Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [121]
He reached into that bag and drew out the first thing he touched. A scrap of white cotton. Creed smiled again. On their tour of the shops he’d even bought her new underwear. He emptied the rest of the clothes out of the bag. Threadbare jeans, socks, a bra and a long‐sleeved shirt spilled out onto the bed. The scent of Justine lingered on the clothes. He was surprised at the strength of the memories triggered by her smell.
Creed went back to the window and stared out at the London skyline. She was out there somewhere and he had to find her. But how?
A sudden cold wind swept up from the street and blew through the window. In an instant it seemed that autumn was over and winter was bearing inexorably down on the city. Creed had taken his shirt off in the bathroom and now the air chilled his skin. He shivered and turned away from the window. His jacket was hung over the back of a chair and he put it on to warm himself up. As he dug his hands into the pockets he found himself clutching something.
The cellophane‐wrapped roll of pills.
Creed smiled. He tore the packaging open and the liquorice smell was there instantly, like an old friend in the room. Creed swallowed a tablet.
He hesitated for a moment and then took a second and third.
Creed went to the sagging bed and lay down on it. The springs of the mattress creaked under his weight. A white fragment of feather drifted off the pillow, stirred by his breath, spinning up into the air. He watched it spin lazily in slow motion, up past the faded rose wallpaper, up towards the cluster of halogen bulbs in the cracked ceiling plaster.
Creed rolled to one side. Justine’s discarded clothes were in a bundle pressed close to his face. He could smell her on the cotton and the smell aroused him. From where he was lying now he could stare out of the window at a luminous rectangle of city sky and rooftops. She was out there somewhere.
He’d find her.
* * *
‘Do you understand what’s happened to you?’
‘Yes. I’ve been kidnapped,’ said Justine.
‘You have been recruited,’ corrected the teenage Japanese boy. ‘One of our agents noticed you. We circulate lists of certain physical types we require at any given time. We have a high turnover of girls.’
‘Like any knocking‐shop.’ Justine thought she noticed a faint flush of anger on the boy’s face. ‘I know about this place,’ she told him, hoping to cut through the bullshit. ‘Paulie Keaton runs it.’
‘Mr Keaton is a very notable businessman with diverse interests.’
‘Who runs this place, which is just a knocking‐shop.’
‘This is a high quality establishment,’ said the boy.
‘Which started out in the back of a lorry behind the Nightingale Estate in Clapton.’ Justine leaned back on the layered cotton of the futon. The ‘establishment’ looked like a classic Japanese home. She and the teenage boy were sitting cross‐legged on the floor in a clean bare room furnished with just a low table and the futon. Light from a paper‐shaded lamp glowed on the wooden floor.
‘In any case, this is the situation,’ said the Japanese boy. ‘You will have, on average, between five and fifteen customers a day. Weekends and public holidays are less busy unless there is a major sporting fixture taking place. If you ever have less than three customers a day we will begin to debit your account at a fixed rate. As an incentive to improve your throughput.’
‘“Throughput”,’ said Justine.
‘You will be routinely monitored for venereal infections and we provide a comprehensive medical package. Your cubicle will be monitored.’
Justine glanced up and saw the camera in the corner of the white ceiling, watching them.