The Madam. Jaime Raven

see why. As you just said I served my sentence so like everyone else I’m now free to make an arse of myself as long as I keep it legal.’

      I walked back to the car. Scar was puffing on a menthol and blowing the smoke out the window. She waited until I was strapped into the passenger seat.

      ‘Didn’t go well, did it?’ she said.

      ‘Is it that obvious?’

      ‘You look fit to explode.’

      ‘Ash is a bastard.’

      ‘So I gather.’

      I told her what had transpired in his office.

      ‘I did warn you that it wouldn’t be easy,’ she said. ‘I just can’t see anyone helping you out, especially the Old Bill. I mean, why would they?’

      It was the same question I’d been asking myself for ages, and I still didn’t have an answer.

      ‘Let’s go to the flat,’ I said.

      Scar gunned the engine. ‘Bevois Valley here we come.’

      I lowered the side window and breathed in the familiar tang of salty sea air. It beat the smell of prison piss and disinfectant.

      ‘By the way, the Valley is close to the town’s red light district,’ I said. ‘Is this your way of trying to make me feel at home?’

      Scar gave me a look. ‘It was the cheapest pad I could find. And it’s within walking distance of the bar we’re going to tonight.’

      ‘That so? What kind of bar is it?’

      ‘It’s big, dark and noisy. You’ll love it.’

      ‘Really? Let me guess – it’s called the Mercury Club?’

      ‘Hey, that’s right. You know it?’

      ‘Everyone knows it. It used to be the town’s biggest gay venue.’

      ‘Still is,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And you know what? I can’t wait to show you off there.’

      We drove along the dock road. A cruise ship was berthed in the port terminal, waiting to transport hundreds of well-heeled passengers to exotic locations. Maybe one day I’d be among them. It was something I used to dream about when, as a child, I’d watch the QE2 heading out into the Solent, its bow cutting through the water like a knife through jelly.

      The city was much as I remembered it, except there were more flats, more speed cameras, more students and more cars. It was the Southampton I’d grown up in. A vibrant community with a colourful ethnic mix; where ugly new buildings nestled beside stone walls and ramparts from bygone eras; where women were gobby and people spoke with an accent that fell somewhere between cockney and west country.

      My father had worked in the docks before he succumbed to bowel cancer at the age of thirty-five, leaving my mother to take care of my brother and me. Life was never the same after that. My father and I had been very close. He was the one who read me bedtime stories and paid me the most attention. I was a daddy’s girl for sure and his death left me bereft.

      My mother took it really hard and she never really came to terms with her loss. His death carved a hole in her life that couldn’t be filled. She was forever searching for a meaning to her existence, and unfortunately for me she eventually found it in religion.

      And there, just up ahead, was St Mary’s church where she did all her praying. It’s the largest church in the city, and my mother was fond of telling me that the sound of its bells had inspired the words of the song The Bells of St Mary’s, which was sung by Bing Crosby in the film of the same name. I was never sure why she thought I was interested.

      She used to drag me to the services, but I hated it. I hated the smell of the polished wood, and I hated the hypocrisy that permeated the air like toxic fumes. When I was fifteen I called a halt to it, stood my ground. My mother had given up on me by then anyway and didn’t go to war over the issue.

      ‘Your mother and brother live near here, don’t they?’ Scar said. ‘You want to go see them?’

      The prospect of seeing my mother did not fill me with joyous anticipation.

      ‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘There’s no hurry.’

      We drove on into Bevois Valley, a run-down inner city area full of student flats, live music venues and grubby takeaways. It’s a few minutes walk from the decrepit flat I used to live in with Todd, the loser who fathered Leo. He stuck around long enough to realise a child meant cost and commitment. Then he disappeared, leaving me to cope by myself. He never saw his son, and the last I heard he’d moved up north. Even the cops couldn’t trace him to tell him little Leo had died.

      The flat that Scar had rented was just off the main drag opposite a small motorcycle repair shop. It was on the first floor of a scruffy terraced house. Peeling paint on the window frames. Chunks of brickwork missing. An overflowing wheelie bin out front.

      It might have been a grim place in a grim part of town, but to someone who had spent nearly four years in a poky cell it wasn’t half bad. Even when I saw the flat’s interior I didn’t flinch, though I was sure most people would have.

      The carpet was grey and threadbare throughout. Wallpaper clung precariously to the walls. Some of it had peeled away to reveal rough, brown surfaces beneath. The ceilings were smoke-ravaged and lumpy and the net curtains were the colour of wet sugar.

      There was a living room, bedroom, bathroom and small kitchen that barely held two people.

      But amazingly it felt like home. Maybe that was because the finer things in life had always eluded me. Money had always been scarce. I got used to second-hand furniture, Primark clothes, same-day loans and fake jewellery. Real cash only came my way when I started turning tricks, and all that money went into paying off debts and building society accounts for Leo’s future.

      ‘I’ve stocked up the fridge,’ Scar said. ‘So we’ve got plenty of food and drink. I’ve kept a tally of everything I’ve spent.’

      Scar was excited. Could barely keep still.

      ‘Why don’t you unpack your bag?’ she said. ‘I’ll pour us a couple of drinks.’

      The bedroom looked crowded with a double bed. Scar had bought a duvet and cover-set in black. She’d placed candles on the tiny bedside tables and there was a bunch of fresh flowers in a vase on the dressing table.

      I threw my holdall onto the bed and unzipped it. Took out everything I owned and it didn’t amount to much. A few T-shirts, another pair of jeans, sweater, papers, some jewellery, a small photo album filled with pictures of Leo, my brother’s letters. I planned to go shopping soon to buy whatever I needed. There was at least five thousand pounds in the accounts, assuming Scar had spent a couple of grand on the flat and various other expenses. We’d cope on that for a few months, then decide what to do and where to go.

      Back in the living room, Scar poured us beers and lit a couple of spliffs. The beer went down a treat and the spliff helped ease away the tension in my bones.

      It all seemed so unreal. Like it was happening to someone else and not me. I was out. No more lockdowns. No more crappy food. No more shit from the screws. No more mind-numbing boredom.

      I had my life back, but even so I didn’t feel there was any real cause for celebration. I just felt like I had things to do, an objective to achieve. Until that was sorted I felt I had to hold back.

      ‘Chill out, babe,’ Scar said. ‘It’s time to scream from the rooftops, for pity’s sake. You’re back in the land of the living.’

      She was right and it made me feel stupid. There was no harm in enjoying the moment. The other stuff could wait. I owed it to myself to relax a little and savour the glorious buzz of freedom.

      And then I felt Scar’s fingers in my hair. She came up behind me as I was staring out through the window at the bright