Buy Me, Sir(10)

By: Jade West

See, we’re from here, Joe and me. From this shitty rundown part of town. My parents too, and their parents before them. Mum and Dad worked shitty jobs they hated, struggling to make ends meet for me and Joseph. They never moaned, not once, not ever. But I was going to be different. I told them so, and they believed me.

Lissa’s going to be a swanky lawyer, they’d say. Not like us.

But I am like them. They kept on going, day after day, working hard, just like I’ll keep going, just like I’ll keep on working hard.

They wanted so much better for me. For both of us.

Our Lissa would run through a wall if there was something she wanted on the other side. She’ll never give up. She’s that kind of kid.

I heard Mum say that once, to Mrs Manning who lived across the hallway.

She was right.

I wanted to step up after the accident. Wanted to hold the pieces together for Joseph, quitting my own A-Levels and taking on my parents’ rent. I wanted to do all of this, and I did.

I want Alexander Henley, and I’ll have him, too.

I just don’t know exactly how.


Chapter Four


It’s days like these I wish I still smoked more than one a day.

Another last-minute fucking plea bargain as my client wrung his shaky hands in the corridor outside, and Cyril Westerton, prosecution lawyer, flapped his saggy jaw and told me my proposal was preposterous. An outrage.

Nothing’s fucking preposterous as far as I’m concerned.

The guy’s a joke, heading for nothing but retirement and a shitty gold watch, looking for one last case to put his name in lights. Well, it won’t be this one. Not today.

It’ll never be one of mine.

It’s all but signed and sealed. A tap on the wrist for my client, some damages for the victim – some cheap hooker from Soho who took his cash then filmed him getting rough with her on hidden camera. He swore she begged him for it, told him it got her off.

As it turns out, I believed him. Not that that matters.

My digging proved me right, at least. Bill Catterson isn’t the first guy the bitch tried to stitch up, but he will be the last.

I’ve ruined her. Dug up the dregs on her seedy life, on the money she blackmailed from rich guys who can’t keep their dicks in their pants, on the games she plays, on her secret coke habit. On the fact she collects more STDs than I collect gemstones, and I collect a lot of fucking gemstones. Childhood habit – an increasingly expensive one.

My client, Bill Catterson, is a sad loser whose wife now hates his guts worse than she did before.

Once upon a time I’d have had some sympathy for the guy, but now I feel nothing but disgust. Maybe a sliver of pity.

He knows he’s worthless today. The same as he knows he’s riddled with genital nasties, and I suspect the guy will most likely never regain enough testosterone to get his tiny little dick up ever again.

It is tiny. I saw the fucking video. Hazard of the fucking job.

Anyway, the guy’s broken. But he’s not in prison. Not even close.

Jacqueline Catterson flashes me a smile, but her eyes are like spitting coals as we leave court. An air kiss and a thank you, Alexander, despite the fact we’ve never once been on first name terms, and she’s off in a plume of Dior, with her wimp of a husband trailing behind her.

His farewell handshake is as weak as the rest of him. His hand is clammy, and I hate that. I fucking hate sweaty palms.

I wait until he’s out of sight before I tug a handkerchief from my inside pocket. Be fucking damned if I’m wiping that guy’s grimy body fluids on my suit.

I’m waiting for my driver when I catch sight of an even bigger loser, and now I really am craving a fucking cigarette.

They say nicotine cravings peak three to five days after quitting. Bull-fucking-shit.

Two years and counting, and I still think about lighting up at least twenty times a day.

The tabloid journalist piece of shit, known only to himself as Ronald the digger Robertson – a legend in his own tiny mind – closes the distance, trailing his goofy photographer behind him as he sidles up the street, deliberately lighting up and offering me one when I’m close enough to get a waft. Wanker.

His cigarettes are cheap, like him. Cheaper than him, and that’s saying something.

I tap my watch. “Tardiness, Ronald, it’s not very becoming of those in the fast lane of investigative journalism to be late.”

“Been out the back with Miss Whiplash. Poor form, Henley. She’s got little kids, you know, currently in care of Social Services now they’ve been tipped off about her unfortunate addiction. How the fuck do you sleep at night?”

I don’t sleep at night, but I smile a triumphant smile nonetheless and offer him a wave of the hand. “No fucking comment, Robertson. Why don’t you move along to someone who has a modicum of respect for your opinion? I’m sure you’ve got reality TV wannabes tripping over themselves to flash their tits in exchange for a centre spread.”

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