‘Do you know how to use one of these?’ Irina says, as she holds up a condom still in its wrapper.

Nico looks away. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘Magda showed me.’

I want to shout at her to insist that the men wear them, but I just laugh, loudly. Neither of them look my way.

‘It is time.’

The two of us follow Irina, who has managed to get her glide back, to the front door where Mr Taxi stands.

‘Joe,’ Irina says, nodding at him.

So, Taxi Joe. I laugh. He looks at me, checking to see I’m not wrecked again.

‘Ladies …’ he says, as he walks down the path, gesturing at us to follow him. His gaze rests on Nico’s face for a moment, and then he looks away. There’s something holy about her – she’d definitely have been cast as Mary in the school Nativity play – and I like to imagine he’s fighting an impulse to bless himself. We follow, Nico teetering in the high, needle-thin heels. I put my arm out to steady her and she holds on.

In the back of the car, I stare at the fleshy neck in front. Tonight his collar is even tighter, pushing the fat into angry red bulges that seem to be wiggling, like live things, ranting at each other. I dig Nico in the ribs. She doesn’t react. We both settle back into the seats, looking out steamed-up windows. I wonder what she sees out there. Rain is drizzling onto the grey concrete. We drive for over an hour out to the countryside, until the car pulls up outside a fuck-off mansion, fields all around. The lawn that surrounds it is flood-lit. A blast of ice bombards my body; my skin is hot and sticky.

‘Where are we?’ I ask Taxi Joe.

He taps the side of his nose as he gets out to open the door.

‘Wait,’ I say, ‘how will we contact you if anything goes wrong?’

He looks at me like a worried dad, just for a moment, until he remembers what we are. ‘When they are finished with you, they will call,’ he says.

My imagination is pumping into overdrive and I see the two of us in a rich man’s cellar, handcuffed and flayed. I wish I hadn’t picked that stupid book up. ‘What is this place?’

He decides on the silent treatment.

For a moment I consider running, then I pop another Mr Floaty (I nicked a few extra when Irina was focusing on Nico’s face) and tell myself it’ll be fine, just another punter, just another night, and I’ll have a big fat paycheque at the end of the week.

Taxi Joe’s fat finger presses down on the doorbell.