‘She’ll be all right in a sec,’ a female voice was saying. ‘Gordon Bennett, poor little tart! Who’d do a thing like that? There’ll be a few scars to show for this on those legs. She’s only a kid.’
Dolly didn’t open her eyes. One eye hurt too much to do that, anyway. And she was frightened. Who knew what awaited her when she actually faced it? Coppers or something, wanting to take her straight home? Who knew? She couldn’t go back there. She wouldn’t.
‘How old you reckon she is then, Celia?’ asked another female voice.
‘God, I dunno. Twelve, thirteen? Poor mare.’
‘We’ll wait downstairs,’ said a male voice.
‘Thanks, Darren. You are a love.’
Dolly stiffened. Her face where he’d punched her felt like it was on fire, her legs hurt like a bastard and the slightest movement sent it all dancing around, jittering along her damaged nerve-endings, the pain, the anguish. She heard the door open and close. She was lying on a bed, she could feel it soft beneath her. Over the past weeks she’d got used to pavements. Stone-hard, cold, painful on the joints; she’d staggered about during the day like an old woman. She knew it would wreck her health eventually, sleeping out rough like that.
There was a gentle hand smoothing her brow, but she didn’t dare open her eyes, just in case she was mistaken and the man remained there, inside the room, in case it was a trick and the woman was in on it.
Mum had been in on it. Mum had let Dad hurt her. So why not this one?
No. Safer to keep her eyes closed, play possum. When she got her chance, she’d creep out, get away.
‘You awake there, girly?’ asked a voice. Female. Soft.
But she didn’t answer.
Safer that way.
But where would she go this time?
The answer to that was easy. Another street, another part of town. Keep out of the way of the prossies and their pimps. She was learning, and learning fast.
‘Girly? You there?’ The voice was light, teasing.
Dolly kept still. Safer.
When at last she was sure the woman was gone from the room, she opened her eyes. Or one of them, anyway. She lifted a hand to her face and felt the swelling there, the soreness. When she lifted her arm, it hurt. Everything hurt, but her legs were the worst. Groaning, she hauled herself up in the bed and looked down. There was a bandage around her left leg, on the calf, and a huge red-spotted plaster on her right thigh.
She was in a bedroom, in a double bed with lace on the pillowslips. There were pink cabbage roses on the walls, and some nice furniture. She could see herself reflected in the big triple mirrors on the dressing table, where there were brushes and combs, perfumes and make-up.
Jesus! She stared at herself. Her left eye was black and swollen shut. Her lip was split where the pimp had knocked her tooth out. She probed the gap with her tongue – it was quite far back in her mouth; it wouldn’t look too bad if she didn’t grin like a loon, and she had little reason to grin.
Then to her shock the door swung open. She flinched and strained back against the pillows, but it wasn’t a man. It was the dark-haired woman with the twinkling eyes and fancy fag holder, the one who had passed her so often out on the street. She was wearing a red wool skirt suit this time. She smiled to see Dolly sitting up.
‘All right then?’ she asked, and stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.
Dolly said nothing.
The woman walked over and stood beside the bed. ‘Blimey, you ain’t half been in the wars,’ she said. ‘What was it, then? One of them nasty bastards, them pimps?’
Dolly said nothing.
‘Beat you up bloody good, didn’t he. Was that it?’
Slowly, Dolly nodded. It hurt. She winced.
‘You know his name? Could you point him out?’ asked Celia.
But that might mean more trouble. Dolly kept quiet.
‘I’ll bring you up some aspirin in a second,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Celia. Celia Bailey. What’s your name then, girly?’
Dolly only stared at her.
‘You got a name?’ persisted the woman. ‘Come on, what’s up? Cat got your tongue?’
‘Dolly,’ said Dolly slowly. It hurt to speak.
The woman’s face lit in a smile. ‘Dolly! Well that’s nice. We thought we might have to cart you off to the hospital first off when I found you, but Darren carried you up here and I had a look at you and I think you’re going to be just fine. Nothing broken. Not too much damage. You might have a small scar or two on them pins, but I think you got off pretty light really.’
Dolly was going to be out of here the minute she could get on to her feet. You didn’t trust people, you couldn’t even trust family. She expected attack at any moment; she’d got used to that.
‘D’you know who did this? Can you give us a name? Describe this person?’
Gregor White with his eagle-tipped shoes.
But Dolly wasn’t going to tell. Telling would bring retribution, Dad had always told her that. So she shook her head, then winced because it hurt so much.
‘Never mind. But if you do think of anything, at any time, you tell me, OK?’
Dolly nodded again. She wouldn’t.
‘I bet you’d like a cup of char, wouldn’t you?’ asked Celia.
Slowly, painfully, Dolly nodded a third time.
‘I’ll bring you some cake and a cuppa, wash down the pills.’ Celia patted Dolly’s arm, very gently. ‘Don’t you worry. You’re safe now.’
It was all lies; Dolly knew it.