Italian Connection

Chapter 1

A single-decker bus, which had seen better days, came to a halt just off the main road to Hatay, in Turkey, close to the Syrian border. Two men climbed out and lit cigarettes, leaning on the side of the bus. It was just after three in the morning; the road was deserted. That was until a minibus approached from the opposite direction to where they had come from, drawing to a halt in front of them.

A man of Arab descent climbed out of the passenger side of the minibus and joined the two, embracing both.

You’ve made good time, Alaa, I trust you’ve a suitable cargo for us? asked one.

Alaa grinned, revealing a row of smoke-stained, broken teeth. I always bring you the best, Kamil, you will be very pleased, I’m certain. Come, feast your eyes over what I have.

Kamil followed Alaa. Alaa pulled open the door of his minibus, allowing Kamil to look inside. Kamil switched on the torch he’d taken from his pocket and shone the light into the bus. Inside there were twelve children, aged between thirteen to fifteen. The beam moved from face to face.

Every one of them has lost their parents, Alaa began, in Italian, which none of the children could understand. They were targeted by my people as they crossed the border over the last two days. They did not even have the opportunity to register at the camp, so no one, officially that is, knows that they exist. They have all been fed; the calming drug I added as usual, so you will have no trouble over the next five or six hours. By then, most will be asleep, happy they have been rescued, and believe they are going to a camp where there are other children in similar circumstances.

The torch beam had settled on the last child, a girl. Kamil looked at her for a moment. This one looks European.

You are correct, my friend. Her name’s Imogen, she’s aged fifteen and English. Apparently her parents were working as teachers. The school took a direct hit; with both her parents killed, she was left wandering the streets in shock, confused, not knowing to go. We collected her when she came across the border with a family group. The family she came over with advised her to see the Red Cross. Alaa grinned. Fortunately, my man overheard them advising the girl. He approached her after the family had left and directed her straight to me. She believes I’m from a charity, and she’s going home.

This is good Alaa, and calls for a bonus. European girls always fetch top money.

We do our best - after all, if we did not intervene most would starve.

Possibly, but unlikely. Anyway, have your driver assist my partner to take them to my bus, while you and I settle up.

***

Kamil had taken over driving some two hours earlier. Already they had been on the road for five hours and now they were finally turning into a narrow street, with old buildings on either side, before coming to a halt.

Before Kamil had even climbed out of the bus, two women had come out of the front entrance of the building and were waiting. Then, as soon as the bus door opened, they were telling the children to get off.

Most had been asleep; the ones awake had been sitting staring out of the bus window in a daze. The trauma of what had happened to them over the last days was very apparent. The children began to stretch and one by one, with a helping hand from the women, they stepped down from the bus.

Come this way, one woman ordered.

They ended up in a large dormitory, where each was allocated a bed, before being told to get themselves washed, after which they were given food.

While the children were settled in, Kamil went through to a back room where a man was sitting with a drink in front of him. He’d come directly from Italy and was known to Kamil only as Duilio. He stood, and they shook hands.

Duilio was a tall, thin man in his late thirties and well dressed. He belonged to an Italian cartel, that dealt not only in drugs, but the trafficking of people, particularly for working in the fields or sweatshops of Europe. The cartel also, during conflicts that forced people to flee from their countries, would take children who had become detached from their family unit, or whose families were dead. These children were sold into prostitution.

You have made good time, Kamil, have there been any problems?

Not as such, but it’s getting more difficult to find the children.

Why is that?

Alaa, my contact in the refugee camp, has been telling me that the authorities are becoming wise to trafficking activities. The increased diligence of the authorities came about after a film crew was nosing around, trying to put a documentary together about the fate of the many children, as young as five, without family. They were leaning towards making claims that the children were being exploited, even suggesting that they are being trafficked, but of course they could find no basis of truth for that. As you know, we snatch them before they even get into the camps. Even so, it is going to be that much harder to continue at the same levels as we are now.

Then you must keep us informed, our plans may need to change accordingly. The ship docks tomorrow night. Will they be ready to leave?

Yes, of course. This time, though, we also have a European, around fifteen and English I believe. Alaa tells me her name is Imogen; she has no parents, both were killed and again it is unknown, she was taken before she could register with the authorities. I paid a little extra for her. It is good that Alaa knows such children will give him better returns.

Duilio sipped his drink. You are sure she’s not a plant? Has she been stripped and internally inspected?

