Fishnet (24 page)

Because that's the transaction. That's what we're going for really; that point of exchange where I can intimidate them into respecting me, but still leave them feeling manly, moved, protective. Because one sour bastard leaving a bad review could hurt my business worse than an over-long fingernail can tear, and that's the deal I've made. And there are worse deals you can make –

Oh, stop. Stop the show. This one isn't going out there. You don't get to see this. It's just for me.

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Six

Us

The hard stone of the Drag, again, as grey and nothing as today's flat, void sky. I stumble a bit on the concrete pitched slope I used to walk down every day, because my body doesn't recognise the balance needed any more. I'm out of the way of it.

Closed doors everywhere: the geographic heart of a city shut down at weekends. There's more to it, though: every third or fourth business is boarded up, the vacancy advertised in fading yellow, a jolt against the quiet streets.

TO LET

A number to call.

The long-faded warning signs that a crash was coming.

I'm early, deliberately. Not being nostalgic: I've no intention of sticking a wistful nose between the bars of what used to be the RDJ Construction car park gate. I just wanted to feel it around me, this area. I wanted to feel my own smallness under these buildings again, remind myself why I got out, why it was good that I got out. Instead, the whole of the Drag spreads out underneath me, coming closer as I begin to speed up, hunching my new leather jacket tighter around me, splashing coffee from a still-scorching cardboard cup. Through the grey there's a hard-edged beauty about it, the many storeys of steel and glass.

Tiny movement in the corner of my eye: something in one of the lanes ahead, a rustling in the shadow. I keep on down the hill, holding my legs back from breaking into a run, taking the time to use the proffered windows into empty call centre stations, vacated offices. All those jobs, one for every desk or computer monitor, precarious or already outsourced. A leopard-print thong draped on a parking meter. I give into the run for the last
block, because no-one can see me, using the pace to take me round the corner on to the flat.

Almost four years on from the plans, the protests, the building collapse, and they haven't even touched the site. There's a notice up proclaiming it unsafe, and splintering chipboard where the blue-painted Sanctuary Base door used to be, but no sign that anyone's taken an interest in it. It's just been left there, to go back to nature, weeds springing out of cracks on the upper floors. Still, it all looks complete, sturdy even, from out here. I wonder which bit of it fell in on Norman.

The girls, these days, have mostly been moved on. Gates wedge up most of the lanes, council iron, strong. They've drifted down to the river, hidden themselves away online. It's harder to reach them.

Footsteps. I'm pretty sure it's her, but I continue looking up at the building, throwing my neck so far back I'm at right angles. I let her come right up to me, take in the warmth of having a person beside me for a moment, an idea of height and weight in the air.

You

Camilla has one of those faces. One of those faces that used to be beautiful and hasn't yet realised it isn't, quite, any more; sour etchings around her mouth, a forehead that may have been repackaged, eyes with not enough spark in them to pull you past it. And she's thin, so, so thin. The well-cut dress, the heels and the huge head of styled, expensively-streaked tawny gold waves would have intimidated me straight off if I hadn't noticed all this. Camilla the destroyer. Camilla the cause, the tempter. I'd made her into such a huge symbol in my head. Just a person. Just a strained, thin person.

She clocks me, comes over to the table, doesn't bother to introduce herself.

‘Christ. You really do look like her.' Her laugh is one mirthless note. ‘I mean, there are differences, sure, but family resemblance much?'

I don't really feel that she's earned this informality. There's an edge to it, a contempt. I'm remembering what Ally McKay said, that she'd laughed about my sister, called her a silly little cow. Sure, I've called Rona worse. But I've got reason, and besides, I'm related. I stand up to shake her hand, letting her know the expected protocol. These investigations, from hereon, will be conducted professionally, and will proceed as I want them to.

‘I'm Fiona. Thank you for coming to meet with me.'

She takes my hand, resets her face to serious, and we both sit back down.

