Someone coughs, up ahead.
Tina stands half in the shadows at the mouth of an alleyway: mini-skirt, denim jacket garnished with studs and fringing, white stacked heels, no tights. She carries an oversized black bag, the sort of bag you’d expect to find on a mother. He can’t imagine that a bag like that could house any load other than baby wipes and half-chewed rusks. But there it is, hanging off the shoulder of an alky grandmother looking for trade.
‘Hello, love,’ she says. ‘Haven’t seen you up here for a bit.’
Martin feels a rush of irritation at the familiarity. It doesn’t matter that he’s been forced to use her services before; he feels affronted that she should treat him like a regular. But he tucks his chip fork back into his palm and goes to meet her.
‘Aah,’ she says. ‘You brought me some chips.’
He doesn’t reply; clutches the bundle of food closer to his chest.
‘You after some fun tonight, then?’ she says.
Martin looks at her. Thinning scarlet hair scraped back into a high ponytail, thyroid eyes and lines like gouges on her forehead. He can smell the gin fumes rising off her, even from four feet away. And yet. The insistent, angry pulsing in his crotch is still there, and he fears he’ll never have peace till it’s gone.
She steps towards him, reaches out a hand and lays it over the bulge. ‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘Looks like you are. Give us a chip. I’m ravishing.’
‘Not opening them yet,’ he says.
‘Whatever. So what’s it going to be, then, Mart?’
How does she know my name? I’ve never told her. I’m sure I’ve never told her. He feels his anger rising again, deep and itchy. It’s a network of witches. They know fucking everything.
He shakes his head, tries to walk on. But she tightens the grip on his crotch, squeezes in a way that both enrages and engorges. ‘Come on, honey. You don’t want to waste it. I can make that better, quick-time.’
Oh God. Those fingers, with their chipped scarlet nails, an inch long and sharpened for fighting, are frightening, but the thought of them pumping up and down around his cock, of the pull and squeeze and professional twists of someone else’s hand, is too much to bear. ‘I don’t have much money,’ he says.
The grip loosens. She steps back.
‘How much?’
‘Thirteen quid.’
‘Thirteen quid?’
He nods feverishly. Knows that even to someone as far gone as this, thirteen quid is a pitifully low offer.
‘Never mind,’ he says. Starts to walk on, though his cock seems to have taken on a life of its own now. There won’t be anyone up at the war memorial. Needs must, he can relieve himself quickly up there, use the napkins for clean-up.
He gets five paces along the pavement when he hears her ‘Oi!’. Stops and turns and sees that she’s got her hand on her hip and has hoisted the bag further up her shoulder like someone who means business. ‘Thirteen quid and some chips,’ she says, ‘but you don’t get no French for that.’
Martin follows her up the alleyway.
She leads him deep into the dark – further than he thinks is necessary to hide them from casual eyes – and steps in behind a dumpster. Smiling, he deposits the chips on the lid, steps forward wolfishly and leans a hand, still gripping the chip fork, on the wall behind her shoulder.
‘Come on then,’ she says, and yanks at his buttons.
Martin doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to see that raddled face, the inch of roots on the hair that’s bent towards him. He looks up, stares at the patch of grey night sky between the gables, and feels her hand delve into his pants, the grab of flesh on tender skin. Yeah, he thinks as she hauls his member into the damp night air, spits on her palm and starts to work it. Thirteen quid well spent. I don’t need Jackie Jacobs. What made me think I wanted her and her-
A flashback. A car park, Jackie tugging at him like this woman’s doing, frustration mounting, a tipsy swearword falling from her lips.
His cock goes soft.
‘What?’ says the woman. ‘Come on, lover. I’m not going to spend all night.’
Martin feels his cheeks begin to burn. It’s gone. There’s no more feeling in it than if it was someone else’s. The woman yanks at his flaccid organ like it’s a cow’s udder, pulls harder, gives the head a couple of backhanders and gives up. Lets out a laugh.
‘Better luck next time,’ she says. ‘Quickest thirteen quid I’ve ever earned.’
He’s outraged. ‘You what?’
‘I’m not bloody staying here all night,’ she says.
‘You don’t think I’m going to pay you for that?’ He’s hot with wasted ardour, with humiliation. Walks backwards, tucking the useless appendage back inside his damp pants.
‘Course you are.’ Her voice starts to rise. ‘I done what you wanted. Not my fault you can’t bloody keep it up.’
‘Course I couldn’t,’ he grumbles. His fingers have turned to thumbs, fumble at his buttons like they’re anaesthetised, the chip fork hampering his efforts. He’s angry again, disappointed. Had needed the relief of quick, dirty ejaculate and is livid with frustration. ‘I saw your fucking face, didn’t I?’
He turns and starts to walk away towards Fore Street.
‘Oi!’ she shouts again.
‘Fuck off,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘You got your chips, didn’t you?’
There’s a moment’s silence, then the woman lets out another squawk of rage. ‘Oi!’
Unsteady footsteps clatter up the alley behind him. Martin whirls to face her, raises a fist, chip fork sticking out from gripping palm, towards her face. She halts, abruptly. Stares at him in alarm for a moment, then sees the weapon he’s wielding and bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, you sorry little fuck,’ she says.
His erection is back. He can feel adrenalin like speed in his blood.
‘Don’t laugh at me,’ he threatens. ‘Don’t you fucking laugh at me, or I’ll-’
‘You’ll what?’ Wide-eyed with mirth, she motions at his fist. ‘You’ll stab me with a chip fork?’
Martin looks over at his raised hand, sees his plywood weapon. Thinks vaguely, as though the thought were coming from far away, yeah, what the fuck?
He punches it into her neck.
He steps back, shocked at his own strength. Tenses in preparation for a fight, because he knows one will be coming now.
The woman slaps her hand to her neck like she’s been stung by a wasp, feels the plywood handle protruding from her flesh. Looks astonished, then outraged, then blackly furious. ‘You little fuck!’ she says. ‘You bloody little fuck.’
She feels her way round the handle, grips it between thumb and finger and pulls it out. Brandishes it at him, lips drawn back over yellow teeth. ‘You little fuck!’ she shrieks again. And then she notices the blood that spurts across the pavement, that hits the wall, and understands the truth.
‘Oh fuck,’ she says, and clamps a hand over the wound. It’s a stupid wound, a tiny double puncture, but the skin is ragged and her carotid ripped. Her hand is immediately slippery with blood; it gushes out from between her fingers, pours down her neck. Quickly, blackly, soaks the stonewashed denim on her shoulder.
‘What have you done?’
Martin stands there and watches. This wasn’t what he’d expected, but now it’s happened, he feels a rush of startling pleasure; a sense of power he’s never felt before. Look at her. Look at the silly bitch, she’s all over blood. I did that. I did that to her.
‘Fuck, help me,’ she says, and puts the other hand up; pleads with her eyes, understands that no help is going to come. ‘Jesus. Oh Jesus.’