Kamil shook his head. Not as yet, but they are currently showering and will be given clean clothes after inspection. The clothes they came in will be burnt, as usual.

Then pull her to one side, check her very carefully, and the clothes, before they are burnt. It’s not unknown for the local authorities to watch such girls. They are very aware how valuable those sorts can be for traffickers and keep very close to them, in order to break the trafficker rings existing in the camps.

Alaa will be aware of such tactics, you can be very sure. He will not have brought us a girl that held risks for us.

Perhaps, but check her well all the same. Now we should discuss payment.

Chapter 2

Gavin was hanging around the concourse of Euston Station in London. He’d expected his mate Tany to be waiting, after all he had texted, though to be fair he’d never received a response.

At sixteen, Gavin had finished school only a few days before, with no interest in going on to college; he’d had enough of education to last him a lifetime. Besides, his mate had texted a number of times over the last weeks, saying he was making loads of money, and he should join him. So after working a few Saturdays, cleaning offices, Gavin had enough money for a single fare to London, with a little over for food. Accommodation was his last thought; his mate would sort that, so he’d told him.

While he’d been on the train, he’d received a few messages from home. ‘Where are you?’, ‘call me’, and similar messages, not only from his mother, but his sister. Gavin had ignored them, after all, he’d no intention of telling any of them where he was going. If they had known, they would have stopped him. So the only way was to get on the train and not go back.

Hey, you’re here. I never thought you’d come, came a familiar voice from behind him.

Gavin spun round to see a lad with a huge grin on his face. It was Tany.

I said I’d come, I’ve been waiting ages.

Tany shrugged. Yeah, well I got delayed. Anyway, let’s go; leave it much later, and the best places are pinched.

They left the station, turned left down the side roads, past old pubs and a few boarded-up shops.

When you say places, what are you on about? Gavin asked, just about keeping up with Tany, who was legging it down the street.

We’re under the arches, unless you get there early, there’s no places left against the back wall. The squat was raided last night; they were after dealers, so everyone scattered. The problem was, the owners of the place moved in bloody smartly and secured the doors with steel bars. It fucked a load of the squatters up; most had left their bags and things and they lost the fucking lot when they were thrown in a skip and taken away. Not me though, I’m not that stupid; my bag stays with me.

Gavin stopped dead. Just a bloody minute, you said you were making loads, had a place to kip and I should join you. What’s this about squats? We’ve got nowhere to stay tonight then?

Tany had also stopped and was looking at him. It’s just temporary; the fucking van that comes around hasn’t been for the last couple of weeks, but I was told it’s back and was there last night. Now you’re here, we’ll both get a place in the van, and then we’ll have money. More than enough for a flat, believe me.

What fucking van?

We get loads of vans cruising the streets offering work for the night. Most just have work in back street factories; others do the cleaning, so long as you’re not off your trolley on drugs, they pay twenty quid, a takeaway later and drop you back in the morning. Then Tany moved closer. I don’t do those; another van comes around sometimes looking for younger ones. They take both lads and girls, so long as you’re our age they take you. Fifty quid, you get a shower, something to wear, food and a few drinks.

Why would they do that?

You entertain in back street so-called clubs. But they aren’t clubs, just a house with a few rooms. There you wank a few men off, maybe get the odd cock shoved up your arse, that’s all. Honestly, it’s a doddle.

I don’t believe this. You’re telling me this money-making thing you had going, was to be fucked up the arse all night by a load of perverts?

So how else do you expect to get money at our age, with no fucking certificates and a queue at the Jobcentre halfway down the road? Anyway, what’s wrong with it? Would you rather have a job cleaning or grafting in sweatshops that pay twenty quid a night, or this at fifty? Besides, I do all right; I got two hundred quid a week when it was last around.

So with all this fucking money, you’re still living on the street, or in a squat? What do you do with it?

Spend it don’t I? Go to the match on Saturdays, a few bevies at night and by Monday I’m skint again. But like I said, with you here we can find a place to sleep, maybe get our own perverts who want a wank, and charge more money?

Gavin was torn between turning back and going home, or staying with Tany. But to go home, he’d need to call his dad, have him buy a ticket, followed by a load of grief for weeks to come. Then if he did call, was home that great? At least he was free and London, according to all his mates, was the place to be. Okay, I’ll try it out for a week. But we use the money to get a place to live, and you don’t blow it all. I’m not living under an arch.

