I recently read a small newspaper article about the death of a prostitute; it was so blase and condescending toward a young girl's death, it inspired me to write my first, very short story, hopefully to give her a bit of a voice that the local media didn't deem worthy enough for her.
It was 6pm, and Amy was at her small flat in South London, getting ready for the night of work ahead. She was feeling jittery and nervous; her hands shook at intermitted periods and she unconsciously chewed her bottom lip. Her make-up bag was torn and tatty, her brushes and lipstick dirty with dust and grime. She picked up her lukewarm, third-hand straighteners whilst her hands were momentarily steady. She looked in the mirror as she did this, but looked past her own face, too ghostly and emaciated for her to see, and she saw only how well her make-up was applied and how straight her hair was. The night was cold but it was clear; this was better for business as customers are far fewer on rainy evenings. She found some cheap foundation and applied it to the bruise across her clavicle; it made little difference.
She wasn’t hungry but knew she should be; she had lost nearly 3 stone in the last two months, not that she had really noticed. She half zipped up her broken make-up bag and began to shake more violently than before. She was in pain; desperately, she searched the floor for any cocaine that may have fallen; she scavenged through the pockets on her denim jeans, her small white jacket, and tipped the bed upside down. All she found was half a cigarette. That would have to do for now. She opened her fake Prada bag (that she had stolen from the market last year) and checked its contents; she had thirty condoms which she had spent hours collecting for free from nursing stations across Croydon; a double pack of lubricant, a half empty bottle of mace, chewing gum, a small purse - empty but waiting, a lighter, two blunt but clean needles, and a picture of her little Jamie, who was then six months’ old and the last picture she had of her; she was now nearly three. She threw her lipstick in with her mouldy crack pipe – just in case - and closed the bag.
She was ready; when she had first staring working on the streets she felt more anxious before she went out and would spend several minutes gearing her self up and speaking into the mirror: ‘you can do this Amy, it won’t be for ever’. It had been some time since she had last felt the need to do this and now she walked mechanically from her dresser to the door with her bag, picked up her keys and walked out into the hall, locking her flat behind her. She was feeling nauseous now but knew she had at least an hour before she would be able to earn some money. She walked through her corridor that was on the 15th floor of a grotty South London council estate and heard the usual cries of young children and blaring televisions, all illegally hooked up to the Sky Sports channel where everyone was watching the big London derby between Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspurs. The floor was concrete; it was gritty, like walking on sea-salt, and full of cigarette butts and old chewing gum. She came to the stairs and walked past two teenagers from her floor; they didn’t speak but looked her up and down in a blatant, lecherous and disgusted way. She knew the look well.
She carried on down the stairs, dodging the broken glass from Friday night and getting out her phone to use its light on the 10th floor stairwell where someone had smashed the light in. Graffiti littered the walls – some of it worthy of being art – although it was housed in a dilapidated gallery. This building, in fact the whole row of council blocks was the true realisation of the so-called ‘Broken Window Theory’. She got to the bottom of the stairwell and walked out into the estate; it was quiet and the night clear, she could see the blanket of stars above her and even the faint red glow of Mars, or what she assumed must be Mars; it could have been Venus. It is ironic that Antiquity named Earth in between Mars – the God of War, and Venus, the Goddess of Love. We are as if its love child, nestling in between it; but a bastard child – a confused genetic combination of Love and Hate.
She picked her way through the burnt out carcasses of cars, now indistinguishable and with flowers growing through the cracked, skeletal remains of the chassis’s. She stopped just beyond one of these vehicle’s shells and sat on one of the few benches that had not been stolen, set fire to, or defecated on. This bench was left untouched because it was dedicated to the memory of Charlotte, a local social worker who had helped many families in the area who was murdered near the estate six months’ ago. The police still had not found the person responsible, but many on the estate knew it was Gaz Johnson, the local drug dealer who was becoming increasingly disconcerted that Charlotte was reducing his clientele by helping them get clean.
As she sat she fumbled through her bag, again using the light on her phone to see; she picked out the half-smoked cigarette and her cheap lighter. The smell of the pre-used cigarette was a mixture of mould and burnt sawdust; it was also slightly moist, and took several attempts to light. As she turned the light off from her phone, it started to go off; it was Dan, her ‘manager’, as he liked to call himself.
