Stay Dead (14 page)

Dolly had been on the streets for a couple of weeks when she was approached late one evening by a tall skinny man wearing eagle-tipped shoes. She looked up, up, up and saw there was a scar
running down the length of his cheek. She’d seen him about before; he was flashily dressed and looked a nasty piece of work, she thought. Dolly had just been thinking of going back to her
usual sleeping spot, but now here he was, planted on the pavement in front of her, looking her over.

‘What you doing out here?’ he asked, his voice faintly foreign.

Dolly didn’t answer. She stood up, gathered her things together. He grabbed her arm.

‘You on the game here? This is my patch, my girls work this street.’

‘I’m not on the game,’ said Dolly, who had a pretty good idea what he meant by that now. He meant the man-and-woman thing. So far, she’d avoided that, used her hands
and mouth instead. She’d seen his ‘girls’ – most of them middle-aged and shivering the nights away on the streets with short skirts and high heels, poor cows. They’d
given her looks – not friendly ones.

‘You better not be,’ he snapped. ‘I’m Gregor White, I own this patch, all right?’ And he walked away.

The woman with the posh fag holder and the twinkling eyes came by again a couple of times in the week after that. She never spoke, but always she tossed a couple of quid in Dolly’s lap
and then walked on. Dolly watched her along the road until she turned the corner and was out of sight. Then she sighed and gathered up the notes. Money was getting very tight. Soon, she might have
to go the whole hog, do the man-and-woman thing. She hated the thought, but at least while she was being poked she would be getting paid more, there was that to be thankful for.

Once or twice she got the bus and went and stood at the end of the road where the family home was. She stood there, half-hidden behind a garden wall, and watched her dad go to work with his
jaunty bow-legged stride; saw formal, upright Nige and pale, skinny little Sand come out, saw mad Dick go barrelling out the gate all dirty and dishevelled with his satchel flying, on his way to
school. Once she saw an ambulance pull up, saw Mum being wheeled out in a chair to go and get her brains unscrambled. But she couldn’t feel sorry for Mum any more. She could only hate
her.

When the money got really short, she did it; one night a stranger walked by and paused and asked how much for full sex. She thought of a figure, doubled it, and then she
went into the alley with him and did the thing. It didn’t hurt, not like when Dad had done it the first time, and the stranger was worried he’d catch something off her so he wore a
Johnny, so no worries about pregnancy and little dead bastards.

It was easy, really. She just took her mind off somewhere else while it happened, that was all. Easy. Or at least it was – until Gregor White, the tall man with the scar and the fancy
shoes, came back.

‘My girls been watching you, bitch,’ he said, nudging her with his toe. His shoes were clearly expensive, with fancy metal toecaps beaten into the shape of two eagles. He was very
flashy in his dress, doing well out of what his girls brought in. Girls! Most of them were old enough to be grandmothers. Dolly felt sorry for them, being at the mercy not only of punters but also
this creep. Men? They were all arseholes and she detested them.

‘So?’ asked Dolly.

‘So you shove off now,’ he said, leaning into her.

‘Or what?’ asked Dolly.

The first punch knocked out one of her teeth. The second sent her sprawling sideways on to the pavement and she lay there, winded, shocked beyond words, as the fancy shoes with their metal
tips battered her legs. She curled into a ball to try to protect herself, but he was in a fury and he kept kicking at her calves and thighs until she felt herself blacking out with the pain. The
world faded, and that was good; that was a mercy.

‘She’ll be all right in a sec,’ a female voice was saying. ‘Gordon Bennett, poor little tart! Who’d do a thing like that? There’ll be a
few scars to show for this on those legs. She’s only a kid.’

Dolly didn’t open her eyes. One eye hurt too much to do that, anyway. And she was frightened. Who knew what awaited her when she actually faced it? Coppers or something, wanting to take
her straight home? Who knew? She couldn’t go back there. She wouldn’t.

‘How old you reckon she is then, Celia?’ asked another female voice.

‘God, I dunno. Twelve, thirteen? Poor mare.’

‘We’ll wait downstairs,’ said a male voice.