It’s a deal, but switch off your mobile. If your parents call the police, they can track it if they want.

Chapter 3

Imogen woke with a start, with a man shaking her as if she was a rag doll.

Get the fuck up and into the bathroom. We’ve a busy day; there’s a ship in with many sailors, a man she knew as Matto demanded, before leaving the room.

Imogen dragged herself up and into the bathroom. This room, the same as the bedroom, was old, the dirt ingrained. The bath was metal, rusting around the top. And then the ‘over the bath shower’ ran no more than lukewarm, and often cold water, which came out as just a dribble. She wanted to clean the bath, the toilet and the old washbasin, but there was no toilet brush, or even a rag. The soap she was given, was used blocks taken from hotel bedrooms by the cleaners, her toothbrush used by someone before her. With no toothpaste, Imogen would pinch salt sachets from the table where she eat to clean her teeth. Never had Imogen felt so dirty and miserable in all her life.

She had been handed to this man two months back, after a time at sea, locked in a cabin with two other girls. They were Iranian, unable to speak English. What little Arabic she’d managed to pick up, while living in Syria with her mother and father, had not helped. So beyond basic sign language for day to day actions, Imogen had spoken to no-one.

Imogen’s arrival back on shore had confused her. Transported at night, she was soon in a large town or city, before being brought to this room and introduced to Matto, who told her in no uncertain terms that he now owned her, and he’d be expecting her to earn her keep prostituting for him. She of course refused and went hysterical at what was expected from her. Matto’s response to her outburst was fast and ruthless in the extreme. With the help of the men who delivered her, she was stripped, then Matto beat her with a bamboo stick; the end that hit her was split into slivers, intensifying the pain, but leaving little bruising. Day and night for the next three days she was beaten, but she did not break. That was until the fourth day; she’d had enough, realising no one was going to help her, so she begged him to stop, agreeing to do anything he wanted, so long as he didn’t hit her any more. He seemed satisfied and left her in the room. At first she was unable to even drag herself off the bed. She just lay there, her body twitching involuntarily with the constant pain. Then over a week she improved; the only person she saw was Matto, who brought her food morning and night. The second week, he spent each night with her, working her hard, teaching her how to arouse a man and finish him off quickly. Matto had no value in putting a virgin to work, he wanted her servicing clients between five and ten times a day, not learning. With the bruising virtually invisible, she was dressed in underclothes, consisting of a thong and bra, covered only by a very short, tight skirt and blouse, with high heeled shoes and was put to work.

For the first client Matto was with them, watching as she undressed and climbed on top of the man. Already she was acutely embarrassed at doing this, even more so at being watched. But Matto wasn’t satisfied with the way she worked, whipping her bottom to work harder, move faster and make the man come. This went on all the next week - each time he would watch, each time he’d scream at her. Sometimes after the client left, he’d beat her, slap her around the head, or leave her without food, until she finally worked at the level he wanted.

Following her weeks of learning, he’d now sit with her in a downbeat bar, where men would approach him, talk to him for a short time and then take her with them. She’d go mainly to a hotel bedroom, but sometimes only around the back of the building the bar was in, to give the man a blow job. On Imogen’s part, she no longer cared. Her parents were gone, her dignity was on the floor. Each day was a living nightmare she had no way of escaping from.

Today had started no differently to any other day; by early evening Imogen had been taken five times, now she was with the sixth man, taking him to the usual bedroom of the hotel that Matto had arrangements with. The man was in his late thirties, around five feet six, with a stubbly beard.

Imogen began to get undressed, she knew what was expected and just wanted to get it over with.

I want to talk for a while, get to know you, before we make love, the man said in a quiet voice.

Imogen looked at him. Why? What is there to talk about? You couldn’t care less who I am, where I come from? As for making love, I don’t love you and never will, I’m something to shag, that’s all. Then you will go home, I’ll still be here for the next man, she replied indifferently.

Matto had told her in no uncertain terms that she was to discuss nothing about herself with the clients. They were all under instructions that if she did, they were to tell him. To make sure she was keeping to his rules, he’d often put his friends with her, to test if she were keeping her mouth shut. She was only there for one reason and she could expect a good beating if he heard anything.