‘Where are you, I said 6.’
‘I’m on my way, I’m not far off, just finishing a fag on the memorial bench, be about 5 – 6 minutes’.
‘Make it 2’
He hung up. Amy was used to his abrupt manner and figured that most ‘business men’ were the same. ‘Time is money’, and all that, she thought. She smoked the cigarette down to the butt and threw it onto the ground as far from the bench as she could flick. She pushed back her hair, pulled her top down a bit further and walked off toward the brightness outside of the estate, toward Lake Lane, her office for the evening.
Just round the corner she met Dan who was agitated and pacing. He grabbed Amy by the arm as she approached him.
‘Where the fuck av’ you bin? Just now, in the 10 minutes past whilst you were fucking about, twenty – count ‘em – twenty’ – he flashed both hands twice at her, so she understood, ‘potential punters drove up this road and picked some ova’ tart up and drove off wiv’ wot’ cud av’ bin my money.’
‘I’m sorry Danny, my straighteners were taking ages to ‘eat up and’ –
Dan’s face screwed up and he pinned her against the wall.
‘I don’t want your fucking apologies you little slut, all I fucking want is you to be ‘ere when I fucking tell you to be. It ain’t hard is it; I’m ‘ere aren’t I? Now, to make it up to me, get your trashy arse out there and get double – fucking look at me – double what you usually think is acceptable or I ain’t gonna let you see Gaz’ tonight.’
Amy struggled weakly, but knew it would only anger him more. She looked down and nodded shyly, and he released her; he then turned away and looked down the street, mumbling to himself in anger. Amy re-arranged her jacket were he had grabbed her and picked up her bag, which she had dropped when he pushed her against the wall. Back still turned, Dan spluttered, ‘You still fucking ‘ere? You ain’t making money standing in the dark, get out and there and convince those punters that you’re worf’ giving money to. And I don’t wanna see your face again until you have.’ Amy turned without replying, put her on her seductive, friendly look she had perfected over the years, and walked up the Lane.
She started to shake again; not so much from Dan – he had done far worse in the past, and he was just agitated because he owed a notorious loan shark ten grand which he didn’t have. No, she was shaking because it had been sixteen hours since her last hit, and her body was starting to feel the strain; she needed a good few punters - and quick to keep Dan happy and to see Gaz later to get what she needed. She might be in luck, the street was busy with crawlers and she usually had quite a few regulars show up on Monday evenings. It was always easier to lie to their wives on weekdays, especially Mondays because they could say ‘busy week ahead, new account just opened, better try and cut the slack by working late now instead of at the weekend’ or whatever. Some of her regulars were OK – most of them were married, in their 40s with grown up kids and bored of their lives. Apart from them fulfilling their lust, it was also exciting for them; the secrecy, the dirt of it. Maybe they felt like James Bond; who cared, they always paid well.
She waited down the beginning of the Lane; position was always important and the top girls – herself included, were always allocated the best spots. Her position was earned from years of working the same street, and winning the fights she had endured since her first few nights here. She would be one of the first girls the crawlers would encounter; to be the very first was not always necessarily a good thing; many punters are nervous, and might drive past the first one or two, or, in turn, talk to them to build up some confidence until he came further down the line. Amy was the fourth girl, in-between the soft light of two lampposts, and she usually got the first-timers and the more nervous men through this method.
Dan was right, this was a busy night and, thankfully, she saw Gerald, a 42 year old regular of hers drive gingerly up along the curb, looking out for his ‘favourite girl’. He stopped next to her and leaned across the passenger seat.
‘Hey stranger’ she said with an air of informality and flirtation, ‘been a while since I sin’ you ‘ere; lonely tonight?’
‘Hi there Ames’, he had been a regular for years, it was almost as if they were good friends in their familiarity, ‘yeh feeling pretty lonesome tonight; the missus and the kids are out at her parents, and I thought I’d give my old Ames a visit.’ She smiled a fake smile and replied ‘well, you wouldn’t keep a lady waitin’ in this cold forever would ya?
