Sneak Peek: 5-6 (Cindy 2.0)

Whether this latest scene will be 5-6, or the start of chapter 6, remains undecided. Either way, it gets us back into the protagonist's 1st person point of view. Without giving too much away, 5-6 fills in what was really going on during those three months covered by the funeral arc. There's the story told to Julia and the humiliations suffered at her hands; and everything David was up to in the background, which may go some way to explaining some of his behaviour along the way.

Here's a long snippet, about 1,500 words--as always, sneak peeks are likely to change with future revision. Enjoy, and as always, feel free to comment, criticise or feedback.

***

            By Wednesday, I was ready. The working day couldn’t pass quickly enough. The slow crawl of the bus commute home took forever. I quickly shed office clothes for something more casual: a black hoody over a sports bra to minimize my tits, jogging pants and sneakers, all bought from charity shops near work. I didn’t want to wear anything from the Clinic, I couldn’t trust anything from that place. Makeup I kept simple and subdued, a swipe of dark lipstick and eyeshadow, mascara and eyeliner, and I did my hair in a simple ponytail and tucked it beneath a navy baseball cap. Yeah, I still looked as cute as a fucking button but hopefully older than a goddamn teenager.

            My phone, I left behind. That worried me, but only slightly. It was a lifeline should I find myself over my head, but I felt confident I could handle myself. And it wasn’t like I could use it to pay for anything. My phone was almost certainly bugged, and I didn’t want anyone tracking my route through the city, what I bought or where I bought it.

            A stiff wind blew the street’s dust into swirling eddies. Standing for a moment, I breathed in deeply the scent of the city at dusk. There were people arriving home after a day’s work. Others, heading out: for food, a drink, an escape, or starting a night shift. Waitresses, security guards, bartenders and cooks, late-night people pale under streetlights blinking one by one into life.

            I grinned, wildly. Thrusting hands into pocket, shoulders hunched with teenage surliness, I joined the anonymous flow.

            By the time I left the relative safety of the main byways through the district for the dodgier backstreets, shop lights in all their lurid colours were blinking into life. Threads of black clouds fluttered from the sliver of a waning crescent moon like laundry hung up to the dry. I wound my way swiftly through the fading flow of people. I kept my hands out of my pockets, now. Back here, people were fewer and eyed me speculatively, especially men.

            The hum of traffic felt far, steam and rancid grease exhaled from a vent at the back of a cheap restaurant. An emaciated young man wearing a white apron, stained with food, leaned against the wall next to an open door. A rectangle of yellowed light stretched across the alley and a tinny radio played an old tune. With a sullen glance in my direction, he stubbed out his cigarette and disappeared back the door. It closed with a heavy clang.

            Then it was dark, and I was alone. A rat scuttled across my way and disappeared down a drain. My destination sat at the end of the alley. It once led to the back entrance into an apartment block, and the rusted and broken metal remains of a fire escape created twisted shapes in the darkness above. Now derelict, the way had long ago been sealed. Crumbling brick littered the ground, the corners stank of piss and flickering lights in a barred window cast dancing shadows up the walls.

            See, the problem was one of anonymity. The things I needed, and needed to do, couldn’t be traced back to either Cindy or David. Anything I did online left fingerprints. I needed phones, a laptop—all untraceable. Easy enough to acquire but requiring money. And I was broke. And even if I had the money, it was Cindy’s money—traceable, tracked and couldn’t be used for this sort of thing without drawing attention.

            It was this need that led me to that grubby little room on a dark Wednesday evening in early September. The heavy metal door swung shut behind me with a clang. A metal detector within the door frame hummed into life then beeped green. Closed-circuit security cameras whirred as they tracked my movement. Inside, the air was still and stuffy. Long strips of suspended lighting buzzed overhead. There was another door, reinforced steel and pitted, in the opposite wall behind a large man.

            This man stood in the corner, massive arms tattooed and folded across his chest. Jeans and a tight t-shirt emphasised his bulk, and a perpetual scowl scored his face. There was another man with him, short and scrawny in an ill-fitting suit, beady eyes glinting behind wire-frame glasses perched high on a beak-like nose. Across from the entrance, there was a window sealed behind clouded shatterproof plastic and a small counter with a button and microphone. The counter was a heavy slab of stainless steel, dented and dull. Above it and beyond the blurred plastic stood the shadow of a man, waiting.

