Feeling curious, Angie examined the contents of the tissue and noticed that it was smeared with a large patch of thick green phlegm tinged with blood. She screwed it up tight and put it back inside her handbag. Then she took out her purse and checked her money, noting that she was now down to her last tenner plus some change.
Angie knew her state of health wasn’t good. Despite her COPD, she had never felt this bad. And as she sat there swigging the whisky, she could feel herself burning up. ‘Jesus, it’s hot in here tonight,’ she muttered as the whisky, combined with what she had already drunk, started to take hold.
It wasn’t long before she had downed all six measures. She was becoming hotter although the cough had calmed a little, and she decided she needed to get outside. ‘Too bloody hot in here,’ she repeated. ‘I need some air.’
She stood up and staggered. But it wasn’t just the effects of the drink. She felt light-headed and didn’t have any energy.
‘You alright, Angie?’ shouted Moira.
‘Bloody dizzy,’ mumbled Angie and she continued to wobble towards the exit, grabbing onto the tables and chairs for support.
Moira raced over and took hold of Angie, trying to steady her. She led her to a chair. ‘Sit down here, Angie. You don’t look fit to walk. Hang on while I order you a taxi.’
Angie was too weak to argue. It would cost but it would be easier than having to walk to her patch on the beat. So, she stayed where she was, deciding to shut her eyes while she waited for the taxi. Her head lolled forward and she thought she must have nodded off because, before she knew it, Moira had come back to tell her the taxi was outside, and she was trying to help her out of her seat.
Moira guided her to the door and waited while she got inside the taxi. ‘You take care now,’ she said.
‘I’m only going to bloody Aytoun ssstreet,’ Angie replied.
Moira shut the taxi door after Angie and went back inside the Rose and Crown. As soon as she was inside the cab, Angie’s cough returned, and she shivered from the cold air that had hit her once she stepped outside the pub. The driver looked over his shoulder at her, concerned by her obvious ill health.
‘You sound like you’d be better off going to the hospital, love,’ he said.
Angie tried to speak between gasps. ‘No… need the money.’ Somewhere in her drunken brain she decided that the taxi driver was having a go at her and, when the heat of the taxi began to permeate her bones and her breathing steadied a little, she snapped at him. ‘I’m not drunk, y’know. I’m ill.’
‘I can see that; you’re as white as a ghost and shivering like buggery. All the more reason you should get some help, love.’
Despite Angie claiming to be sober, the alcohol had taken its toll and was affecting her judgement. She wrongly believed that, although still ill, she was now feeling much better than earlier. The cough was nothing more than a nuisance. As she sat back in the taxi, her jumbled thoughts took over and, instead of responding to his statement, her mind drifted to other things.
‘I used to be sssomeone, y’know,’ she said but the driver ignored her and kept his eyes on the road. ‘Now I’m just old Angie, the prostitute.’
Picking up on the driver’s disinterest, she muttered to herself instead. ‘Nice figure, nice clothes. And all the men wanted me.’
She continued muttering to herself for the few minutes it took to arrive at the red-light district.
‘We’re here, love,’ said the driver.
Angie looked out of the window, confused. Then she recognised her usual patch and nodded. She undid her handbag, slowly, her hands shaky and her mind unfocused.
‘You sure you wouldn’t be better off going to the hospital?’ asked the driver.
‘Nah,’ said Angie, shutting her handbag again. ‘I’m not going there.’
She settled back in her seat again, her head lolling once more. Suddenly, she had an urge to be home. She didn’t want to hang about on the streets freezing. She just wanted a nice warm bed.
‘Home…’ she muttered. ‘To bed.’
‘Where’s home, love?’
Angie quickly reeled off the full address then closed her eyes and fell asleep.
53
December 2001
It was Amy’s third time on the beat. Each night had followed a similar pattern. Her mother and Rick had dropped her off, she’d waited on the same spot for clients and at the end of the night her mother and Rick had come back to take her home. But tonight, her mother had told her she’d have to make her own way home as Rick didn’t want to keep driving into town.
Despite it being the third night, Amy was still terrified. As her mother had pointed out, it wasn’t anything she hadn’t done before, but for Amy it was the unpredictability of it that got to her. At home she felt as though she had a level of protection. If one of the clients got too out of hand and started roughing her up, at least she knew that her mother was only in the next room. But out on the street, anything could happen.
The sheer number of clients worried her as well. Instead of having the same regular two to three clients a week, she was now entertaining between six to eight clients each night she worked. She’d already had a few clients who gave her the creeps – old seedy men who were almost frothing at the mouth when she agreed to service them. But, if she turned down every client who repulsed her, she realised she’d have
