queuing at another desk.
‘Who are they?’
‘They’re the people who visit the inmates, keep them company, talk to them.’ He saw Darren’s blank face. ‘The inmates’re allowed to have visitors, people who make them feel better.’
Darren looked over. ‘Do any of them visit Olivia?’
‘She gets more than anyone else! She’s famous, you know.’ Nathan sighed a little. ‘More famous than me, anyway. See that guy in the boots? He’s hers.’
The man Nathan was talking about was tall and young, in dark green clothes and combat boots covered in a sheen of white dust. He was turned away and Darren couldn’t see his face.
‘I fear you haven’t got a chance with Chloe mate, gorgeous though she is.’
‘What’s that?’ Darren zoned back in to what Nathan was saying.
‘That’s the boyfriend. In the wanky motor.’ They both stared out at the car park at a man in sunglasses behind the wheel of an open-topped Audi sport.
‘Shit.’
Chloe jogged round to the far side of the car, threw her catering uniform in the back seat and got in.
‘Like I say,’ Nathan added. ‘We’re too poor and too late. He’s come every day for a week.’
‘He doesn’t work then?’
Nathan snorted. ‘He’s a student, he doesn’t bloody have to.’
Darren was horrified. ‘He’s a student driving that car?’
‘That, my friend, is why you – and I – are in here, and she’s out there.’ They both watched as the Audi pulled away.
15
Victoria Coach Station, London
T he man could make his pint last a long time as he sat at one of the pub’s outdoor wooden tables, shielded from the rain by the dull plastic roof above the entrance to Victoria Coach Station. A few feet from him untidy groups of weary travellers walked past, pulling suitcases, before they turned the corner and were swallowed up into Europe’s biggest city, their long journeys at an end. It was hard to imagine that Britain was an island state when buses arrived in a continuous stream from Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam, Zurich and towns further east: Split, Krakow, Sarajevo, dust-blown shitholes in Eastern Europe he’d never visited – and never would, if he was lucky. There was still the regular service clattering in from Cork, but the girls on that route were older now, richer, fatter and world-weary, their Catholic innocence groped away long ago.
The Eastern European girls were the ones he wanted to watch as he nursed his pint: the thin girls in the cheap clothes with plastic suitcases, grabbing for their first post-bus cigarettes. They were the ones he hunted with his eyes.
There were few who didn’t fall into the arms of this person or that, weren’t insulated by family or an address on a scrap of paper, but sometimes he would spot the rare one: a bag so small she could carry it on her skinny shoulder or, even better, no baggage at all, and no phone. Everyone has a phone, people said. It was the lazy comment that unthinking people threw out. You only needed a phone if you had someone to call. And he could spot the women who had nothing and no one. The women looking for rescue, thinking that where they were going would be better than where they were coming from. Their fear on arrival at their destination calmed him. They seemed stunned by the size of the task ahead of them, how hard it was to start over, a new town with new and unfriendly faces. These were the women who had bought into the cruel dreams of youth; the delusions of the army of the missing. And he would grip the pub table so hard that he would break his fingernails.
He felt the alarm vibrate on his phone – he’d been here half an hour. That was all he allowed himself, like a meth addict who needed a hit. He was still in control of his urges – just – and that made him feel triumphant and invincible. He knew that the security cameras covering the exit of the station actually worked, that the film was kept and filed. Life was a series of calculated risks, and
‘Who are they?’
‘They’re the people who visit the inmates, keep them company, talk to them.’ He saw Darren’s blank face. ‘The inmates’re allowed to have visitors, people who make them feel better.’
Darren looked over. ‘Do any of them visit Olivia?’
‘She gets more than anyone else! She’s famous, you know.’ Nathan sighed a little. ‘More famous than me, anyway. See that guy in the boots? He’s hers.’
The man Nathan was talking about was tall and young, in dark green clothes and combat boots covered in a sheen of white dust. He was turned away and Darren couldn’t see his face.
‘I fear you haven’t got a chance with Chloe mate, gorgeous though she is.’
‘What’s that?’ Darren zoned back in to what Nathan was saying.
‘That’s the boyfriend. In the wanky motor.’ They both stared out at the car park at a man in sunglasses behind the wheel of an open-topped Audi sport.
‘Shit.’
Chloe jogged round to the far side of the car, threw her catering uniform in the back seat and got in.
‘Like I say,’ Nathan added. ‘We’re too poor and too late. He’s come every day for a week.’
‘He doesn’t work then?’
Nathan snorted. ‘He’s a student, he doesn’t bloody have to.’
Darren was horrified. ‘He’s a student driving that car?’
‘That, my friend, is why you – and I – are in here, and she’s out there.’ They both watched as the Audi pulled away.
15
Victoria Coach Station, London
T he man could make his pint last a long time as he sat at one of the pub’s outdoor wooden tables, shielded from the rain by the dull plastic roof above the entrance to Victoria Coach Station. A few feet from him untidy groups of weary travellers walked past, pulling suitcases, before they turned the corner and were swallowed up into Europe’s biggest city, their long journeys at an end. It was hard to imagine that Britain was an island state when buses arrived in a continuous stream from Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam, Zurich and towns further east: Split, Krakow, Sarajevo, dust-blown shitholes in Eastern Europe he’d never visited – and never would, if he was lucky. There was still the regular service clattering in from Cork, but the girls on that route were older now, richer, fatter and world-weary, their Catholic innocence groped away long ago.
The Eastern European girls were the ones he wanted to watch as he nursed his pint: the thin girls in the cheap clothes with plastic suitcases, grabbing for their first post-bus cigarettes. They were the ones he hunted with his eyes.
There were few who didn’t fall into the arms of this person or that, weren’t insulated by family or an address on a scrap of paper, but sometimes he would spot the rare one: a bag so small she could carry it on her skinny shoulder or, even better, no baggage at all, and no phone. Everyone has a phone, people said. It was the lazy comment that unthinking people threw out. You only needed a phone if you had someone to call. And he could spot the women who had nothing and no one. The women looking for rescue, thinking that where they were going would be better than where they were coming from. Their fear on arrival at their destination calmed him. They seemed stunned by the size of the task ahead of them, how hard it was to start over, a new town with new and unfriendly faces. These were the women who had bought into the cruel dreams of youth; the delusions of the army of the missing. And he would grip the pub table so hard that he would break his fingernails.
He felt the alarm vibrate on his phone – he’d been here half an hour. That was all he allowed himself, like a meth addict who needed a hit. He was still in control of his urges – just – and that made him feel triumphant and invincible. He knew that the security cameras covering the exit of the station actually worked, that the film was kept and filed. Life was a series of calculated risks, and
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