but by then the pre-med had taken effect and she could only pray that Tracey-Anne would be sensible and do what she had advised.
The drop-in centre was a haven for girls like Tracey-Anne who used it at night. The older women with more experience tended to keep to the evening hours of seven till eleven, though desperation for a fix sometimes forced them back out in the wee small hours of darkness. Tracey-Anne sat swinging her leg up and down up and down as the jitters began take hold. She shivered under her fake fur coat, wishing that she had put on a few more clothes, but hey, the punters couldn’t be bothered to unwrap layer upon layer as they searched for their honey pot.
‘You awright, hen?’ A dark-haired woman lurched towards Tracey-Anne, the mug of tea in her hand threatening to tip sideways. ‘C’n I sit here?’ the woman added, plonking herself down on the chair opposite without waiting for a reply.
‘Aye,’ Tracey-Anne nodded, her leg action becoming faster and faster as her agitation increased. In truth she didn’t care if someone sat beside her. Sometimes it paid to hear what the other women said about their punters. They’d moan about ones to avoid, those who threw you out of the car as soon as they’d done the business or the big bruisers who’d had too much to drink and were little more than brute beasts by the time they’d pulled you in.
‘Ur you no’ the lassie that wis gassin’ tae that polis woman?’ The woman’s thick accent wasn’t local, reminding Tracey-Anne of a woman she knew as mad Moira. Falkirk, maybe? Or some place the other side of Edinburgh?
‘Aye,’ Tracey-Anne agreed, though most of the girls who came here had talked to Helen James at one time or another. So many of her mates were dead and gone, three of them murdered; others lost to the drugs; it was no wonder the polis kept an eye on them all. Helen was there to warn them, she always insisted, wanted them to avoid dangerous situations, as she put it, so yes, she let the policewoman buy her the occasional cuppa. But she’d never spoken again about the night that Carol had been killed. Couldn’t bring herself to go over any of the details, she’d told her, crossing her fingers under the table. There were some things she’d been warned to keep entirely to herself. But, aye, the polis wifie was okay, spoke nice to you an’ that. It didn’t make you a grass or anything to have a wee blether. Not when the woman was doing her best for you, handing out leaflets about getting off the game and into a better place.
‘Och, she’s awright,’ Tracey-Anne shrugged, her eyes passing over the woman for a moment. She was older than most of the others, probably somewhere in her forties, her dark hair crimped around a thin narrow face, shards of rainbow light flashing from her dangling earrings as she shook her head uncertainly. It was odd that she had never set eyes on this one before, but then perhaps she was new to the city?
‘Are ye not from around here, then?’ Tracey-Anne asked.
‘Naw,’ the woman replied, fixing her with a gimlet stare that seemed to say that no more questions were welcome.
A tap on the window made both women turn to see who was there. A man’s pale face stared in at them, his breath fogging up the glass.
Wearily Tracey-Anne rose from her seat, picked up her handbag and headed for the door. Tam was peering at her through the window, one hand beckoning her over, making it clear that she should get out of there pronto and go and find her next punter.
‘C’mon, hen. C’mon. Whit’s keeping’ ye?’ he demanded, jerking her from the doorway so that her coat fell open revealing the thin blouse and short lycra skirt. Tracey-Anne hardly had time to pull it back around her before he was urging her along Robertson Street.
Tracey-Anne just kept her head down and let him lead her up through the city to her pitch. It was better not to cross Tam when he needed to score. Usually he was too out of his head to be a threat, but sometimes, like tonight, she’d glimpse a mean streak that gave her the feeling he might turn nasty. Just get him the money and he’d leave her alone for the rest of the night. She’d be back at the flat