Page 14 of Demon
This would do, for now. Someday I would have a real job. Just the one. One commitment with more sensible hours. Sort of. Although, if being a social worker was anything like I’d experienced when I was in the system myself, I knew it was a tough role at all times of the night. But I could do it. I could change the lives of those kids. It was too late for my brothers and sisters wherever they were now. But not for all the other neglected and abused children out there. And if it hadn’t been for that one social worker, who listened, who trusted their gut. I shook my head, forcing the memories aside. I was grateful, in the end, but it hadn’t been plain sailing, and it still wasn’t now.
But I was a survivor. I’d escaped him, and then the Polish, somehow. Now I just needed to keep working, keep my head down, and the door to something better would soon be within reach. And for the first time in my life, I’d have something to be proud of.
I glanced at the clock on the floor at the side of the bed. 8.30am. I’d had another five hours’ sleep. One more coffee shop, Uni, strip club stint and then at least I’d have the weekend to recover. Sort of. There were two assignments to finish this weekend, but I needed to complete an all-day coffee shop shift and a shift inTroubletonight before I could even think about doing any uni work.
And I needed my car.
Reluctantly, I pulled my phone from where it was charging under my pillow. Yeah, yeah. Dangerous. But I didn’t have a bedside table, and I liked to have it to hand. There was a message that I hadn’t heard or felt. Demon.
‘Car’s out front.’
I read the text over again, then glanced at the door to my bedsit. Where my car keys were still hanging on the holder mounted on the wall. Kicking out of bed, I wandered to the window, staring down onto the street below, at the little red car that had been left in the carpark in South Shields. How the fuck had he got it here without the keys?
The hot water was all used up again, and I dunked myself under the cold spray, washing as quickly as I could before jumping out and wrapping myself in a towel. My body convulsed in a quake of shivers. Involuntary spasms as my muscles and flesh worked hard to warm myself up. And now I was very awake, despite the lack of sleep.
The car was unscathed and the driver’s side tyre was brand new. The rubber still had the white seal between the tyre and the wheel, and the tread was barely worn. I searched the rim. Michelin. Fuck. That was one expensive car tyre. Most of that money I’d made last night had gone into one tyre. Guess I was back to beans on toast for a few days. Fucking cars. Fucking Demon. I would have been better off sleeping in the damn thing and then trying my luck with a local garage.
I was still fuming about the tyre for the next hour and no amount of fancy, complicated coffees distracted me from the thoughts snowballing in my head. The coffee shop had been busy all morning, shoppers desperate to get out of the relentless drizzle and rest aching hands from heavy bags. I hadn’t really paid attention to the bodies through the door; every face merging with another. Extracts of conversations mingling together in one long monotonous drawl. But suddenly the tone changed. A different sound. A stark, harsh accent.
My heart drummed in my chest. The pace increasing to a frantic pounding like the damn thing might break right out through my ribs and bound away. And treacherously, my chest heaved in response. Heavy breaths, picking up a pace to match my heart rate.
The voice behind me still chattered. Eastern European words I couldn’t recognise. But the sounds I did. It was like a melodic Russian. The staccato pronunciations rounded a little more, a little softer. But the language was harsh to my ears. Terrifying. And still I froze to the spot, the metal pot held under the steam wand, my hand poised over the dial, not moving, the milk in the pot waiting patiently to be frothed.
The voice was feminine. Not male. Yet it still held a threat. Sweat prickled in the middle of my chest, cold, clammy, and anxious. And bile stung the back of my throat, my stomach clenching in response.
“Ciara! Ciara!”
“Huh? Yes? Sorry.”
I turned, flustered, dragging my mind back from somewhere else.
“A latte and a flat white. Large.”
“Got it.”
The coffee machine whirred to life as I moved around it, turning the dial, forcing steam into the metal jug of milk. And when I turned back round with the cups, the woman on the other side of the counter caught my eye. She wasn’t familiar, not in the slightest, but the language she spoke sent shivers racing through me. Not that I understood any of it. Her eyes darted across my face, pausing on the scar that ran the entire length of my right cheekbone. She smiled sympathetically, sliding the tray with her coffees from the countertop and picking up the conversation with the other woman stood just off to her left-hand side.
The scar tingled, like the flesh was still healing and was between that painful and itchy stage. I could almost feel the sting of the skin knitting together, a slight burn. It was almost ten months since it had happened. And although my skin was healing, the sense of impending doom idling in my stomach had never gone away.
*****
My day had sunk, anxiety performing a hostile takeover of my body. I scrutinised every face, watching for something suspicious or unusual on people’s expressions and mannerisms. And I eyeballed every car I passed as I walked from the car park to the club. And strangely, once I was inside the darkened building with its wipe clean seats and provocative red lighting, I relaxed a little. Despite the lack of doormen, there was always a biker on site. Someone to oversee the rabble. And although the odd random would create some trouble, the situation was always diffused quickly. Albeit not gently.
The place had its usual buzz. Booths packed with men and a couple of tables of regulars who came almost every night, spending a small fortune on the women and drinks.
“Hey, Ciara,” one of them greeted me as I delivered his pint of lager to the table where he sat alone. “How you doing today?”
He was an older man, always dressed in a shirt and jeans. Rumour had it he was a childless widower. And I guessed this was the one place he could get some female company. Or maybe it was the bikers that drew him here. Whatever it was, he always looked at home and the Northern Kings always swarmed to his table with energetic greetings and warm smiles.
“I’m alright, Billy. Tired. Looking forward to a day off tomorrow and a lie-in.”
He smiled. It was broad and animated, but if I searched his eyes deep enough, behind that friendly façade was a raw sadness.
“Here, pet. Get yourself something for your day off.” He pressed the paper money into my hand, closing my fingers over it, like my grandmother used to do with the pound coins she’d slip us when my mother wasn’t watching. And suddenly a sadness hit me too, mixing with the anxiety I’d been choking on all day to form a toxic cocktail.
“Thank you, Billy,” I whispered. And for a moment we exchanged sad glances, but for different reasons.
I didn’t check the money he’d placed into my palm till I walked away. With an empty tray in one hand, I glanced down, peeling back my fingers and watching the crisp note unfold into orange and red. Ten pounds. Might go some way to paying for that tyre.