Fishnet by Kirstin Innes

to, ah, judge. Ha. Although I couldn’t work out how she was managing to pay the rent after she got fired from the pub. But anyways, I didn’t twig until I was sent home sick from work one day and there was a. A man in the sitting room. With his thing.’
    Christina’s tiny sitting room, its functional, cheap uplighters. How ordinary and dull a room it was, how unsexy.
    I could still hear her talking, though.
    â€˜Anyways, it turned out she was advertising. She’d been taking out adverts! It wasn’t just something she’d done for tips with a couple of guys she’d met in the bar or anything, not that that would have been excusable – I don’t know, maybes that’s how it started – but by the time I caught her she was advertising in the local paper and on the internet! On web forums! High demand, cause she was the only one, eh, servicing the tourists,but only working while I was out the house! It was my house, Fiona. My. House. I had to bleach everything. I got cleaners in, professional cleaners, and I moved in with a friend until it was done. Everything.’
    â€˜Ah –’
    You’re in shock, I thought. This is shock. I actually put it in those terms to myself. While I was doing that, I asked the only question I could cope with.
    â€˜Why didn’t you tell this to the police, Christina? It could have helped us find her. They could’ve tracked her online. We could have got them to look at arrest records or something.’
    â€˜Look, I understand that you want to find your sister, and that that’s your main concern.’ Her voice had been very tightly controlled, but suddenly she let it go, that tiny whisper pissing through the room.
    â€˜She was using my flat as an- an effing hoorhouse . I thought they’d think it was me, too, that I was her – pimp. I mean, I own that flat. I own that flat and I took her in when she bloody rocked up on my doorstep in tears, and she- She put my entire livelihood in danger, that dirty – hooker ! After we’d been friends for years- oh, god, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t – look. I’m sorry for you, for your family, Fiona. But I just couldn’t. Still can’t. Sorry. I’m really sorry.’
    City
    These were not the women I was looking for. These bosoms, matronly and welcoming, these round backsides, puckered flesh spilling out and around suspender belts. These knowing winks from eyes beginning to wrinkle at the corners, these bodies that weren’t slim, or that young, or toned. These were vocal women, mainlining opinions and their own businesses through their blogs, on Twitter, organising themselves in unions, advising each other, protesting their rights.
    They didn’t tally with the story I had in my head. I went further, searched deeper into recommendations. I wanted younger women, women my sister’s age or less, women looking frightened, coerced, or just gone. Women who were being wronged by the system. Girls. I wanted girls, who men were using, girls who were doing this out of desperate necessity.
    I can find all these things, of course. Anyone can find anything they want, instantly, any story they want to believe in, any pictures they need to see. It’s all there. Almost.
    I’d had this picture in my head of Rona prowling round the streets, one of those ghosts dropping condoms outside my office, but that doesn’t seem to be how it happens these days. All you need is internet access and a picture with your face pixelated out.
    Just a couple of clicks and I’m back in the right narrative again. I’ve found a forum where the girls and men both go, where the girls advertise themselves and the men critique them. Where be dragons. Where be young women photographed from behind, a lipsticked grimace and a splayed, waiting arsehole on every individual profile. Where be punters, and the opinions of punters. Field reports,