Imogen was very afraid of him. She was also alive to the fact, with the way she was treated by clients, they couldn’t care less as to why she was doing it. As far as they were concerned, she was a prostitute, still young and attractive, and she was not to waste the time they paid for, giving out sob stories. Except the man in the room with her this time was different.

That sounds a bit harsh. I want to fuck you, yes, but I like a little foreplay and I’ve paid for an hour, he replied, seemingly put out.

Imogen laughed. So we talk, you tell Matto and I get beaten up. Just shag me and get lost, even ask Matto for half your money back. Tell him I wouldn’t sit down with you and have a meaningful conversation.

The man pulled a knife out from his pocket. Its blade, a good six inches long. He looked at her staring at the blade. The terror on her face was obvious.

When I say we talk, we talk, or I’ll cut that pretty face of yours. Do you understand? he asked quietly.

Imogen remained staring transfixed at the blade. She was now torn between talking to this man, or being beaten up by Matto. How she wished he’d use the knife to kill her, rather than leave her disfigured for the rest of her life. She decided to follow that tack.

If I talk about myself, you cannot imagine what my life will be like once Matto finds out. It’s unfair to make me do that. So use the knife by all means. But not to disfigure me, to put me out of my misery. I beg you, do that for me please, so I can join mum and dad, she replied, tears streaming down her face.

You’re that scared of your pimp, you’d prefer the knife? Why, after all, you’re a prostitute and only doing what prostitutes do? What’s it matter if we talk a little? I’m not going to mention anything we talk about.

Imogen sat on the side of the bed saying nothing, too frightened to object to his assessment of her. She was totally confused as to why the man wanted to know anything about her.

Suddenly he stood, she thought he was leaving. But he was not, he had moved up close to her, grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, the knife inches from her face. You talk, or I cut, was all he said.

Imogen was terrified; she couldn’t cope. Not even sixteen and coming from a happy family home, she was falling apart, with the way people were treating her. What is it you want to talk about, she asked, her voice very unsteady.

How is it you speak very good English, how many other languages do you speak?

I only speak English, she muttered.

What’s your name? Where do you come from? he replied.

I’m called Samantha.

Not what your pimp told you to say, who are you really?

Why do you want to know?

Just answer the fucking questions, he screamed at her.

She hesitated for a moment, the knife hovering close to her face. She had to take a risk Matto wouldn’t find out. Imogen, I lived with mum and dad in Syria. They are dead. Matto owns me now, she shouted back at him.

What is your surname, how old are you?

I’m fifteen, my full name is Imogen Ann Wesix.

Where did you live before Syria?

Ipswich, England. Mum and dad rented out our house there when we went to Syria. Well, they used to. She hesitated. Please, why do you want to know all this? I’m never going home; this is my life now. Then she changed her tone, her voice breaking, tears trickling down her face. Unless… you intend to use the knife on me and put me out of my misery.

He let go of her hair and sat down on a chair opposite. His manner had changed completely, seeming satisfied with what she’d told him. It’s very simple, Imogen. I needed to be sure you are who I suspected you were. With your hair cut and bleached, then the make-up you’re using. You don’t look like the photograph I have of you. I’ve come to take you home. I’ve been looking for you for some weeks.

Her mouth dropped. I’m going home? she whispered, hardly able to believe what he said. Matto would never let me go, he’d kill you and probably me as well for admitting who I really am.

The man shook his head slowly. I can assure you, he won’t have that chance, Imogen. I’m not alone and can call on others far more violent than he could ever be. Most pimps are only capable of hitting women, they run like scared rabbits when facing another man. So in answer to your question, Yes, you’re going home, he replied, so let’s go, shall we. Your pimp won’t miss you for at least another half-hour. By then, we’ll be long gone.

Imogen sat there for a moment. Was this one of Matto’s tricks? Would he be standing outside the door with the whip in his hand and a huge grin across his face? She shook her head. I’m not going anywhere, this is my life and how I live. If you really want to help me, use the knife. She looked down, her voice virtually a whisper. I held out for three days, each day I was beaten until I could take no more, now with regular beatings to remind me what I am, I’ve accepted my life and what I’ve become. My only release is death. She hesitated. If what you say is true and you are here to help me, rather than this being another of Matto’s tests, then tell my grandparents you were too late. I was already dead and safe with mum and dad.

So you don’t want to go home?