‘Oh no, course not, get in out of that cold.’ Amy looked down the road where Dan was glaring intently at her, as he always did; no one else could really see him, under the darkness of the broken lamppost where he always stood, but Amy knew he was there. She nodded discretely at him; she opened Gerald’s door and sat in his familiar seat. He smiled a boyish, excited smile and drove off toward the old abandoned quarry.
His car was a family saloon, dark blue, neatly kept and with old magazines tidily staked on the back seat. Amy’s seat had a cover over it, the only one to in the car; she had noticed his car some months’ back, whilst doing some shopping at the local supermarket, and saw that he did not have this cover on then. On three other separate occasions she had coincidentally noticed the same thing. She had learnt that a lot of men did things like this; he probably cleaned it religiously every time he drove down here, cleaning away his own sins with it and storing it away in a closed box, alongside his guilt.
They pulled up to the old quarry that had become a common ground for her profession to work since the police and the public stayed away from this side of town. Gerald knew this too, being a veteran of the quarry, and drove without asking to their destination. They pulled up toward the back, where some of Amy’s colleagues were already working. They all kept a reasonable gap in between each other’s cars; it was best to keep the illusion to the men that that this was their private time and area – it would also mean that they would come back. Gerald had a habitual method with Amy; he was, generally, one of the ‘better’ punters; innocent in a child-like way. Amy had always suspected that he may be a bit simple. He liked to think they were on a consensual date, maybe similar to something he saw from an American film in the ‘50s, where young men would take their young ladies out in their old Cadillac’s and, in a gentlemanly fashion, wine and dine them whilst preparing for some heavy petting. He turned the keys and cut the grumbling Diesel engine and turned to her, as he always did, like she was the pre-famous Marilyn Monroe, ‘You look beautiful tonight’ he whispered, intentionally softly, playing out the 50s film in his head, ‘I always wonder what it might have been like if we had grown up together.’ Amy sighed in her head; she knew the routine well and, even though he was harmless, she got tired and frustrated of this spiel, especially as she was trying to keep her hands from shaking.
‘You know I would have loved that Gerald’ she lied, ‘but I’m afraid that Fate dils’ us different cards, and ars’ weren’t meant to be. But I’m yours fur’ now’ – she hesitated and looked toward Gerald’s pocket. This was the most delicate part of the process – the part where she had to ‘close the deal’. Gerald saw her eyes drop and knew that this was the only part he had to play against his will; he sheepishly took out fifty pounds - in an envelope so he didn’t have to see it - and passed it to her. He instinctively looked out of the window whilst she counted the five ten pound notes. However delicate for the punter, closing the financial side of the transaction always had to be done as soon as possible and with minimal fuss. Many women had simply not been paid because they felt too shy to ask for the money, or allowed the men to make them feel too awkward to ask for it.
‘So, what sort of mood you in Gerald.’ She was impatient and perhaps a little too quick of the mark. She knew Gerald needed a little of ‘warming up’. Gerald looked at her, without really listening to what she had just uttered, and began to pour it all out.
‘You see, m’wife, God bless her, she’s still not listening to me you know, not the way you do.’ This had been the at least the twentieth time he had given his sob story to her; she slid her hand sleekly behind her back and shifted towards him to hide her shaking. She smiled impatiently whilst Gerald looked up at her with a hopeful smile; she smiled back and he went on. ‘I love her, you see – you know that, but it’s hard, after all these years. Been about fifteen years now, and the kids, they don’t make it easy. I don’t feel like we connect anymore, you know? ‘Amy nodded automatically – she knew the cues. ‘Of course, you’re young, maybe you think love is easy, but it’s hard work, and sometimes, well, sometimes you want a break, you know?’ He was working through his guilt, defending himself against it as some men did; he always needed to do this before they had sex.
