me want to inspect him carefully –
he's got boring country bumpkin written all over him.
His intonation, the way he puts a lilt at the end of each
sentence . . . he's a perfect example of a country boy sent
off to make a career in the 'big city' but never quite
shaking off his origins. Right now, I'm wondering
whether he really will pay me. Given his basic – not to
say downright cheap – clothes, I have every right to be
worrying about it.
The way he carries himself betrays an element of
routine: this obviously isn't the first time. He appears to
be delighted with how I look, and I pretend not to notice
that he's ogling me with his crinkly old eyes. I'm like a
gift from the gods for him: what more could he ask? A
student, giving her body for the first time and, what's
more, for a ridiculously low price. He's quivering with
pleasure in anticipation and is privately congratulating
himself for his excellent choice.
As for me, I'm glancing round frantically; I've been
filled with insurmountable fear ever since we met up. I
desperately want to get inside because there's only one
thing I'm worried about at the moment and that's being
recognised. He must have gathered that from the tension
on my face, because he's leading the way. He must have
gathered lots of things, seeing me there on the pavement
for the first time.
I sneak through the main entrance behind him. From
the way he's behaving I can tell he knows the ropes.
I walk behind him politely, as if trying to hide. I decide
I don't want to see the look on the receptionist's face –
he's no fool, he knows exactly what's going on and that
this room hasn't been booked in the middle of the
afternoon for a couple of tourists who've just got off a
train and are tired from their journey.
I've been so busy hiding myself I didn't notice the
policemen straight away. Joe didn't slow down or turn a
hair at the sight of them. Basically, he didn't do anything
to give me the nod. But they really are there: two of them
in their distinctive képis , chatting by the reception desk.
Now that I'm face to face with them I'd be happier with
the accusing stare of the stranger at the desk.
Still, it suddenly dawns on me that the receptionist
couldn't matter less, and that what might happen next
could have much more impact on my life. Policemen can
land you in prison.
Once I'm level with them, I look away, panicking. A
horribly familiar feeling of heat – a physical warning of
imminent danger – is spreading through my stomach and
tormenting my insides. This is it, it's over almost before
it's begun. This is it, I'm not yet twenty and I'm going to
be caught out at some pitiful game because I didn't gauge
the consequences properly. I keep walking while my
imagination plays out a sequence worthy of a Hollywood
film: I can see myself down at the station with a dazzling
white light trained on my face, and handcuffs on my
wrists, as I sit on a metal chair protesting my innocence.
And my parents are summoned to my local police
station, my mother in tears obviously, and my father not
even looking at me because I've sullied the family name.
What a nightmare!
I keep going, sure that any moment one of the
policemen is going to stop me. My feet keep treading one
ahead of the other, in spite of everything, following the
man responsible for this whole business, for my future
life as a convict. But what about him? Joe doesn't seem
in the least bothered about what's going on around us.
Fuck it, do something, the cops are going to nab us!
I don't cry out though. I'm so paralysed that no sound
comes from my mouth at all. Hang on a minute: if the
brute isn't batting an eyelid, then maybe he's in on it too.
Could he be a plain clothes policeman? Oh, I've really
been had . . .
I'm still busy hating myself, along with the whole rest
of the world, when I realise we're already in the lift. He
hasn't even suggested going separate ways and meeting
up in the room, which would have betrayed a bit of
perfectly
he's got boring country bumpkin written all over him.
His intonation, the way he puts a lilt at the end of each
sentence . . . he's a perfect example of a country boy sent
off to make a career in the 'big city' but never quite
shaking off his origins. Right now, I'm wondering
whether he really will pay me. Given his basic – not to
say downright cheap – clothes, I have every right to be
worrying about it.
The way he carries himself betrays an element of
routine: this obviously isn't the first time. He appears to
be delighted with how I look, and I pretend not to notice
that he's ogling me with his crinkly old eyes. I'm like a
gift from the gods for him: what more could he ask? A
student, giving her body for the first time and, what's
more, for a ridiculously low price. He's quivering with
pleasure in anticipation and is privately congratulating
himself for his excellent choice.
As for me, I'm glancing round frantically; I've been
filled with insurmountable fear ever since we met up. I
desperately want to get inside because there's only one
thing I'm worried about at the moment and that's being
recognised. He must have gathered that from the tension
on my face, because he's leading the way. He must have
gathered lots of things, seeing me there on the pavement
for the first time.
I sneak through the main entrance behind him. From
the way he's behaving I can tell he knows the ropes.
I walk behind him politely, as if trying to hide. I decide
I don't want to see the look on the receptionist's face –
he's no fool, he knows exactly what's going on and that
this room hasn't been booked in the middle of the
afternoon for a couple of tourists who've just got off a
train and are tired from their journey.
I've been so busy hiding myself I didn't notice the
policemen straight away. Joe didn't slow down or turn a
hair at the sight of them. Basically, he didn't do anything
to give me the nod. But they really are there: two of them
in their distinctive képis , chatting by the reception desk.
Now that I'm face to face with them I'd be happier with
the accusing stare of the stranger at the desk.
Still, it suddenly dawns on me that the receptionist
couldn't matter less, and that what might happen next
could have much more impact on my life. Policemen can
land you in prison.
Once I'm level with them, I look away, panicking. A
horribly familiar feeling of heat – a physical warning of
imminent danger – is spreading through my stomach and
tormenting my insides. This is it, it's over almost before
it's begun. This is it, I'm not yet twenty and I'm going to
be caught out at some pitiful game because I didn't gauge
the consequences properly. I keep walking while my
imagination plays out a sequence worthy of a Hollywood
film: I can see myself down at the station with a dazzling
white light trained on my face, and handcuffs on my
wrists, as I sit on a metal chair protesting my innocence.
And my parents are summoned to my local police
station, my mother in tears obviously, and my father not
even looking at me because I've sullied the family name.
What a nightmare!
I keep going, sure that any moment one of the
policemen is going to stop me. My feet keep treading one
ahead of the other, in spite of everything, following the
man responsible for this whole business, for my future
life as a convict. But what about him? Joe doesn't seem
in the least bothered about what's going on around us.
Fuck it, do something, the cops are going to nab us!
I don't cry out though. I'm so paralysed that no sound
comes from my mouth at all. Hang on a minute: if the
brute isn't batting an eyelid, then maybe he's in on it too.
Could he be a plain clothes policeman? Oh, I've really
been had . . .
I'm still busy hating myself, along with the whole rest
of the world, when I realise we're already in the lift. He
hasn't even suggested going separate ways and meeting
up in the room, which would have betrayed a bit of
perfectly
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