The London she knew now was a very different place from the magical one her father had shown her, a dark and violent place that brought her nothing but pain and despair, a place controlled by pimps and gangsters. Now, not even the cherished memories of those distant, happy days could ignite a spark of happiness inside her chest.
They caught a red light at the Tower, and Tracey forced herself to endure the long wait by counting the small cross-shaped slits in the massive stone structure on her left.
The lights changed to green and the BMW moved off with a lurch.
Tears of desperation streamed down Tracey’s face.
She needed a fix, NOW!
Winston reached across to the Blaupunkt, pressing a button to rewind the Marley tape. Apart from a dull whirring noise as the tape rewound, the car was filled with an awkward silence that was so loud it was almost deafening.
A few year-long seconds later, there was a loud click from the cassette player and Bob began to sing again. Winston adjusted the volume until the bass vibrated through her entire body.
‘No woman no cry’.
Her mind raced as she fended off another bout of stomach cramp. Surely, he wouldn’t send her off without a fix? There had to be a way to persuade him.
But how?
She was running out of time.
◆◆◆
When Rita finally returned to her own bed she couldn’t sleep. Instead, she found herself wondering where her daughter was and what would eventually become of her. Would she even bother to come back home in the morning, or would she gravitate back to the East End squat where she had spent most of the last year dossing?
Rita knew that things couldn’t carry on like this for much longer, and a familiar coldness engulfed her fragile body in its icy grip as she contemplated Tracey’s probable fate. She tried to rationalise the growing fear, to dismiss it as the mindless dithering of an old woman, but deep in her heart, she knew exactly what would become of Tracey unless something drastic was done. The dreadful realisation made her ageing flesh crawl.
◆◆◆
Somehow, Tracey survived the drive around the outskirts of the City and into Aldgate High Street without breaking down. Music continued to blast out from the German car’s powerful speakers, making her head hurt. It seemed to be throbbing in time to the beat.
Boom, boom, boom.
Tracey wanted to scream, but she forced herself to take a deep breath instead and looked at her face in the vanity mirror. Shit! Her mascara had run. Why hadn’t she bought the waterproof stuff the prissy sales assistant had recommended?
As they turned into Commercial Street Tracey made one last effort. “Claude, I just need one rock, to take the pain away. Please! Just one measly rock! C’mon Claude, just this one time,” Predictably, he ignored her, and in growing desperation, Tracey’s trembling hand reached out towards his arm, gripping it tightly, a drowning swimmer clinging to a lifeline in a storm.
“Please, Claude,” she begged him for compassion, knowing in her heart that the concept would be repugnant to him. He brushed it off and gave her a warning glance. She knew it was dangerous to push Winston. He wouldn’t hesitate to hit her if he thought she deserved it. She had seen what he was capable of more than once.
Winston glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. All he felt was contempt. She was a pathetic little junkie whose life was a wreck. He might sell the stuff to others, but that was business. Only a fool would mess with that shit, and he had no time for fools.
Winston wondered how long it would be before he had to get rid of her. She was starting to become a real pain. Imagine asking him for credit!
Silly fucked up cow.
Even if Winston felt any sympathy, which he didn’t, he would never let it show. He had a reputation as a hard, ruthless operator to think about. Going soft would be bad for business. Not that there was any chance of that.
He slowed down along Commercial Street to observe the competition and quickly spotted several girls from rival stables plying their trade.
As he entered his own territory his practised eye picked out a steady stream of punters with ease. It wasn’t hard to spot them as they as they cruised past the girls, looking to score.
He pulled the BMW up by Quaker Street, and nodded at two of his girls across the road, lingering outside the used car sales lot. He turned to Tracey, looking at her properly for the first time that evening.
“Right, off you go, bitch,” he said harshly. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, plenty of time to earn the money to buy what you need from me.”
She started to protest, to beg, but his hand reached out with surprising speed for such a big man. Fingers the size of sausages dug into her upper right arm. He twisted it hard, pulling her towards him, his patience at an end. His face was inches from hers now, and his foul warm breath bombarded her as he whispered: “It’s not good for your health to argue with me, bitch. Now go and earn me some fucking money or I’ll tear your skinny white arm off.”
Tracey gasped with pain as her shoulder nearly popped out of its socket.
Winston had expected a submissive response and, under normal circumstances, that’s exactly what he would have got, but Tracey’s dysfunctional mind had pushed her over the edge, making her as unpredictable and as emotionally volatile as nitroglycerine.
In an explosion
