This is the seventh part of a fiction serial, in 1090 words.
Jack finally got into his usual daytime spot a bit late. He had missed a good number of the fast-arriving commuters already, but it had been worth it. Mario had given him a cup of tea and two bacon rolls, then let him use the staff toilet for a wash. The old man was in such a good mood that morning, he had chucked in a nice Apple Danish, too, putting it into a paper bag as Jack got ready to leave. “Here Jacky. A nica-cake-a for you. Enjoy”. Jack had smiled at the put-on accent. Mario’s family might have come from Italy, and he could certainly speak the language, but he was born and raised in Clerkenwell, not far from his cafe. Jack put the cake in the pocket of his coat. Candy might like that, when she turned up later.
Koz thought about taking one of the girls to bed with him, but couldn’t be bothered. They were both still asleep anyway, one in the bath, and the other on the landing. Irina smelt pretty bad, and he reckoned Natalya probably needed a wash too. He would sleep alone, and get a better rest that way. Koz also thought he needed to call Pavel again, and tell him to get these girls out of the house. He had promised it would be for a few days, and that had run into months. He hadn’t seen any money from them, as they gave it all to Pavel, but he had to put up with them crashing out at his house every day, and all he got for his trouble was some occasional sex. Still, Pavel was a real gangster, and he had to think twice about upsetting him. Maybe he would just ask, not tell.
Candy sat down on one of the dove-grey leather sofas, and considered her options.
She could call Tash, tell her to come over and explain to the doorman that her friend was locked in. But that depended on Tash being in the zone, having enough money to get a cab, and managing to convince the doorman that she was telling the truth. That seemed unlikely. No point pretending otherwise, Tash was a skank. A crack whore who looked the part, in every way imaginable. Any doorman in this block was unlikely to even let her in, let alone take her seriously.
She could call the police, tell them that she had been locked in by some guy she met the night before, and they should ask the doorman to use some sort of master key, to let her out. They might take her seriously, but then again, they might think she was on the game, stitched up by some John, and just leave her to stew. Besides, they would want to know her real name, and all the details, and might even end up busting her for prostitution.
She could call T, and find out what the hell was going on. Problem was, not only did she not have a phone, she couldn’t find one anywhere in the flat, so all previous options were pointless anyway. On top of that, she didn’t know T’s number, so why was she even thinking that? She cursed herself for selling every phone she had ever stolen, and reexamined her options again.
She had to put all the stuff back as she found it, she was certain of that. Then wait for the bastard to come home, before giving him shit for locking her in his flat. She felt edgy, and scratchy. She had one rock, but no works. There must be something in this flat that she could use to smoke her crack. With renewed purpose, she started to look around again, once she had returned everything to where it had been.
Gay Terry woke up on the floor of Shepherd Market car park. His lip hurt, bruised from where it had been bitten, the night before. He had a few car park regulars here, mostly supposedly straight guys, who got off on something different. One of them was always around, usually parked on the third level. Terry reckoned he was just looking for him, liked his super slim body, and the skills he had learned with his mouth. He said his name was Gregor, but Terry presumed that was false. He was English, about fifty, and rather fat. But he treated Terry like a princess, and often told him “I love you”, as they had sex in his expensive car. Even though Terry only ever asked for forty, Gregor would give him at least seventy. Sometimes more, if he went twice. But last night he had got really passionate, and sucked on Terry’s lips, before biting down hard on them. He had obviously felt guilty, handing over five twenties, before driving back to his family, wherever they were. Terry was thinking about Koz, as he roused himself. He had to keep away from that Polish bastard, or he would never have anything for himself.
Toby was buzzing, like rarely before. If today worked out the way it was heading, he would earn over six grand. In one day. That was far more than most ordinary stiffs could pull in in six weeks, working for The Man in their shit jobs. Take the chances, get the rewards. That was Toby’s mantra, and he lived by it. Taking a quick break, he decided to text some of his cronies. Tamsin first. He knew she liked some girly action, and she wasn’t embarrassed to go for it in front of the guys. Always guaranteed to turn everyone on, into the bargain. Oliver was usually up for a bit of rough, as was Nigel. They would never tell their wives of course, but they loved a share of some little slag. Then there was Martin, a black trader from the big opposition firm. Never hurt to pass on some sweeties to the guys trying to outdo you, Toby was on to that. He checked the message, before sending it to all of them.
“Hi, everyone. I have got some juicy schoolgirl plotted up in my flat at Canary Wharf. If we give her a few quid, we can all enjoy her, separately or together. I reckon she must only be about fifteen, and I have already had a taste. Party at my place later? Let me know if you want in”.
Satisfied, Toby pressed ‘Send Message’.
To be continued…