            The two men looked at me as I entered, then at each other, and once again at me, clearly bemused. “What the fuck you doin’ here, little girl?” Beak-Nose asked, though not unkindly.

            I ignored them and approached the counter. Holding down a button I spoke into the mic. “I’ve got some accounts I want to access.”

            “Hey, girlie,” the smaller man said, taking a first step my way. “I’m talking to you.”

            “Take another step,” I said without turning. “And you’ll be eating this fucking counter, you hear me?”

            He paused, long enough for a panel to slide open to reveal a keypad. I typed in three separate sequences of numbers and letters. A green light flashed, and the panel closed.

            “Listen missy,” Muscles rumbled. “This ain’t no place for—”

            “Holy shit.” The voice came from the other side of the window. “Jesus, Miles, back the fuck down.” There was a pause, then the voice spoke again, weedy and excitable. “This is—a lot of money.” Another pause. “We normally deal in microtransaction, you know that, right?” I waited. “Our percentage—”

            “I know your fucking cut,” I said, and told him how I wanted my money.

            Some instincts never die. After Sakura, after a year homeless, after a year working for Tahir in his bloody nightclubs, I found my feet and started making money: more money than I ever wanted or needed, more than I knew what to do with. Eventually I’d find ways to spend it: mainly by accumulating shit I fucking hated, because that’s what you do when you’re rich; or wasting it on bitches, on expensive meals and overpriced drinks, nights out that cost a fortune and gifts for girls I’d fuck once and forget.

            Despite that, and from the very start, I got into the habit of stashing some of it away in obscure and hidden places, building little emergency funds simply because—well, because deep down, I never believed any of it could last. I kept my pantry full of food, because for a year I’d gone hungry. And I kept money discretely buried, because you never knew when someone would tear away everything you’d built up over a decade—and leave you feminized with the income of a goddam secretary.

            Cash was conspicuous and despite the moans of politicians, academics and economists steadfastly refused to die, remaining useful for minor or dodgy transaction. I had wads of physical currently stashed here and there, but too far away and impractical to retrieve. Fortunately, I’d also built up some digital assets and brokers like these assholes facilitated all sorts of questionable financial transfers. A place this small normally dealt in insignificant local shit, opening and closing transient accounts covering transfers hiding gambling debts, loan shark interest payments, minor tax dodges, low-level drug deals—that kind of crap.

            “Um—here you go.” The wall dinged again, and a different panel opened and spat out a half-dozen credit card-sized slips of plastic, each loaded with a set amount of funds drawn from anonymous accounts—after they took their substantial cut, of course. A loud whirl, and then a separate slot counted and pushed out a wad of good, old-fashioned cash. The money I quickly sealed away in a pouch beneath my hoody and felt its reassuring pressure against my belly.

            Meanwhile, those two assholes in the corner kept eying me. Muscles—Miles—was obviously the bouncer-cum-guard; he wouldn’t do anything. Places like this didn’t last long if customers through their door got mugged. But Beak Nose was a different matter.

            “Take a good look?” With money and plastic stashed away, I faced him directly, patting my stomach. “Something you want?”

            He grinned. “That’s a lot of money for a little girl for you.”

            “Yeah, well, I’ve got a big daddy. Fuck off.”

            “No need to get nasty,” he said, scowling.

            “Don’t,” Miles murmured placatingly. But Beak Nose ignored him and took another step closer.

            I sighed.

            “You need—”

            He never got to tell me what it was I needed. The counter earned another dent that evening, and his ugly face better acquainted with it. One of his teeth went rattling into a corner. I’d made a good choice in wearing black: the colour hides blood well. I brushed myself down and fanned my fingers out and made a show of studying my nails. Excellent; didn’t break one this time. Getting those acrylics replaced costs a bloody fortune on a secretary’s salary.

            “All done here?” Miles asked.

            I picked up Beak Noses’s thin-rimmed glasses from the floor and folded the arms shut and tucked them into the man’s front pocket. He moaned, scrabbled at the floor once and gave up.

            “We got a problem here?” I asked the bouncer.

            Miles held his hands up defensively and shook his head. “Nope.”

            “Then yeah, I’m done here.”

            “You—uh—have a nice day,” said the voice from behind the window.