‘Now, I'm not sure whether you know this, but my sister has been missing for seven years. She left Edinburgh, I understand, in some distress, after a period of close acquaintance with you; while we know that she then spent some time living up north, I'd like you to tell me about the period that led up to that. As I said, I'm happy to buy lunch for you in return. Perhaps you'd like a glass of wine?'

‘That would be lovely, thank you.'

She modulates her tones to mine almost exactly, with a mocking aftertaste.

‘I should let you know in advance that I was given your name by a man called Ally McKay, who filled me in on how you and Rona spent some of your time together. I also know that following her acquaintance with you, she earned money as a sex worker. Mr McKay told me that you were the person who introduced her to this profession.'

‘Mr McKay.' Something like a smirk works her mouth. ‘Lovely. Glass of Viognier and a green salad, please. No dressing.'

I've put so much concentration into my performance I haven't noticed the waiter standing by.

‘Tell you what, darling,' she says, after he's gone. ‘I'm happy to help however I can, but you really are going to have to be a little more discreet than that. So. Not a peep from her in seven years, then?'

‘No. And my parents have raised the possibility we could have her declared legally dead now. So I'm – we're making one final attempt to look for her.'

‘Gotcha. Urgency is the thing, yeah? May I ask, why only now?'

‘We spent a considerable amount of time, patience and money looking for her. There was nothing for years, but suddenly, just in the last few months, there's been a new burst of information.'

She's right, though, and she knows she's rattled me. Running into Ally might have been a coincidence, but I could have gone and spoken to Christina again any time over the past few years. And I didn't.

‘It's not leading us anywhere conclusive, though. Now, I'm aware that things between you and Rona didn't end well, but for a while you seem to have been her close friend, and so I'd really appreciate it if you can think of anything, any clue as to where she might have gone.'

And again, deflected.

‘Wouldn't it be easier on your family just to have her declared
dead? I mean, you'd think after seven years, if she'd wanted to be found – must be hard on you, mm?'

Camilla dropped her head, smoothed out a cuticle. God, she really didn't care. The words had all been said in the right order, but there was absolutely no concern here, none at all. Was this how she worked, this woman – cutting a thin blade through life, through other people's lives, stepping through, moving on? Could you be happy in a life lived like that?

Not that I was any expert in attachments myself, or happiness. The callousness though, the dismissing of my family, our worries, all contained in that one little gesture. The attraction she and Rona must have felt for each other, two beautiful sociopaths.

‘I understand this isn't an issue you're particularly invested in, Camilla. I'm sure there are far more important things you could be doing right now. I'm sure my family's pain is of absolutely no consequence to you. On that note, is there any point in us sitting through lunch? If you're not interested in telling me anything, I don't really see that I'm interested in being around you.'

And like that, her face sparked awake. Joints slow and liquid, she leaned across the table, rested a hand around her face, sucked idly at a fingertip for a second.

Game played, game won: coup de grace.

‘So. How's my goddaughter?'

XXX

How had I found her? Camilla, the gatekeeper, the final clue, always out of reach. She certainly didn't advertise in the usual way. She wasn't Googleable – god, no, darling – didn't run an outspoken blog or cheeky pay-per-view peep show website. Camilla, who worked for the most exclusive escort agency in the country, only saw very, very rich men. Politicians. CEOs. Visiting dignitaries. Her agent's phone number was locked in the BlackBerries of the concierges of five star hotels and country clubs, passed from gentleman's gentleman to gentleman's
gentleman, and even managing to get the number didn't necessarily guarantee you a date with her.

It wasn't so much that she was ravishingly lovely, she would admit very honestly to me later, or that she had any particularly unusual talents (‘although I am a great fack, darling. Obviously'). It was the very exclusivity of it.

‘Oh, they rather go for it, yeah? The fact that hardly anyone can afford me. These chaps just like to think they're getting the best of the best, you know? And, obv, the accent helps. I mean, they can meet me and know straight away that I understand their world, lovely: I'm not some little street-girl faker who'll tell tales to the tabloids. Or worse, one of those bloody Eastern Euros, you know?'

