Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [66]
Why is he looking at me?
The other runaways at the train station had called her paranoid. “Chill out,” they told her. “Bethnal Green has a reputation, but it’s not that bad these days. Lots of kids and parents with babies. Certainly not the worst area in London.”
Chill out? People who said that were the same morons who would tell someone in a coma to “cheer up.” She knew better. You didn’t stop for a cigarette, didn’t load your iPod, didn’t even answer your mobile on these streets. She’d read about the girl who’d disappeared outside King’s Cross railway station—blond and sixteen, just like her. Scotland Yard found her on the other side of Euston Road, her throat slit and panties stuffed in her mouth. Things were no safer in Bethnal Green, even if the tube stations weren’t nearly as big. There were still creeps begging for money, bumming cigarettes, asking if you’re selling, tagging along, talking nonstop to you, refusing to go away, looking for runaways and teenage girls who bit their fingernails and tugged at their hair in ways that made them ripe for appropriation to whoring exercises. “Those are just the flavors of London’s northern lines,” people told her.
Flavors? Ha!
Sure, once you knew an area, you could spot trouble and steer away from the dodgy bloke. She knew the difference between a normal person and those who broke the conventional rules of social engagement—the skanks who stood too close, rubbed up against you, grabbed a feel. But, realistically, what could a girl do? A man might think nothing of standing alone at a bus stop two blocks away from the scene of the latest stabbing. A girl doing the same thing would quickly be asked how much she charged for a blow job. Having a dally with a creepy bloke, being half nice in case he demands money, but also trying to get rid of the unwanted visitor without offending—diffusing a potentially aggressive situation—required a bit of sharp thinking. Even a bit of paranoia.
Just a bit. I’m not PARANOID!
It was a safe bet that the jerks who’d teased her and called her chickenshit had never been dragged along by the hair on London’s sidewalks. Who the hell were they to go slagging her off as paranoid? If those losers started up again, then she was going to treat them back to the playground crap they dished out.
You want war, then this is war, you shits!
She drew a deep breath, then glanced across the street. She had to focus. Jamal was dead.
Double OMG!
Her mobile rang. She was afraid to answer, but the incoming number was enough to make her shudder. It was him. He knew her every move. Sixteen years old, and her life felt like prison.
I am a prisoner.
Her mobile continued to ring, but she let it go. There would be hell to pay for not answering, but she wasn’t prepared to explain what she’d been doing. And she would need a damn good explanation. He kept track of every penny he gave her, and five pounds for an international calling card from the Internet café was not an allowable expense. She ducked into the convenience store, grabbed a banana from the bin, and asked the clerk for a receipt.
“Can you make it out for five pounds?” she asked.
“What?”
“The receipt,” she said. “Can you make it for five pounds?”
“You bought a banana.”
“I know. But I need a receipt that says I paid five pounds.”
“Then buy ten bananas.”
“I just need the receipt. Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, and then he grabbed his crotch. “Have this banana.”
Her mobile rang, and she didn’t even have to check the incoming number. She was suddenly all too aware of the bracelet on her ankle. It was always there, twenty-four hours a day. It was probably a lot like Jamal’s—except that hers hadn’t been put there by the police. She wanted to rip it off, but that would be a very foolish move. There was a reason he had shown her those photographs of Jamal.
“He’ll cut my foot off, too!”
“You want the banana