‘Thanks, Darren. You are a love.’

Dolly stiffened. Her face where he’d punched her felt like it was on fire, her legs hurt like a bastard and the slightest movement sent it all dancing around, jittering along her
damaged nerve-endings, the pain, the anguish. She heard the door open and close. She was lying on a bed, she could feel it soft beneath her. Over the past weeks she’d got used to pavements.
Stone-hard, cold, painful on the joints; she’d staggered about during the day like an old woman. She knew it would wreck her health eventually, sleeping out rough like that.

There was a gentle hand smoothing her brow, but she didn’t dare open her eyes, just in case she was mistaken and the man remained there, inside the room, in case it was a trick and the
woman was in on it.

Mum had been in on it. Mum had let Dad hurt her. So why not this one?

No. Safer to keep her eyes closed, play possum. When she got her chance, she’d creep out, get away.

‘You awake there, girly?’ asked a voice. Female. Soft.

But she didn’t answer.

Safer that way.

But where would she go this time?

The answer to that was easy. Another street, another part of town. Keep out of the way of the prossies and their pimps. She was learning, and learning fast.

‘Girly? You there?’ The voice was light, teasing.

Dolly kept still. Safer.

When at last she was sure the woman was gone from the room, she opened her eyes. Or one of them, anyway. She lifted a hand to her face and felt the swelling there, the
soreness. When she lifted her arm, it hurt. Everything hurt, but her legs were the worst. Groaning, she hauled herself up in the bed and looked down. There was a bandage around her left leg, on the
calf, and a huge red-spotted plaster on her right thigh.

She was in a bedroom, in a double bed with lace on the pillowslips. There were pink cabbage roses on the walls, and some nice furniture. She could see herself reflected in the big triple
mirrors on the dressing table, where there were brushes and combs, perfumes and make-up.

Jesus! She stared at herself. Her left eye was black and swollen shut. Her lip was split where the pimp had knocked her tooth out. She probed the gap with her tongue – it was quite far
back in her mouth; it wouldn’t look too bad if she didn’t grin like a loon, and she had little reason to grin.

Then to her shock the door swung open. She flinched and strained back against the pillows, but it wasn’t a man. It was the dark-haired woman with the twinkling eyes and fancy fag
holder, the one who had passed her so often out on the street. She was wearing a red wool skirt suit this time. She smiled to see Dolly sitting up.

‘All right then?’ she asked, and stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.

Dolly said nothing.

The woman walked over and stood beside the bed. ‘Blimey, you ain’t half been in the wars,’ she said. ‘What was it, then? One of them nasty bastards, them
pimps?’

Dolly said nothing.

‘Beat you up bloody good, didn’t he. Was that it?’

Slowly, Dolly nodded. It hurt. She winced.

‘You know his name? Could you point him out?’ asked Celia.

But that might mean more trouble. Dolly kept quiet.

‘I’ll bring you up some aspirin in a second,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Celia. Celia Bailey. What’s your name then, girly?’

Dolly only stared at her.

‘You got a name?’ persisted the woman. ‘Come on, what’s up? Cat got your tongue?’

‘Dolly,’ said Dolly slowly. It hurt to speak.

The woman’s face lit in a smile. ‘Dolly! Well that’s nice. We thought we might have to cart you off to the hospital first off when I found you, but Darren carried you up
here and I had a look at you and I think you’re going to be just fine. Nothing broken. Not too much damage. You might have a small scar or two on them pins, but I think you got off pretty
light really.’

Dolly was going to be out of here the minute she could get on to her feet. You didn’t trust people, you couldn’t even trust family. She expected attack at any moment; she’d
got used to that.

‘D’you know who did this? Can you give us a name? Describe this person?’

Gregor White with his eagle-tipped shoes.

But Dolly wasn’t going to tell. Telling would bring retribution, Dad had always told her that. So she shook her head, then winced because it hurt so much.

‘Never mind. But if you do think of anything, at any time, you tell me, OK?’

Dolly nodded again. She wouldn’t.

‘I bet you’d like a cup of char, wouldn’t you?’ asked Celia.