‘That’s why I come here, and why I come to you. I don’t see no-one else’ he lied, ‘and I really like you, Amy. You’re a good girl.’ He looked at her more intently and his eyes changed. It was that visceral transition – from civilised to animalistic. It was as if, after freeing himself from the guilt and nerves that built up in him, he suddenly realised that Amy was his for as long as he wanted her. ‘You’re a very attractive woman. I suppose you know, I tell you often enough.’ His eyes burnt with lust, a lust he had stored away from his wife and the lust that could not be eased from pornography. He stared at her breasts – Amy smiled internally, not at the prospect of what was going to happen – that repulsed her – but that it was at least moving along quickly now and Gerald would hopefully adhere to his usual habits. He started to undo his jeans and pulled them down; Amy took down her thong – punters always expected her to wear underwear, especially thongs; this always annoyed her greatly, as she would just have to take them on and off again all night. She knew how Gerald liked it. She briefly got out of the car and let him slide over the gearstick onto her seat and her plastic sheet. He pulled his trousers off and she got back in, shut the door, and straddled his lap. Her bag was just below her feet, and she searched quickly for a condom. Finding one, she tore it off and put it over his distinctly small penis – which was a relief for a woman who has to do this up to twenty times a night, every night. Gerald sported a lackadaisical smile as she rode him. She faked her moans and mechanically rode up and down, up and down, hiding her hands behind the seat rest as they would now not stop shaking. Gerald always closed his eyes during sex; this was always better for Amy, because she found it easier when she didn’t have to look into a client’s eyes. She thought of being somewhere else; a warm beach somewhere, playing with Jamie, with no men and no dark streets, no Dan, No Gaz, no dead Charlotte, and no grotty flat. Just her and Jamie, playing on the beach, with a life full of possibilities.
Gerald started to go red-faced; soon it would be over. He strained and held her tightly around her waist for several seconds and then released. He opened his eyes and, sweating, raised a satisfied smile. Amy faked a smile back at him and told him her usual line, ‘that was amazing Gerald’ and winked at him. She felt sick again. She got off and out of the car once more, swiftly pulled up her thong and got back into her seat where Gerald had just shifted back to his driver’s seat, fiddling with his belt. After ejaculation, all punters become very business-like about things. ‘Right’, Gerald said hurriedly, as if he had just pulled over to check a map for directions, ‘I’ll take you back if that’s OK Amy’.
‘Of course’ she said quickly; she knew she had to give half to Dan and would need at least seventy pounds before she could get a hit from Gaz. She would have to do at least one more punter before she could feel the release that heroin brings, and make her numb for the rest of the night. It is easier to dream, to think of her warm beach and a good life when the sickly yellow fluid is flowing through her veins, around her brain and clogging up the bad emotions the mind emits.
They drove back in silence; Gerald had got what he wanted and had lost interest in Amy. Amy had never had an interest in him, and didn’t now have to play-act as if she did. He pulled up the other end of the Lane and she got out the car.
‘Thanks Gerald’ she said unconvincingly, ‘see you again soon’ and she blew him a kiss. He smiled, nodded and, once she had shut the door, drove off down the street back into town. Dan was already waiting in the shadows; he knew Gerald as well, and he always dropped her off at the top of the Lane.
‘You were quick’ he said indifferently, ‘Gerald shoot off early tonight darlin’?’ He smiled slightly – Dan was always in a better mood when she returned with money. ‘Sorry fur being ruff earlier yeh, just got a lot on, you know?’ He started to sound like Gerald.
‘Yeh, I know Dan. It’s OK. I got fifty from him, quick one; here’s two tens – you got a five to split?’
‘Yeh, somewhere.’ He scrambled through his pocket. ‘Second ‘forts, don’t look as if I have darlin’. Giimme three tenners and we’ll sort it out later.’ This meant it was already sorted – Amy was five pounds down. It was no use to argue and work him up; she had in the past and ended up in hospital.
‘Yeh, that’s fine Dan.’
‘Good girl.’
Amy really needed a hit and had lost money. She left Dan as he was distracted by a phone call and walked back to her spot on the Lane. All the regular girls were there; too many, she thought. It had seemed really busy earlier, but now everyone was back. She stood there for fifteen minutes and not a single car came by. Everyone was getting restless. This happened sometimes; maybe there had been an accident somewhere, or maybe the derby had gone on into extra time. Amy paced up and down between her two lampposts, occasionally looking up and biting her nails. Several other girls where doing the same thing; these girls like herself where heroin addicts who had gone too long without a fix. The other girls were calmer and less restless; these had the luxury of shooting up before they came and were less concerned about waiting around. She took out some chewing-gum from her bag and began consciously chewing hard to bite down against the withdrawal. Over the next hour, only four cars came slowly up and each passed her without even stopping to talk. She must have looked awkward and frustrated; the men were stopping at the girls who had already had their fix. Luckily Dan was too busy on the phone sorting out his own problems to come down and shout at her for not ‘giving it her all’ to the punters.
