“So why’s he in there?” I say, clearly vexed. “I mean, it’s one thing acting the spy, but carrying a photograph of him in your purse like that—it’s not right.”
Ella pulls up the collar on her new sheepskin coat, her back facing Old Street Tube station. Her movements a little jerky, her eyes a little bloodshot. For a moment I wonder if Navid’s slipped something in her purse, as Cassie suggested earlier. Ella’s high the result of a slim wrap of coke left by him like a bone.
“I just did it to please him. It doesn’t mean anything. Look,” she says, pulling on her gold necklace, the dainty key hanging loose, “same as this. He gave it to me. I’m working on gaining his trust.”
“You’ll give him the wrong idea,” I say. “You have to be careful.”
“Alexa, I work for him. I’m already giving him the wrong idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“He thinks all the girls want to sleep with him. I’m just playing along.”
“So you’re one of his ‘girls’ now?” I spit, taking hold of the chain around Ella’s neck. “Key to his heart?” I snort, remembering Runner’s previous comments. Sarcasm the lowest form of wit.
“I don’t know what it’s for, but maybe it unlocks something important,” she defends.
Silence.
“Are you fucking him?” I ask.
My Reason throws me a look. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
“Well—”
“NO! I am NOT fucking him,” my Reason shouts, grabbing my arms. “Look, we both agreed to do this. I’m keeping my side of the bargain. What about you? Are you gonna chicken out now?”
I realize I’ve peeled the potatoes but want to avoid their mash.
“No,” I say, shaking my head in defense, “I just want to make sure you’re safe. That’s all.”
Liar, the Fouls whisper. Admit it, you don’t believe her.
We follow a woman in suede boots. A light dusting of snow evident on her heels as she clicks down the pavement before veering up the shoulder of Rufus Street. I look up at the unblemished winter sky, clear and starless, my eyes leaking from the cold as we dodge a loud stream of people heading along Old Street, dotted with Christmas lights and garlands. More than once my step falters, and I bump into a group of girls waiting outside a Spanish tapas bar, red wine in their hands.
“Want a smoke?” Ella says, showing me an open packet.
“No,” I say, a little gruffly, “I want a drink.”
We walk a while longer before Ella throws her cigarette to the curb. “Let’s go in here.” She points.
“Two vodkas. On the rocks,” Ella says, inching her way to the bar.
A girl with a huge beehive smiles. Her Ramones T-shirt tight across her perky breasts. “Sure,” she says.
Ella moves toward me, smoke on her breath. “What’s going on? I feel like you don’t trust me,” she begins.
She’s onto you, the Fouls snicker.
“It’s not that I don’t wanna do this anymore,” I lie. “My work’s suffering. All this snooping around, hanging out at the Electra and the Groom House—it’s not how I wanna spend my time. It’s not safe.”
“You promised you’d help,” she says, knocking back her drink.
I take a tissue from my purse and wipe the bar. Straighten the coasters. Wipe the bar again.
“I am helping,” I defend, “but Christ, we need to get our lives back. You said you were only going to work there until you’d saved enough money for your own flat. Well, surely you’ve done that now? So leave.”
“I will, stop buggin’ me!” she shouts. “You know, I had to buy other stuff too.”
“What? More boots? Clothes? Makeup? Guts to move forward with our plan?”
“All right!” she snaps. “I get it.”
“Come on, we’ve got enough proof now,” I argue, not letting up. “Names. Web accounts. Phone numbers. What more do we need? Let’s just go to the police.”
Ella orders two more vodkas from the Beehive, then shifts her eyes to my eyes.
“Navid told me you’re gonna photograph Britney. Is that true?” she asks.
“Poi-Poi,” I correct her. “Not Britney, her name’s Poi-Poi. And she asked me to—not him.”
“How come?”
“She asked me what I did. Navid overheard us. It’s a mess.”
“So, will you? If we have photos of Britney, then we have proof he’s using underage girls. Then we can go to the police. With all this evidence, they’ll definitely have enough to arrest him.”
Silence.
“And I can leave the Electra for good.”
I look away.
“Please,” she says, taking hold of my shoulder, staring at me with her mother’s eyes.
“And how do you think that’ll make me feel? It’s hardly Teen Vogue, for fuck’s sake.”
“I’ll do it with you,” my Reason says. “You won’t be on your own.”
“I don’t know, Ella, it’s wrong. I don’t think I can do it. We’d be colluding with his crime. Christ, she’s only eleven years old. She’s a child.”
“Yes, but it’s the sure way to get him arrested. With this, he’ll go to prison for a long, long time.”
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I know, but we have to do it. We can finally put a stop to this. Help the other girls. Don’t forget, some of these girls are even younger than Poi-Poi and Grace.”
“That’s a low blow,” I say, casting my eyes down at the floor.
“But it’s true.”
I look around the bar at people smiling and dancing. All unaware of the scene less than a mile away. Girls crammed into a house like imported sardines; a room with pink beds like bars of soap; evil cameras; a red sarong and a pine pole; stuffed animals; a whirring fan; a wandering cat.
I am angry that the one thing I love, the one thing I’m actually good at, will now be used to incriminate a man in the ugliest of scenarios. Is there not another way we can hold him accountable, another way that doesn’t involve me photographing a vulnerable eleven-year-old girl?
A helpless panic finds my chest that I sometimes felt when I was at home alone with my father. How I’d hide in my closet, the bathroom, behind the curtains or beneath my bed. But he always found me eventually. He made it his business to know all of my hiding places.
You have to help her, Dolly whispers.
She’s right, Runner adds.
A pause.
“Okay,” I agree, “but that’s it. Once we have the pictures, we go to the police.”
Ella smiles and squeezes my hand.
“By the way,” I say, “Grace left me a message. Said she hasn’t been able to get ahold of you. You need to look out for her, Ella. Take care of her. Take her calls.”
Ella rolls her eyes.
The Beehive collects our empty glasses.
“Two more,” she orders.