Slowly, painfully, Dolly nodded a third time.

‘I’ll bring you some cake and a cuppa, wash down the pills.’ Celia patted Dolly’s arm, very gently. ‘Don’t you worry. You’re safe now.’

It was all lies; Dolly knew it.

For a few days Dolly felt too ill to move, much less leave. So she stayed. And Celia breezed in and out of her room asking questions about where Dolly had come from, where
were her parents? Dolly didn’t tell her in case Celia thought it would be a good idea to ship her back home. She missed quiet little Sar, dour prim Nigel and impetuous Dicky – even
sickly Sandy. But she despised her mum for letting things happen to her, horrible things, and her dad? Whenever she thought of him, she wanted to puke.

‘Ah, when you’re ready,’ Celia would say, very relaxed, and then she would spoon-feed Dolly morsels of food just like she was a baby, dabbing her chin with a napkin when she
was done, and Dolly would sleep and dream of nothing.

Only the noises disturbed her. The doorbell seemed to ring constantly, day and night. And there were always people coming up and down the stairs, bedroom doors closing, people giggling and
sighing and moaning, and the headboard in the next room kept thumping against the wall.

Cocooned under the covers while her cuts and bruises healed, Dolly decided to close her mind to it all. She could do that. It was better here than on the streets, that was for sure. Days
turned into weeks, and she was able to get up, get dressed. Celia had seen to cleaning her clothes for her, and although the mirror in the bedroom told her that her face still looked a fright, all
yellow and purple with bruising, she could open both eyes properly now. She brushed out her short mousy hair, which was straight as a yard of pump water, and went downstairs into the hall. She
could hear voices.

Dolly went along the hall and opened the door at the end of it. The volume of the chatter shot up and she was confronted by a collection of girls – there was one boy among them –
all sipping tea and smoking fags. The air in the room was blue, warm and fuggy. Conversation stopped short as Dolly appeared there.

‘Oh, hello, Dolly love,’ said Celia, getting to her feet. ‘Come and join our merry little band, eh? Tea, ducky?’

Dolly nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re looking a bit better now,’ said Celia, as she went and boiled up more water. Slapping the kettle on the hob, she turned to the room at large and said: ‘I told
you, didn’t I? One of those bastard pimps beat her up, poor kid.’

There were murmurs and ‘Ohs’ all round the room.

‘Here’s a seat,’ said the handsome blond boy, standing up and grabbing another chair, pulling it into the table beside his own. ‘Come and sit down,
lovey.’

So this was Celia’s family, thought Dolly. They seemed a nice bunch; friendly. She sat down beside the boy.

‘I’m Darren,’ he said, and held out a soft, slender hand. ‘Glad you’re better.’

‘Dolly,’ she said, and shook it.

‘This is Ellie,’ said Darren, pointing to a fattish brunette across the table.

‘She does the chubby chasers,’ said a hard-eyed blonde.

Ellie paused with her hand in the biscuit tin. Her face reddened. ‘Oh, very fucking funny,’ she said.

Dolly didn’t have a clue what a chubby chaser was.

‘And that’s Aretha.’ Darren indicated a gorgeous black dreadlocked woman at the far end of the table. ‘That’s Cindy . . .’ That was the hard-eyed blonde.
‘And that’s Tabs. Tabs was a vivid redhead.

Dolly nodded to all of them to be polite, but these couldn’t be Celia’s family, could they? Aretha was black. Tabs was red-haired. Darren himself was blond and so was Cindy. There
was no family resemblance between Celia and any one of these people – not even Ellie, who at least shared the same hair colour. Dolly’s own family looked somewhat alike, with puggish
noses, round faces, and blondish or mousy hair. They were none of them beauties, nor ever would be, but you could see at a glance that they were kin. These people clearly weren’t.

Well, she thought as Celia placed tea and biscuits in front of her, it was none of her business. And before long, she’d be out of here anyway, it wouldn’t matter. She’d be
back on the streets. Then she thought of the pimp who’d beaten her up, and shuddered. She’d have to find another spot to work. That was all. Make sure she didn’t fall foul of him
again.