and she swallowed hard. She still felt as though she might vomit at the smell and the pitiful sight of Gareth dangling there. But she had to stay rational somehow; she had to think straight.
Because he was looking for her. He’d bloody nearly found her, too.
He would have asked Gareth where she was, maybe when would she be back?
Gareth wouldn’t have told…
Would he…?
He could be watching her right now.
She backed out of the flat, closing the door on Dinky and his frantic barking, on Gareth swinging gently there from the light fitting. She looked wildly all around her as she stood exposed and vulnerable on the dingy outside landing, but she couldn’t see anybody watching. She hurried, stumbling, nearly falling, babbling for God to help her, someone, help, like an idiot, trembling, and somehow she got to the lift and was then too terrified to press
