‘She got out, boss. There were footprints, leading out. I looked around, took the buggy around the lake and everything, all around the grounds. Can’t see her anywhere. But it’s no problem. She’s bleeding. Wounded. She won’t get far.’

‘You fucking moron.’

‘Boss—’ he protested. How was this his fault?

‘Get the fucking car out. Check the lanes. Go find her. And this time finish the job, yeah? Do it right.’

107

Milly was bored. Belle wasn’t about. She’d been down to the gatehouse and gone to the back door just like she always did and usually it was unlocked: this time it wasn’t. She knocked but got no answer. The place was in total darkness. They were out. So, feeling restless, Milly went into town and back to the club and there was the black-haired girl again, in the bogs. She seemed to live in the bogs.

‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ said Milly.

‘That’s ’cos I didn’t tell you, bitch,’ said the girl sharply.

‘Sorry.’

Other girls were shuffling in and out, using the loos, chatting, styling their hair, applying lipstick.

‘You liked the stuff then?’ asked the girl.

Milly nodded. Anything she said seemed to offend the girl, and she didn’t want to do that.

‘Come over to my place, get some more,’ she said, and turned away, going out of the door and back into the main body of the club. The heat and noise out here were overwhelming. Ahead of her, the girl led the way. They went up the stairs, and out, past Sammy – who ignored her – and his mate Gazzer, then onto the pavement. Then, not saying a word, the girl crossed the road. She ignored the traffic, Milly flinching in her wake as brakes shrieked and drivers cursed. They reached the other side alive, and the girl went to a shabby peeling door beside a newsagent’s and unlocked it. She went inside, impatiently ushered Milly in after her, and relocked the door.

You never touch that crap. You got that?

It was Charlie’s voice, ringing in her ears over and over as she was growing up. Drugs were for mugs.

But . . .

Truth was, she’d never felt that good, not ever. When she’d taken the drugs she’d felt invincible. Confident. Happy. All the things she never did, as a general rule.

‘I’m Marsha,’ the girl threw back over her shoulder as she took Milly up a steep flight of stairs.

‘Milly,’ said Milly, and the girl didn’t even acknowledge that she’d heard.

Marsha pushed open a door at the top of the stairs and switched on a light. They stepped into a dank, depressing little room, full of all sorts of rubbish; unwashed plates and cups on every filthy surface, an unmade bed, a dirty dark grey carpet.