She was getting desperate; it had been nearly eighteen hours and this was intolerable – maybe even the longest she had been without a fix for months. She shook all over now and it was useless to try and stop it. Everything hurt, even her teeth and hair ached for heroin; she scratched at her bruised arm where a hundred needles had torn her skin. She started too look impatiently down the street and paced more quickly. Her eyes were blood shot and she was bleeding from scratching her arm. Then, there was a car. A dark beamer, a bit battered but fairly new. It cruised right up to her without hesitating at the other girls and pulled up next to the curb. It was a new guy - Richard; he had only been down the Lane a few times before and she had heard some bad stories about him. He was an aggressive punter and liked to push and poke and hit; apparently he laughed at one girl whilst she choked on him. The other girls looked over at her with a momentary concern, and then started to look back down the Lane for any more cars.
‘Alright my lovely, cold fucking evening tonight in it. Not fink you should be at home, all tucked up in bed?’
‘Girl’s gotta eat’. She tried to say this seductively but was too far gone to pull it off.
‘You alright there lovely, you look like you bin hit by a bus.’
‘Just the weather, bit cold out tonight.’
‘Fucking say that again’ and he laughed an unnatural, hard laugh. He was obviously drunk. Drunk punters were difficult – they could be violent or take hours to finish.
‘So, how about it m’lovely? Fancy a bit of the old in-out, in-out?’ He laughed again. Amy knew that she shouldn’t but she needed to get hold of Gaz as soon as possible before she became more withdrawn. She wasn’t going to get another punter, not in her state. She looked down the road to nod at Dan but he was still on the phone, pacing up and down, evidently more agitated than before. He hadn’t even noticed Richard stop by Amy. She turned back to him.
‘What’s the problem then?’
‘Nothing, I was just’ - she was interrupted by him throwing a crumpled pile of bank notes at her.
‘Problem solved yeh?’
She picked up the money – there was a hundred pounds in all – this would be enough for a good hit. She looked up and nodded at him.
‘Diamond, get in then, got a busy night ahead of me.’
She got in and he screeched off before she had even shut the door properly. She glanced over at Dan as they sped off; he was still on the phone; he hadn’t even noticed she’d gone. Maybe she could say she went off for a hit and keep the money for herself – it might be worth it, the pain was becoming unbearable.
Richard drove down the back end of town and past the old quarry.
‘We can stop in there, if you want’ Amy said absent-mindedly.
‘Na darling, don’t like an audience when I’m wiv a prossie. There’s a little car park up the way, just outside some abandoned’ – he swerved violently to the left then corrected the turn rather belatedly and then sped up. He laughed again.
‘Jesus, he’s really fucking trashed’ she thought to herself, but then withdrew again and become uncaring. She just needed the money. They stopped about a mile away from the quarry in a dark car park by an old cinema she never even knew had existed.
I’m celebrating you see – what’s your name darlin’?’
‘Amy’
‘Yeh, Amy, as I was sayin’, I’m celebrating. I’m a Gooner you see – know what that is? I’m an Arsenal supporter, yeh. Tight run game tonight, went to penalties and everyfing. But we got ‘em though, 6 – 5 on penalties, fucking beautiful.’ Amy wasn’t really listening - she just nodded at the right moments. ‘And I fought to myself, what’s the best way to celebrate – of course, a nice hard fuck from a little crumpet.’ He turned and caught Amy off-guard and stuck his tongue down her throat whilst groping her viciously. She resisted slightly at the speed of his approach but then just let him to grope her and slobber on her neck. Richard stopped and stared at her.
‘What’s the fucking matter love, I just paid hundred quid for you and you’re sitting there like a fuckin’ muppet. She had stopped hearing him; she had dreamily faded back to her beach whilst he was kissing her and it was too painful to come back and listen to him. He hit her across the face with the back of his hand and knocked her head to the other-side.