She looked at him directly. Can anyone really believe I like doing what I’m forced to do every day? For weeks I dreamed of nothing else. Then I realised what it would be like back home. I’d be alone; my grandparents are staunch churchgoers, I’d be dirty, unclean in their eyes. My name would be in the papers, everyone would know I was a prostitute. If any lad asked me out, which I doubt, it’d be for one thing. Who would go out with an ex-prostitute, have her as his girlfriend, or even want her for his wife? The men who took me, then Matto, have destroyed my life. She hesitated. I don’t want to go home to that, neither do I want to continue to live like I am. I’m begging you, use the knife, let me join mum and dad and give me peace. Then she started crying, burying her head in her hands.

He could see how low the girl was, she’d given up hope and now just existed. It was time to use his ace card and hope she’d respond. Have you ever heard of Karen Harris, she’s often in the papers helping trafficked girls?

Yes, I’ve read about her, who hasn’t? But what has she got to do with it?

A great deal, Imogen. Did you know she was taken the same as you, raped, beaten, then sold? She didn’t come home with her tail between her legs. She even went further, telling the world what happened to her, using the fees she obtained to help others. It was Karen who found you, Karen’s people who will protect you and more importantly, Karen’s charity will look after you, give you a new life. I am just the messenger, Imogen, the person sent to bring you out.

She’s here? Imogen asked, her eyes wide.

Yes, she’s here. Give her a chance to help you, Imogen. Talk to her, understand you are no longer alone, but with people who won’t look down on you or look at you as shit, but will be there to help you build a new life. That may not be as Imogen going forward, but let’s not go down that road just yet.

Imogen said nothing, still not convinced he was here to help her.

The man stood and looked down at her. I’m leaving now. You can follow, or make your way back to Matto. He’ll never know what we talked about, just believe you worked hard with me and he’s got you back quicker than the time paid for. I can’t force you, Imogen, it’s your decision. Like I said, I’m the messenger, you must decide what you want for your future. My car is out the back.

He left the room and Imogen sat staring at the open door. Matto wasn’t standing outside the door, as she believed he’d be, ready to come in to beat her. Could what he told her be true? Was Karen here for her? Imogen stood and left the room. At the far end of the corridor the emergency door was open, the man wasn’t to be seen.

‘I’ll go down the fire escape,’ she said to herself. ‘Maybe, if he really is waiting I’ll go. If he lied or has gone, I’ll run around the back way to the bar. Matto can’t beat me for going directly back to him.’

She cautiously made her way down the fire escape steps. The back of the hotel was waste ground, often used as a car park by hotel patrons. Among the cars, one had the passenger door open. She could hear the engine running.

Imogen looked at the car, then back at the hotel. Then she made up her mind. It was a chance for freedom. She had to take it, even if she was being tricked and ended up with a beating. It was still worth the chance.

Minutes later they were leaving the town, heading out into the country.

Get yourself out of those clothes and take the make-up off. You’ll find more suitable clothes in the bag on the back seat and some wipes, he told her, at the same time coming to a halt at the side of the road, to allow her to go to the back of the car.

Imogen quickly changed into jeans and jumper, with trainers, placing what she’d been wearing into the bag. Then she climbed back into the front seat and began to remove the make-up while they travelled on.

You’ve not asked where you’re going, or anything, Imogen. Are you not a little curious?

Yes, I am. I expect you’ll tell me in your own good time. As it is, you’ve rescued me from a man who’s treated me like shit. I’m even dressed in clothes I feel comfortable wearing. That is enough for the time being, but it would be nice to know your name.

He laughed. My name’s Thomas Scribble. I’m a private detective, engaged by your grandfather to find out what happened, to not only their son and his wife, your parents, but their granddaughter.

How did you find me?

With a great deal of difficulty, I can tell you. I knew your parents were dead. I’d found that out in Syria. I’d also found a family who insisted that they brought you across the border into Turkey. Then the trail went cold. I suspected, correctly so it seems, you’d been taken by traffickers. I knew a reporter who had personal contact with a military commander in Europe called Colonel Karen Harris. You, of course, know her as just Karen Harris. But she is a commander and runs a unit known as Unit T. Unit T is the EU’s answer in the war against trafficking and has a great deal of intelligence on traffickers, besides where and how they operate. Karen works at times with my reporter friend and agreed to look into your disappearance. That, coupled with exposure in the British press about your abduction, featuring in the papers, with sightings of you all over the world. We of course were looking into them, with most contacts discounted as crank or malicious callers, getting nowhere. Then a phone call to a charity called LBNF, or to give it its real title ‘Lost but Never Forgotten’, which is run by Karen, made sense. The caller told them of a girl he had been with a week before, which matched your description perfectly, apart from your hair. He would not give his name; he was married with children, but the information he gave was good enough to lead us to the bar your pimp had you working from. Surveillance in the bar for a short time, then photos of you sent back to Unit T, confirmed you were more than likely to be Imogen. I was used, in view of my age and not obviously being military, to enter the bar and negotiate time with you. We were aware you would take a client to a local hotel, where your pimp hired a room.