As I was very much indebted to ‘one of those bloody Eastern Euros', and had absolutely no frame of reference whatsoever for anything else she was saying, I kept quiet.

Me

It had been my newly-proactive Dad who'd forced the issue, eventually. Just the very fact of it having been seven years seemed to have jolted him out of our comfortable mutual torpor: that the law considered it an appropriate mourning period was good enough for him, and he had every intention of bringing the rest of the family with him. He was happy to respect my need to think over actually having her declared dead, but was giving absolutely no ground in any other part of his life. Physically, you could see the change in him too: he was standing taller, his beard was trimmed and neat and there was colour in his cheeks. I was also fairly sure I'd overheard sex noises coming from downstairs.

‘Right. Fiona. Have you had a look at that email I sent you, with the new careers website details?'

‘Sorry Dad. I haven't really been looking at my emails.'

‘Why not? What if you're missing job offers? Interviews?'

‘Well, I haven't really been applying for anything recently.'

‘How recently? What do you mean?'

‘At all. I haven't really seen anything appropriate.'

He walked over to my computer, which was still shut where I'd left it, brushed a layer of dust off it.

‘You won't see anything appropriate if you don't look, will you? Come on. Your mother and I have been very patient with you in this period, but we simply can't provide for you indefinitely.'

He pulled himself straight, formal, and I saw the teacher in him. He hadn't always been feeble and a laughing stock, my dad.

‘I would also remind you that you argued for a long time that you, and not your mother or I, would be Bethan's chief carer. While I'm happy to support my grandchild in any way I can, you undertook a very significant responsibility to your d–. To your daughter.'

It may be the first time he's directly referred to Beth as mine.
The moment takes us both by surprise, but he recovers first, still steely.

‘To your daughter. And, quite simply, you need to be employed in order to fulfil that responsibility. If you have no other plans for the rest of the afternoon, I suggest you spend the afternoon searching for jobs.'

He taps the computer, and the dust brings him near to a sneeze, snaps him out of it.

‘Anyway, love. I brought you this thing. It's an info sheet – a sort of template, you see? We've been doing CVs with the fourth year. I thought it would help you lay yours out properly.'

And he's shy suddenly, almost cringing as he hands me a dog-eared sheet of A4 with wrenched-out staples, scurries to the door calling over his shoulder.

‘I'd be happy to help you, Fiona. I could have a look at it for you, if you want?'

I'm shamed more by his sweetness than the lecture, and switch the computer on for the first time in almost a month. It connects to the internet automatically, reloading all my bookmarks for me, all the websites and blogs I used to sit refreshing obsessively, all the punters' forums and call-girl search engines with the details already filled in. Ping, ping, ping, ping, my other life, revving back up around me, its codes and colours, flashing GIFs and nipple shots.

It's like pressing a bruise, this feeling. It smarts, but you can't stop. I had reasoned with myself – just five minutes. Just until half past, then I'm going to go and look at this job search site of Dad's.

None of the searches returned any new Ronas, just as they never had.

On ‘Scandi Sonja', Anya's fingers were still frozen across her piercing. The blog part of her site had been locked down, though; there was only a short note informing me I did not have the authority to look at this page.

Holly's blog wasn't there either. In fact, her website had been
taken down. I looked for her on the ‘field report' section of the punters forum, where someone had removed her profile. The last review was dated seven weeks ago.

A session with Holly is always worth it, boys. Everything about her is delicate: her slender figure, her kissing, the way she gives head, her little cunt. Truly a special pleasure – treat yourself to a night of it!!!

And that was it. There was no way of finding out what had happened to this girl, no matter how worried I was about her, no matter how real she felt to me. I could have said something, that day when I saw her in town; I could have contacted her, made an appointment, just checked that she was alright. Instead I just carried on reading her blogs and reviews, like they were there for my entertainment.

Enough. This was just not my world: my world was my daughter, and the only thing there was for me to do was look at the careers website my dad had sent me.

My email inbox wasn't exactly overflowing.