Page 4 of Savage Warrior

Dear God. That’s a fortune!

“What sort of special services?” Maybe he means lap dancing or perhaps stripping. Not that I’ve any experience of either, and it doesn’t sound as though I’d have much left to take off anyway.

He treats me to that obnoxious leer again. “You’re pretty enough. A bit skinny, but even so, there’s plenty as’d like to fuck you. Might even fancy it myself, but I’d expect a discount against what you owe me. You could get five hundred a shag. Maybe a thousand the first time, assuming you’re a virgin. And clean.”

I can only gape at him. Of course, I knew such things happened, in the dark and grimy backstreets. But not to me. That’s not my life, I’m not that sort of person.

But neither am I the sort of person who would stand by while her young sister scrubs floors for what might laughingly be described as a living and our baby brother is left in the flat on his own. Neither am I the sort of person who hides from the landlord, or who doesn’t put food on the table, or who breaks up the furniture for fuel to burn because I can’t afford the electricity.

So, what sort of person am I?

I’m proud. I have self-respect, plenty of it. I take care of those I love. I meet my responsibilities head-on and I do the best I can. And right now, it looks as though this is it. This is the best I can do.

I draw in a breath and stiffen my spine. So be it.

“Where is this job?”

I present myself, as instructed, at the back door of the Crimson Club two days later. My knock is answered by a man of perhaps forty with rheumy eyes and mousy lank hair. He’s wearing a shabby suit and sports a deep scar running from his eyebrow to his chin.

“What?” he demands, eying me with undisguised hostility.

“I’m here to work,” I inform him. “Mr Ivanov sent me…”

“What sort o’ work?”

“Waitressing.” I say nothing of the rest.

He assesses my drab appearance, from my frayed headscarf to my once-serviceable shoes. “You’re not dressed for waitressing.”

I tip up my chin in a false show of bravado. “He said I’d be given an outfit.”

He makes a sound which I interpret as an invitation to enter. I’d just as soon turn on my heel and march away, but I’m desperate. I haven’t eaten since yesterday, and unless I can acquire a bit of cash right now, none of us will eat tomorrow. So, I stiffen my shoulders and step past him into the dingy corridor.

“Dressing room is down there, second on the left. Ask for Zora. She’ll get you fixed up and show you where to go and what to do.”

I nod. “I was told I’d be paid fifty rubles for the shift.”

“Aye, but you’ve got to earn it first. No handouts here. Place closes at one, then there’s the clearing up. Cash in hand if you’re still here at two and if you’ve pulled your weight.”

I loathe the man already so don’t bother to respond. I make my way to the room indicated and tap on the door. There’s no answer, though voices and movements echo from within. I take hold of the door handle and turn it.

The scene that greets me halts me in my tracks. I’d steeled myself, but even so…

The room is full of women in various states of undress. Correction, various states of barely dressed at all. There seems to be a uniform of sorts, consisting of a tiny skirt in either purple or turquoise and adorned with a fluffy bunny tail at the back. An incongruous feathery headdress in a matching shade completes the outfit. Each female is garishly made up, with hair fashioned into some sort of elaborate coil topped by the confection of feathers.

The shrill chatter ceases when I enter, and at least fifteen pairs of eyes swivel to me.

“I… I was told to ask for Zora,” I manage.

An older woman steps forward. “That’ll be me. You the new girl?”

“Yes. I’m Arina…” I start to introduce myself.

“You can be Magenta while you’re working. Hang your things on that hook there, and put these on. Be quick about it, we open in three minutes.” She thrusts a bundle of purple fabric at me followed by what appears to be a dead parrot. “You’ll find shoes in that box.” Her instructions issued, she carries on inspecting the other girls, who, once approved, file out of the room one by one.

Despite Zora’s instructions, I take my time donning the uniform. I remove my sweater and jeans, as well as my bra which is clearly superfluous to current requirements, and hang them up as I was told. Then I get dressed facing the wall, my utter humiliation mounting as I prepare for the ordeal to come.

“Turn round, then, let’s have a look at you.” Zora’s tone is brisk. She takes my elbow and swings me around so she can appraise my bared breasts. “You’ve got nothing we haven’t seen before.”

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