This all sounds like a story out of a novel, even down to how simple it was to find me.

Not that simple, Imogen, when it comes to anything to do with prostitutes, their pimps and particularly their clients. They are all secretive and it is hard to get information. If I asked any prostitute of similar build and looks if they were you, most would admit to being you, just to get away from maybe a particularly violent pimp. Then, if they did not admit they were you, they might have told their pimp I was around, and looking for you. When your pimp had heard that, you’d have been spirited away. Maybe even moved on to another pimp in another town. So you can understand; I needed to be sure you were who you said you were. That is why I was so aggressive, to the point of threatening you. Under such duress, no one would have told me what you did, unless they were the real Imogen, or knew a great deal about her.

Well, you certainly frightened me. But I’m curious, can you tell me what country we’re in? I could never find that out. Then I could not understand the language spoken.

We are in Morocco, in a small town outside Tangier. This country is out of the jurisdiction of Karen’s military unit that located you, but like I said, they are here and have been behind us for some time now, making sure we are not being followed. We’re going to meet Karen. She will be the one who will take us out of the country and across to Gibraltar. From there, you will fly to France in their own transport and stay with her while the traffickers are rounded up.

So I’m not going home then?

No, not for the moment. Karen wants to keep your rescue out the papers and let your pimp believe you’ve been snatched by a client. They want to see who he contacts.

She sat quietly for a time. Having been resigned to never going home, and then rescued, only to be told she still wasn’t going home - it had deflated her. She was tired; she’d had enough and just wanted the nightmare to end.

Tom sensed her despondency and touched her arm. Don’t be so down, Imogen. You will have plenty of opportunities to talk to your grandparents; it’s just that your rescue won’t be announced officially. We live in a dangerous world; you have seen a very small part many never see, so you know what can happen to a child. You, the same as me, the newspaper reporter, who now has a scoop, even your grandparents, must understand the difficulty these people who try to help the trafficked, have in bringing the traffickers to book. Just be thankful you are safe and let them find and prosecute the ones who did it to you. By doing that, you can save others from the same fate.

You’re right, of course. I spent nearly three months in hell, before you found me, others are still out there. What will happen, if anything, to Matto?

His days are numbered, believe me. Since the seventies, Morocco has changed its stance on prostitution, particularly with minors, and is very strict in its approach. If you’d been taken at that time, your life would have been very different, in fact worthless. As it is, the local authorities are already aware of your abduction, but holding back while Unit T delves deeper into the trafficking operation. You may need to return to attend the court case. Also, you will be required to make a statement before you leave the country.

Imogen said nothing for a short time, staring out of the window. Then she looked at him. I’m sorry, it was selfish of me to think that way. I just wanted to go home, that’s all. But if others can be saved by my rescue not being announced just yet, I’m happy to do that, if it can help.

It will help, otherwise we wouldn’t be asking. But you’ll like Karen, believe me. She’s very down to earth, and you could not be in better hands, Imogen.

Chapter 4

Matto had looked at his watch a number of times. The client was late bringing Imogen back. Already two more clients had been to see him, making arrangements later for her. If she was away much longer, they would begin to overlap and clients did not like to wait.

Making his way to the hotel he used, Matto entered the small lobby. A man was sitting behind a desk reading. He looked up and grinned.

Come to settle up, then, Matto? he asked.

No, I’ve come to find my girl. She’s fucking late and her next client’s due in ten minutes.

The man shrugged. She hasn’t come past me, so she must still be up there. Do you want the spare key? the man asked, pulling it out of a drawer.

Yes, if she starts pissing around like this, she’ll feel my stick on her backside, he replied.

Then, after snatching the key offered to him, he headed off upstairs to the first floor, where he rented a