Echo

experienced only humiliation at the hands of Fatima, who spoke very poor English. The light in her bed-sitting room was dim, and he looked in fastidious alarm at the tumbled bed which still seemed to bear the imprint of a previous client. There was a strong Turkish atmosphere in the frowsty room which owed more to Fatima herself than to the array of joss sticks burning on a dressing table.

She was a well-covered woman, somewhere in her middle years, with a routine that was well-established and made no allowance for time-wasting. She recognized rapidly that she was dealing with a virgin and looked repeatedly at her clock, while Barry stumbled through an inarticulate introduction of himself as he tried to work out how to extricate himself from this dreadful situation without offending her.

'One hunra,' she broke in impatiently, stroking her palm. 'And take zee trowse off. Who care you call Barree? I call you sweeties. What you like? Doggy-doggy? Oil?' She pursed her full lips into a ripe rosebud. 'You nice clean boy. For a hunra and fifty Fatima do sucky-sucky. You like sucky-sucky? Sounds good, eh, sweeties?'

Terrified that she wouldn't let him go without some sort of payment, Barry fumbled his wallet out of his coat pocket and allowed her to remove five twenties. It was a mistake. Once the money had changed hands, and when Barry didn't immediately start shedding his clothes, she set about doing it for him. She was a strong woman and clearly expected to fulfill her side of the contract.

'Come on, sweeties. No need to be shy. Fatima she know all the tricks. There, you see, no problem. You beeg boy.' With deft hands she plucked a condom from a nearby drawer, applied it with consummate artistry, and proceeded to practice her Turkish delights at speed. Barry was no match for her skill, and matters reached a conclusion in seconds. 'There you are, sweeties,' she said, 'all done, all enjoyed. You really beeg boy. You come back any time as long as you have a hunra. Fatima always willing. Next time, less talk more fun, okay? You pay for good sex, and Fatima give good sex. Maybe you like doggy-doggy and fondle Fatima's nice round arse. Now put zee trowse back on and say bye-bye.' She had the door open before he was properly dressed and, because he didn't know what else to do with it, he put the condom in his pocket. She called after him as he walked away: 'You come back soon, Barree,' and his heart swelled with loathing for her and all her sex.

'What was the old guy saying to you while I was on the phone?' demanded Terry suspiciously as he and Deacon made their way back to the car.

'Nothing much. He's concerned about your future and how best to handle it.'

'Yeah, well, if he does the dirty on me and goes to the police, he'd better watch his back.'

'He gave you his word he wouldn't. Don't you believe him?'

Terry kicked at the curb. 'I guess so. But he's a bit fucking heavy on the hand-patting and calling everyone dear. D'you reckon he's bent?'

'No. Would it make a difference if he were?''

'Bloody right it would. I don't hold with poofs.'

Deacon inserted his key in the car door, but paused before turning it to look across the roof at his would-be passenger. 'Then why do you keep talking about them?' he asked. 'You're like an alcoholic who can't keep off the subject of booze because he's dying for his next drink.'

'I'm not a bloody poof,' said Terry indignantly.

'Then prove it by keeping off the subject.'

'Okay. Can we stop at the warehouse?'

Deacon eyed him thoughtfully. 'Why?''

'There's things I need. Extra clothes and such.'

'Why can't you come as you are?'

'Because I'm not a fucking tramp.'

After ten minutes of drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and with no sign of Terry's reemergence from the dark building, Deacon wondered if he should go after him. He could hear Lawrence's voice in his ear: 'You think this is good parenting, Michael? You let a fourteen-year-old boy go into a den of thieves, and you call that responsible?'

He postponed one difficult decision by making another. He picked up his mobile telephone and dialed his sister's number. 'Emma?' he said when a woman's voice answered at the other end.

'No, it's Antonia.'

'You sound like your mother.'

'Who is this, please?'

'Your uncle Michael.'

'God!' said the voice at the other end in some awe. 'Listen, hang on, okay? I'll get Mum.' The phone clattered onto a tabletop at the other end and he heard her shouting for her mother. 'Quick, quick! It's Michael.'

His sister's breathless voice came down the line. 'Hello, hello! Michael?'

'Calm down and get your breath back,' he said in some amusement. 'I'm still here.'

'I ran. Where are you?'

'In a car outside a warehouse in the East End.'

'What are you doing there?'

'Nothing of any interest.' He could see the conversation being hijacked by irrelevancies for, like him, Emma was adept at postponing anything difficult. 'Look, I got your card. I also got one from Julia. I gather Ma's not well.'

There was a short silence. 'Julia shouldn't have told you,' she said rather bitterly. 'I hoped you'd rung because you wanted to end this silly feud, not because you feel guilty about Ma.'