‘I’m fucking talkin’ to you Amy’
She turned to look at him, still not completely aware of why her head had moved. She heard a thud and the car shook and then she felt a cold breeze. Richard had opened her door and was standing over her; he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her out into the car park. A survival instinct kicked in and she suddenly became aware of what was happening to her. She let out a scream but he kicked her in the mouth and broke her jaw.
‘A HUNDRED FUCKING QUID’ he yelled ‘and I get the shy fucking prossie.’ He let go of her hair and dropped her on the ground and walked a few meters away, laughing. Amy scrambled on the floor trying to get her arms straight to lift her self up. ‘Where’s my bag’ she though to her self – ‘if I can get just get go my phone’ she looked up and saw Richard’s boot coming toward to her. She bent double and collapsed on her back. She look up at the sky and saw the red glow she had seen on the estate, ‘Mars or Venus, war and love’ she dreamily recalled. Her focused pulled back and she saw the stars; they joined together and made her Jamie’s face, smiling, like she always smiled. Suddenly she clammed up and couldn’t breathe; she fought against it but her body felt numb. She thought she was being crushed; Jamie’s face faded, and the stars dimmed, and the red glow became black. Her hands stopped shaking.
Richard took his foot off Amy’s throat and stood for a moment. He pushed her with his boot and she was limp. He spat on her face and kicked up some grit onto her chest.
‘Fucking bitch’, he muttered…‘FUCKING BITCH’ he shouted at her and it echoed against the old cinema. He bent down and shoved his hand into her jacket pocket and took out the hundred pounds he had given her.
‘See ya around’. He chuckled to himself. He got back in the car, threw her bag on the ground and sped off down the road. She laid there for three days before a traffic warden happened to come across her.
‘A 21 year old woman thought to be a sex worker was found dead this morning in a South London car park; her death is being treated as suspicious.’
This was all that was written about Amy; a small by-line in a trashy tabloid on page 11, there to fill a gap where an advertiser had pulled out at the last minute. It is the same with all ‘sex workers’ across London and Britain. The media has little time for such deaths, because to them, these women were already dead. The only time we, as a society, collectively gain an interest in this ostracised blind-spot is when a serial killer murders a large number of them in a short period of time in a small Suffolk village. Women are raped, abused, and murdered every day by the men of this country and we chose to turn a blind eye. We believe these women have a choice; that, during their GCSEs they went to their careers’ adviser and ‘Prostitute’ came up on their evaluation. These women are victims of circumstance, of drug addiction, of long-standing sexual abuse, of being bounced around from foster home to another. Prostitution is said to be the oldest known profession; where there are men, there are women who will take money from them for sex. We don’t care when young women are murdered or raped or abused by men that, statistically, we probably know – husbands, brothers, neighbours, business men, students, teachers, etc.
We don’t care why, or how debilitating their emotional scars are that can only be healed by decades of hard drug abuse to numb the agony of being raped as a child, or being abandoned by your mother, or losing your own children because you are too poor to feed them. Prostitutes are not the sinful blights on society; it is the men who pay for them who are. Men who will give a measly sum for what is a section of a woman’s soul so that they can take out their frustrations, their lust, their fetishes, and their hatred out on a warm punching-bag. Men are the one’s who should be prosecuted and thrown into prison; what kind of man wants to have sex with a woman who despises him; what kind of person gets off from using someone like bag of meat? And we are all guilty of the same crimes; we don’t care if a prostitute dies or gets a bruise from being hit across the chest by a drunken client. If it was a ‘normal’, well-educated young girl who had been hit by her boyfriend, we would all be shocked and the police would be forced to act. But, if a girl, disabled by addiction and suffering is beaten to a pulp and murdered in a car park, she is only worthy of page eleven news. Take a long hard look at the real criminals and the real victims and think how it would feel it was your mother, your sister, or your friend who was lying there. These women deserve better; from us, from the media, and from the society that rejects them and makes uses them to fulfil our sick, selfish desires.
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and (b) keep reading. And (c) keep dreaming because believe me, dreams do come true! 
