Cage of Bones

Escape.

That was how she had ended up where she was. How all the girls had ended up there, if they were honest. Which they weren’t, most of the time. Not to people who didn’t matter. And they were the ones they dealt with most of the time. Punters. Police. Council. Sometimes all three.

But escape. Running away. They were all running away from something. Herself included. Abusive husbands. Rapist fathers. Or fathers, uncles and friends. Families that weren’t. Running. Always running.

That was why they were all such fucking messes. Herself included. Running away, needing to escape.

Escaping into anything. A different life. Being a different person. Different name. And the ways of escape. Pills. Booze. The rock and the pipe. The herb. Lovely, all of it. Comedowns could be a bastard, but so what? Just score some more. Get high again.

Escape.

Another mouthful of tea. Cool enough to drink. Another deep draw.

Faith always said she was running. Escaping from something. Always had her stories. Donna never paid much attention. She had her own stories. Sometimes she told them. And when she did, she always changed them. Never the same one twice. But they were always the truth. At least they were at the time.

But Faith’s stories. The same every time. Running from something big. Had to escape. Couldn’t say anything, but had to escape.

Donna had never really listened. If it’s that big, she had said, why don’t you go to the papers? The TV? Get yourself on there?

Faith had just laughed. You think they’re not in on it? It’s huge, I’m telling you. Massive. They’re all in it together.

Donna had laughed then.

Keep me head down. Best way. Keep meself safe. And Ben. Especially Ben. ’Cos that’s who they want really. If somethin’ happened to me, it would be him they’d want.

And that had been that. Donna had let her go on. Silly girl. Silly little stupid messed-up girl.

Lots of the girls talked like that. Booze fantasies. Crack dreams. Spliff psychosis. And they were all true, the stories, all real. Donna never paid it much mind. Her stories were true too. When she was telling them.

But Faith… she hadn’t let up. Ever.

If somethin’ happens to me, she had said one night, eyes pinwheeling on skunk and vodka shots, anythin’, an accident, anythin’. Somethin’ happens… it’ll be them. After me. They’ll have got me. An’ if they do that, an’ if that happens… You’ve got to promise me… promise me…

Donna had taken a hit off the skunk and promised her.

Haven’t told you what yet. Promise me… you’ll look after Ben. Don’t let them take Ben. Whatever you do, don’t let them take Ben.

Donna had thought she was talking shit, but looking in her eyes, her bloodshot, broken eyes, she had seen that her best friend was completely serious.

So she had promised her. Whatever.

Faith had seemed relieved. They will come, you know. In a big car. Two of them. Both men. Wearin’ suits. Like Jehovah’s Witnesses. But they’re not. They’re not…

And then the drunken tears had started.

Promise me… promise me…

And Donna had promised once more.

She sucked the fag down to the filter, crushed it in the ashtray.

That copper. Martin. Hard-faced bitch. Fancied herself too. But she wasn’t as hard as she thought. Donna was good at reading people. She had to be in her line of work. Too many girls had got into the wrong car only to be found up in the woods at the Stour estuary with their brains smashed in by a claw hammer. So she had taught herself to read people. And Martin had been easy.

Easy to read.

Even easier to lie to and get away with it.

There was something behind her eyes. Some kind of damage. Hurt. And anger. Lots of anger. Donna would put money on there being a man behind it. Which was why she had sent her after Daryl.

She smiled.

Wished she could be there when Martin stomped in, accused him of being a pimp, of having something to do with Faith’s death. Oh, that would be priceless. Because Daryl was their pimp. Or used to be. Pimp and ex. She hoped he would get into something with Martin. Knew he would. Hoped that the bitch copper was angry enough and psycho enough to make something of it.

She wouldn’t like to put money on the outcome of that one.

She smiled, took a mouthful of tea. Grimaced. It was cold. She uncurled from the sofa and crossed to the window. Looked out.

And there it was. A big car. On the opposite side of the road.

A shiver ran through Donna. Her stomach flipped over.

Coincidence, she thought. The council out looking for benefit fiddlers again.

She looked closer. Two men sitting in it. Both wearing suits. Neither Jehovah’s Witnesses.

They were looking at her house. They were waiting.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Her hands began to shake from more than last night’s booze and drugs. She had to do something. Anything.

Ben was still playing on the floor. Absorbed in his own world of make-believe. She looked again at the window, then down to the boy.

Thought of her friend. That silly girl. That silly little stupid messed-up girl.

Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t grieved for Faith. Her best friend. Her lover. And she wouldn’t now. Things like that didn’t touch Donna. She told herself so all the time. She was too hard for that. She had to be.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, ran her hand down her jeans.

‘Come on, Ben, get your stuff together. We’re goin’ out.’

‘We goin’ to see Mum?’

Donna felt the tears threaten again, pushed them back down. ‘No. We’re not. We’re… goin’ out.’ She forced a smile. ‘It’ll be an adventure. We’re runnin’ away. Come on.’

The little boy stood up, went upstairs. Donna looked round, tried to think what to do next. They had to get away. Far away. They needed a car…

She smiled. Went into the kitchen. Took out the biggest, sharpest kitchen knife she had. She never used it for cooking. But it came in handy to scare off psycho punters.

A car. She knew just how to get one…

31

The pub had large rectangular windows. Huge, bare. Inviting passers-by to look in, saying to the world: we have nothing to hide. Nothing untoward goes on in here. We’re a friendly, happy place. Come on in.

Rose Martin knew that was nowhere near the truth.

The Shakespeare liked to think of itself as one of the roughest pubs in Colchester. Villains and criminals were drawn to it like the terminally self-deluded and desperate were to X Factor auditions. And like those X Factor auditionees, the pub’s clientele were a similarly hopeless and pathetic bunch. Petty and low-level, bungling and inept. The pub nurtured these no-hopers, fuelled their delusions, lubricated their lack of success until failures talked themselves into winners. Kings of a cut-price castle. Until the real world hit them like an icy blast from the North Sea.

Until closing time came.

Rose Martin had dealt with this place many times in a professional capacity, both in uniform and out. Mopping-