Flat six: Tippy - submission my speciality.

George rang the bell.

‘Yeah, what?’ George was startled. Hardly a submissive voice! He cleared his throat noisily.

‘Er . . . Tony sent me. Tony Jones.’

Suddenly the voice changed.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. You caught me offguard there.’ George heard a throaty laugh. ‘Bit early for me, love, but come up anyway.’

There was a whirring noise and the door clicked. George opened it cautiously. His cheesecutter hat and Burberry overcoat gave him the look of a working class spiv. His hard little grey eyes were moist with anticipation. He had drawn out three hundred pounds earlier. Two hundred and fifty had gone on the video that was now tucked away securely in his car. He still had fifty left. He’d decided to treat himself. If all that Tony Jones said was true, this Tippy was just what he needed.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the acrid smell of the place. The narrow hallway was littered with old newspapers and circulars. It was dark and dingy. George pressed the lightswitch on the wall by the stairs and a muted light came from above. He began to mount the uncarpeted stairs. The wallpaper was long gone from the walls, and here and there in places were rust-coloured stains that looked like blood. He began to hurry.

Inside her room, Tippy, real name Bertha Knott, was hurrying around trying to tidy up. The night before had been a hectic one with seven punters. One after the other. It was always the same in the holiday season. She picked up her discarded clothes and threw them into a small bureau, scratched and marked by years of neglect. ‘She practically threw the overflowing ashtray and empty vodka bottle into the tiny kitchenette, the cigarette butts flying across the work surface and into the sink. Bollocks! Sod that bloody Tony Jones! Imagine sending her a punter at this time of day. No brass worth her salt was even up before twelve thirty!

She heard the timid knock on her door and sighed. She hoped this bloke wasn’t too rough. She was sore as it was. She pulled the grubby negligee around her bony body and opened the door, a wide professional smile on her face.

George looked at the woman, dismayed. She was absolutely horrible. She had dyed black hair that looked like cotton wool dipped in liquid boot polish, her face was thin and feral-looking, and through the flimsy see-through negligee George could see that under her arms was enough hair to make a pair of identical wigs.