Page 181 of The Black Trilogy

On the bright side, appearing a little young for the eighteen years I claimed to be gave me a definite advantage in job number two. At Silk, the strip club—sorry, gentlemen’s club—where I spent my evenings, acting like a horny schoolgirl paid decent money.

So decent that the other girls hated me, which was why, yet again, they’d hidden my clothes as I danced.

“Have you seen my jeans? And my jumper?” I’d asked Bambi, the self-proclaimed headline act.

“Are you sure you brought them? I wouldn’t have thought you needed them on your street corner.”

A crowd of her cronies stood behind her, sniggering. I’d balled my fists up, just seconds away from wiping the smirk off Bambi’s make-up-caked face when I caught myself. I couldn’t afford to lose that job.

Instead, I’d shoved my feet into the pair of trainers they’d thankfully missed, collected my coat from the cloakroom, and marched out into the night. Which was why I was currently walking home with a belted trench over my dancing outfit and my fishnet-clad legs stuck into a pair of genuine fake Nike’s I’d bought at the street market for ten quid a week earlier.

Suck it up, kiddo.

Of course, it wasn’t nice being so actively disliked, but I’d developed a thick skin, and the money I earned made the hassle worth it. I had this crazy dream, you see, to go to university and make something of myself.

Why crazy? Well, I’ll give you three reasons.

First, I dropped out of school at twelve years old. That was what happened when you had no one apart from yourself to take care of you.

Second, the tuition fees and living expenses I’d rack up over a three-year course would add up to thousands. Rent, electricity, council tax, food, textbooks—they’d all need to be paid for, and I didn’t have any family to help out.

Third, and perhaps the most difficult hurdle to overcome, was that people like me simply didn’t go to university.

Right now, I was desperately trying to ignore point three while taking steps to address points one and two. Hence, the need for both jobs. In the mornings I worked at a gym, cleaning the cavernous room that housed the equipment then opening up, looking after the customers, and minding the front desk until the owner took over from me at lunchtime.

JJ’s wasn’t one of those posh gyms full of accountants and marketing executives jogging on treadmills while chatting on their mobile phones. The clientele didn’t head off for a sauna and a smoothie so they could talk about share prices and which secretary they were shagging that week. There were no rows of perfectly made-up Lycra-clad women, all without a drop of sweat on them, cycling serenely on stationary bikes while counting down the minutes until their manicures.

No, JJ’s had sweat, bruises, and occasionally blood. And muscles. Don’t forget the muscles, including those of its owner, a gentle giant called Jimmy James. At least, he was gentle to me. At six foot five inches of solid bulk, you didn’t want to get on his bad side.

After work, or sometimes during it if the place was quiet, I’d train for an hour or so to keep fit. Apart from Jimmy’s wife, Jackie, I was the only girl who ever ventured into the place, so the guys had taken me on as their pet project. Not because they were weird perverts like the clientele at Silk. No, they’d decided changes needed to be made the day after I got mugged. I’d walked into the gym with a black eye that morning, a little embarrassed because I should have seen it coming and ducked out the way.

“What happened, Amanda?” one of the regulars asked.

“Just walked into someone’s fist. That’s all. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. He take your money?”

I nodded.

“That’s not gonna happen again, you hear? You’re training with us now.”

They’d even had a whip round and raised more than the amount stolen from me. When they handed the cash over, I got all sniffly and had to run off to the toilet to get my emotions under control.

I never cried, and certainly not in front of people.

Since that day, I’d done regular sessions of boxing, martial arts, circuits, or sometimes all three, depending on who was in the gym to help me. Nobody on the street touched me again, which was almost disappointing since I’d been itching to try out the new things I’d learned.

After training came studying. Maths was the bane of my existence. I didn’t care about Mary’s inability to work out how much she could spend on tiles for her conservatory, and why on earth did Hannah want to buy 253 pineapples anyway? If I had cash, I ate. Simple as that.

And English? Whoever invented the language must have been smoking something. Why if the plural of mouse was mice did I have two houses and not two hice? As for pronunciation—broth and brother? Moth and mother? Give me strength. Karim from the mini-mart down the road had started teaching me Arabic, and although it looked a bit squiggly, spelling words like you said them seemed a far more sensible approach.

After I closed the books and grabbed a bite to eat, I’d get a couple of hours’ sleep before I trekked to Silk again. Luckily, I didn’t have far to go to bed, because I lived at the gym. The mattress in an old storage closet may have been basic, but it was mine, and it was safe.

Those two things alone made it better than anywhere I’d lived before. All in all, I’d stayed in some pretty horrible places, the worst of which was with my mother. Name something bad and she was addicted to it—drugs, alcohol, and men were her vices of choice.

I lived with her until the age of ten and hated every second of it. I spent most of my life outside the flat because it was easier to keep out of her way than bear the bruises. By the age of eight, I’d become an accomplished shoplifter, not for the thrill of it but out of necessity. Stealing food and clothes meant I only had to go home to shower and sleep. I’d finally left for good the night one of my mother’s boyfriends paid me a visit in my bedroom. Over an hour, he was in there, but she’d passed out on the sofa, so hammered she didn’t hear me scream. No child should have to go through that.

Even then, I’d kept going to school, but when my hygiene standards suffered, one of the teachers called social services. I’m sure there are some wonderful, caring foster parents out there, but I sure didn’t meet any of them. So, I wreaked enough havoc to get kicked out of one home after another, each time hoping the next place would feel safe enough to stay.

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