he was fully dressed he went round to Angela’s side of the room and crouched down.
‘See that way you went off there, when I put the telly on…’ he watched her press the cigarette into her mouth, inhale deep. ‘What was that all about?’
She shrugged. ‘I dunno.’
Henderson grabbed her face in his hand, ‘I’m not playing fucking games with you, Ange… I want to know.’ She yanked her face away. He saw the imprints of his fingers in the white flesh of her jaw line. He wagged a fist at her. ‘I mean it, if I’m going to be looking out for you, I need to know that you’re fit for it and not going to be getting fucking locked up… Not worth my time, is it?’
Angela looked away, pinched her lips. Her eyes flickered as she raised them towards the ceiling. Her reply came hard and flat, ‘I’m fine.’
Henderson knew she was keeping something from him; experience had taught him that when whores had secrets there was a good reason for it. Someone else was stamping their mark on them; they had a few quid stashed away; or a secret punter that was paying big. He didn’t know what it was that Angela had to keep quiet about but he knew he needed to find out. He grabbed her by the throat, pinned her to the wall.
‘Now you better fucking loosen that gob of yours, or I might be forced to close it once and for fucking all… You get me?’
Angela whimpered, her eyes reddened — intricate little red lines like fine cracks in pottery appeared over the whites. ‘It’s nothing… nothing.’
Henderson gripped her throat tighter, forced his thumb deep into the crevice of her neck; Angela started to splutter, gasp for breath. Her face darkened as he brought the cigarette up to her eye.
‘How many fucking punters do you think you’d score out on the Links with one eye, eh?’ He moved the glowing amber tip of the cigarette to within an inch of Angela’s eye, pointed it like a dart. ‘I’ll fucking do it… I will.’
‘OK. OK. Let me go.’
‘And you’ll tell me?’
‘Yes. I will. I promise.’
Henderson released his grip on her neck; Angela fell forward and landed face down on the mattress. She shot hands up to her throat as she coughed and gasped for breath. She was still spluttering as Henderson loomed over her and inhaled deeply on the cigarette he had threatened to blind her with.
‘I’m waiting,’ he said.
She coughed again, some long trails of spit escaped her mouth.
‘I’ve not got all fucking night!’
Angela forced herself up onto her knees, her thin fingers traced the line of her throat as she tried to massage some of the pain away. She looked ready to fold again, pass out. Henderson reached over and yanked her to her feet; he was surprised by how light she was.
Angela shrieked again, as she stood, shivering and naked before him.
‘Right, talk…’ he said.
She wiped a tear from her cheek, ‘I–I can’t…’
Henderson lit up, he drew back a fist.
‘OK. OK,’ yelled Angela.
‘I’m losing the fucking rag with you, girl…’
She gripped her waist in her arms, spoke softly. ‘Can I show you something?’
Henderson’s face shrivelled into confusion. ‘Show me what?’
‘It’s just, I’ve never told anyone before.’
‘Told anyone what?’
Rain started to patter on the window; Angela looked away, slowly got down from the mattress and walked towards the other side of the room. By the doorway sat a small coffee table with a drawer in the top; she opened up and removed a Yellow Pages. Underneath the directory sat a little mauve-coloured diary. ‘I wrote it in here.’
‘Wrote what?’ said Henderson.
She held up the diary, she seemed to have trouble even looking at it. Some more tears rolled over her cheekbones. ‘What happened… out there.’
Henderson stubbed his cigarette in the smoked-glass ashtray by the mattress, walked towards Angela. He snatched the diary out of her hand. ‘This is like a fucking notebook.’
Angela watched him turning over the pages. ‘It’s a journal… I used to keep it, before I met you.’
Henderson held it up, ‘Well, what the fuck’s in it?’
Angela looked towards the window, it was dark out and the rain was getting heavier. ‘I need to go. We’ve no money.’
‘What about this?’
‘You asked what it was about… It’s in there.’
‘So I have to fucking read this?’
Angela nodded, moved away. She pulled on her black mini-dress and stuck her bare feet into her heels. As she put on her coat she saw Henderson flicking through the diary.
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Tell anyone what?’
‘What’s in there.’
He looked at her, smiled. ‘I haven’t read it yet… so I guess that all depends, doesn’t it?’
Chapter 11
Neil Henderson watched Angela teeter towards the front door of the cold-water flat in Leith. He didn’t know what to make of her. The tart had gone downhill, rapidly, since he went inside. They were all the same, none of them knew how to look after themselves. She hadn’t even put on a bit of lipstick: what kind of punter was she going to score without even a bit of lipstick? Some of them, he thought, just weren’t worth the bother.
The door slammed as Angela left; he heard her heels clacking as she descended the steps.
Henderson drummed fingers on the little mauve-coloured diary she had given him. The girl was next to worthless; how was a man supposed to earn a crust off a wreck like that? He knew she was going to be more trouble. All that time and effort he’d put in on her had been wasted.
When he had met Angela she was in a bad enough way; crying her eyes out in the street after being stiffed out of her last tenner by some bitch off the Links. They were like a pack of animals those girls; any new meat on display and they fired into it, ripped it to shreds.
Henderson grimaced, ‘Fucking pack of slags.’
He’d shown them though; there had been three of them, old boots who should have known better. A few smacks in the face, some bust noses and black eyes were enough to teach them. A couple of nights in dock till the bruises subsided and a few quid out their takings and they didn’t think about messing with Angela again.
‘Easy money,’ said Henderson. He grinned to himself.
There had been times when it really was easy money, he’d had three of them on the go, all bringing in a pretty penny. Then one of them shot herself an overdose and that was her. The other got stiffed by a guy who worked at the bookies — a week of hand jobs went unpaid until Henderson made a visit, followed him home and leathered him in the street. How was he to know there was filth living in the same row? She’d been a good earner though, Casy, until she fucked off when he went inside.
‘Never had a fucking day’s luck,’ said Henderson. ‘Not a fucking day of it.’
He was turning the diary over in his hand when he decided to take a look inside, see what all the fuss was about.
‘Stupid bloody bitch,’ he said as he opened the slim volume.
On page one was written: Angela Mickle, Porty Acad.
‘Jesus, she was still a schoolie.’
