The house was long past being a home. A rusty fridge sat discarded by the front door. The wood under the peeling paint was rotten. The place looked more like a crack den than the HQ of an international business enterprise.
I stayed close as Anna banged on the glass panel in the top half of the door. Light filtered weakly through the minging net curtains that hung behind it.
Footsteps echoed on bare boards. The curtains twitched and the door opened just enough to show a chin unevenly coated with bum fluff. Its owner nodded at whatever Anna said, but still went to close the door on us. Anna’s foot shot into the gap. She bollocked him in fast, aggressive Russian. The runt gave up. He nodded and closed the door.
Anna waited, not looking back at me as more footsteps thundered towards us. I could hear voices, then saw movement and shadows through the netting. She had told me that these guys were greedy. That, above all, they were businessmen. A sale was a sale. We were about to find out if she was right.
The door opened. Two, maybe three, bodies filled the hallway. The first one’s hands reached out. Anna tried to duck out of the way but was too slow. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her in, a pistol jammed into her neck. There was nothing I could do now, except follow.
She stumbled through the entrance. The runt already had a weapon on me. A second body reached out and gripped my coat. He shoved the muzzle of a weapon into my neck and pushed me down onto the floorboards as the door slammed shut behind me.
All three extra bodies were well into their thirties and wore black North Face parkas with fur-lined hoods. Anna went ballistic at them and they couldn’t give a fuck. I heard the rustle of nylon as they went about their checks Russian-style. She kept up the bollocking, as you would if you were in the business. I tried to look completely unconcerned as my jeans pockets were pulled out and the BlackBerry was lifted.
There was an old wooden staircase dead ahead, uncarpeted, dimly lit by a bulb with no shade. A dank smell filled the air, strong and sickly, as if the house hadn’t been aired for years.
The biggest of the North Face boys got his dibs on Anna. He leered at his mates as he ran his hands over her body. She glared back at him. The stream of Russian that poured out of her told him that she was ready to bite. He seemed to like whatever she was saying, though, and gave her breasts an extra frisk so he could hear more.
The runt was obviously in charge of storage. He stood there enjoying the show, with both of Lilian’s pictures, our maps and mobiles clutched in his hands.
I heard movement at the top of the stairs and looked up to see two wide-eyed teenage faces. The girls were on their hands and knees, trying to hide from view, but captivated by the aggression on the floor below. Apart from oversized T-shirts - one from a Guns N’ Roses concert, the other a plain grey that had once been white - they were naked. Their hair was a mess, but pushed back far enough for me to see that both had thin, painted eyebrows that made them look like dolls.
They almost jumped out of their skins as Mr Big caught sight of them. They shot from sight as he dragged himself away from Anna’s breasts and double-stepped it up there, shrieking like the world’s angriest parent.
Anna and I were hauled to our feet and pushed against the wall. These guys were big and aggressive, but what was more worrying was their air of who-gives-a-fuck. They looked like they’d just as easily kill us as offer us coffee.
Anna took the lead. She began to talk to the runt. It sounded like she still wanted to meet the boss. Her tone was measured, persuasive and even - despite being punctuated by screams and shouts from upstairs as the girls got a good slapping. She had to speak up to be heard, and managed to show no interest whatsoever in the drama unfolding above us.
The runt pointed towards the back of the house, but it was clear I wasn’t invited.
She didn’t budge. She turned and pointed at me. This time it sounded like she was telling them to fuck off. Her words were quick and aggressive. The slaps and screams stopped and the girls began to beg.
The runt asked her something.
Whatever she answered, it seemed to work. He strode off down the corridor. Anna hadn’t looked at her hired help once since we walked up to the building. She was playing it well. She gave me an order in Russian and signalled what I was to do. I stayed behind her along the short stretch of corridor and as we went through a doorway at the rear. Our footsteps sounded unnaturally loud on the bare boards.
The kitchen was large and filled with smoke. A man smaller than even the runt - but clearly infinitely more powerful - was sitting with a brew, drawing hard on an untipped cigarette. The girls and Mr Big were now directly above us. I knew I couldn’t show the slightest interest in the sounds. We were buyers: we knew these girls needed to be kept in hand.
The odd glimmer of makeshift street-lighting managed to fight its way through what was left of the blind. It was obvious now why they kept their coats on. It was colder and more miserable in here than it was outside. There was no heating. This was a meeting place. People weren’t here all the time.
The only thing that looked like it might work was a Nespresso machine like the one in my flat. It sat among the general shit by the sink, next to its discarded packaging.
Anna didn’t wait to be asked. She went over to the table and sat opposite him. Bed springs started to squeak above us. I heard a muffled sob.
Anna ignored it all and kept talking, cool and calm. In case he wasn’t getting the message, she leant over and helped herself to a cigarette from the pack that sat next to an old dinner plate piled high with butts. She lit it with a plastic throwaway that lay next to his mobile.
He gave me a cursory glance, out of boredom more than anything. I looked away. He would have expected nothing less. I was Anna’s BG. My total focus was on my principal, not on trying to establish eye contact with anyone else.
Mr Big was really getting into it. His breathless shouts were followed by a couple more slaps and an anguished scream.
Anna was playing a blinder. She exuded confidence. She sounded like she really was here to buy herself some girls.
I looked around. A small bread knife lay beside half a loaf near the coffee machine. That was the only weapon I could see. The corridor was blocked by the North Face crew, who were leaning against the wall, maybe waiting their turn upstairs. The door behind Anna was bolted. If the shit hit the fan, all I could do was to hold them off long enough for her to unbolt it and run.
The springs stopped squeaking and grunts were replaced by sobs. I still didn’t move a muscle, but I made myself a promise then: for as long as I lived, I’d track these fuckers down - and their mates - and kill them.
Anna sparked up another of the boss’s cigarettes and put the lighter back on the table. The smoke curled from her mouth and nose before she spoke. The only words I recognized now sounded like names of countries. He was still calm. He lit himself another cigarette too and took such a mega-drag I could see the paper burn down like a fuse.
Anna sat and waited while he thought about what she’d said. But she didn’t wait for long. She stood up before he’d delivered his answer: she’d had enough of this bullshit.
I turned towards the North Face guys. I wanted them to know that we intended to leave in one piece. Fuck the mobiles and the other stuff. I moved into the corridor just in time to see Mr Big give his mates a very satisfied grin and put his coat back on.
The small guy started talking. Anna stopped, turned back, went to the table and sat down. She helped herself to another cigarette from his pack.
He gave an order to one of the North Faces. I heard the front door open and close.
We waited in silence. The two of them smoked. The boss checked his mobile now and again for messages as Anna sat back, picking tobacco from her lips. The sobbing above us gradually subsided.
After three or four minutes the sound of clubland laughter echoed down the hallway and a new body appeared. Dressed in a brown overcoat over a black polo neck, he was so slim his head looked as if it really belonged on someone else’s shoulders. Everything about him was immaculate. His nails were manicured, possibly even polished. Not one dark brown hair from what was left on his head was out of place. He didn’t give Anna or me as much as a glance as he headed for the small guy’s side of the table.
He jerked his head. ‘She speak English?’
He was no Russian: his accent was Scouse, deep, strong and quick.
