As she emerged from of the lift and entered the main lobby area, Tracey noticed two skinny white youths sitting by the stairwell. The older of the two couldn’t have been more than fifteen. They both had dirty, matted hair and looked like they hadn’t washed or changed their clothes in days, the dirty bastards. They gave her a nervous glance, weighing her up. “What you staring at, you fucking pussies?” She shouted aggressively, making sure they saw her as a threat, and not a potential victim. They turned away quickly, and she sucked her teeth at them in disgust.
Tracey couldn’t help wondering what the fuck their parents were playing at, letting them out at this time of night, and then she spotted the bright red sores around their mouths and noses and caught a whiff of the glue fumes. Suddenly everything made sense. Solvent abuse had become commonplace around here. Well, let them get on with it, she thought as she left the block. Life was tough, and she had her own problems to worry about.
Tracey stopped at the edge of the kerb, shifting her weight impatiently from foot to foot as she watched the traffic going by. She nodded at the elderly woman from number twenty-three, who was walking her little Jack Russell on the small green in the middle of the estate. As she watched, the mutt squatted and began to defecate. Its owner patiently leaned against the sign prohibiting dogs and ball games and waited for her pet to finish its business.
Where the hell was Claude? she wondered. There was hardly any traffic on the road at this time of night so there was no excuse for his being late. Why did he always keep her waiting when she needed the gear? It was as if he sensed her need and deliberately kept her on tenterhooks. That would be just like Claude. He was a cruel man who took pleasure from other people’s suffering. She wrapped her flimsy jacket tightly around her shoulders, hugging herself to keep warm against the autumnal chill. It had been a very wet month, and although the sky was currently crystal clear, she suspected that before too long it would cloud over again and piss down.
She had just started to pace up and down when the black BMW 3 series with tinted windows pulled up beside her and the passenger door was pushed open.
“Get in, bitch,” a deep, gravelly voice ordered.
◆◆◆
Claude Winston was a physically imposing man. The Jamaican stood well over six-foot-tall and weighed in at a smidgen under nineteen stone. True, he was carrying some flab, but only a fool would underestimate him because of that. The beaded dreadlocks he sported were his pride and joy; no one touched the dreads. Tonight, he wore a black three-quarter-length leather coat, a black silk tee shirt, and black trousers. He liked black. It was his trademark.
Winston liked to think of himself as an entrepreneur who dealt in marketable commodities. The commodities in question were drugs and women, and he was pleased to announce that business was booming.
As the car moved off Tracey turned to Winston. “Claude, I’m really hurting. Can you let me have a little something in advance? I’ll pay you back as soon as I turn a trick, I promise.”
She did her best to sound provocative, and as she spoke, she gently placed her hand on his left leg and began to slide it upwards towards his groin.
Winston didn’t reply. He didn’t even look at her. Fucking cheek, he thought, gritting his teeth. It was bad enough that she’d had the front to phone him up and beg for a lift, without expecting him to throw in a freebie on top. And what the fuck was the stupid little slut doing over in south London anyway? She should have been out grafting hours ago; her laziness was costing him money.
Tracey was almost at the end of her tether, and instead of putting her out of her misery, as he could have done so easily, it looked like Winston was just going to ignore her.
It was too fucking much!
She had to shout to be heard above the car’s sound system which was blaring out the live version of Bob Marley’s ‘No woman no cry’.
“Claude, sweetie, don’t do this to me. I’m good for it. You know I am.”
She tried to undo his fly. When she had first started working for Claude, two years ago, he had liked for her to suck him while he drove her to work. It had given him a buzz. Maybe that would loosen him up a little, make him more amiable towards her.
He slapped her hands away.
“Stop squirming, you worthless bitch, and save your breath. If you want the merchandise you pay for it up front like everyone else. What do you think I am? A fucking charity?”
Tracey sat back up and turned to look out of the nearside window so that he wouldn’t be able to see the desperation in her face.
As they turned onto Tower Bridge Tracey glanced down to her left at HMS Belfast. As a child, London had seemed such a wondrous place, full of excitement and adventure. Her father, who was a bit of a history buff, and the local pub quiz champion, had regularly treated her to days out in London. They had spent many a happy Sunday afternoon exploring the Capital’s famous sights together. Her father was a font of knowledge and seemed to know everything worth knowing about every landmark they ever visited. Tracey hadn’t thought about her dad in years, yet suddenly, she could hear him, clear as a bell, recanting with great pride how the retired WWII Cruiser’s revolutionary new radar system had played a major role in sinking the Scharnhorst during the famous Boxing Day battle of 1943.
London
