I’m Noelle Giles. My father was George Giles. I know he’s left a great many debts, and I’m here to pay them. How, you ask? Well, I don’t have money. What do I have?
I’m twenty years old, and I’m a virgin. You can have someone check, if you like. But that’s the only currency I have, and I’m here to use it to pay off those debts, so that my family can be left alone.
I have no idea if it will work. Just the thought makes me shudder—I don’t want to imagine what’s ahead of me—a night, or nights, spent working off my father’s debts by letting the sharks have their way with me. I don’t know how, exactly, I can make sure they stick to their word and write off those debts once I’ve “paid.” But I’ll figure that all out when I get there. All I can think is that when tomorrow comes, they’ll go after Georgie again and again, until those debts are paid. And we have no money.
Even if Georgie got whatever after-school jobs were available to a fourteen-year-old boy, it wouldn’t be enough to pay off those debts. Definitely not in the time frame the sharks are bound to want them paid off by—probably not ever, if I take into account the kind of interest they probably charge.
I have one thing of value, and I’m prepared to surrender it in whatever ways I have to if I can fix this. If I can keep my little brother from coming home bruised and bloody—or worse, beaten to death in the street.
Just the thought is enough to make me furious.
It ought to work.I’m pretty enough—a bit on the thin side, my breasts a little smaller than they used to be from the lost weight, but my stomach is flat, and my hips still have a slight curve to them. The thinness of my face makes my blue-grey eyes look that much wider, huge like a doll’s, and with thick feathery lashes inherited from my father, and my black hair just down to my shoulder blades. I’d cut it all off a couple of years ago, when I graduated, into a razor-sharp bob that I thought was stylish at the time, but now I’m glad it’s grown out. The length and slight wave it has makes me look softer, younger, more innocent—all things that I’m sure will help plead my case when I go to trade on my body to pay the debt.
I fish my nicest dress out of the closet, a blue collared party dress made out of a rich taffeta that matches my eyes. It has a sweetheart neckline that makes my breasts look fuller than they are right now, a fitted waist, and a slightly flared skirt that comes down to just above my knees. It’s a relic from a birthday years past, and I’d thought about selling it on consignment a number of times for a little extra money, but I’d held onto it. It’s not designer, just a high street dress, so it wouldn’t have been worth much—not as much as it was worth in nostalgia to me. I’d worn it to the last birthday before my mother died, and she’d helped me pick it out. Now more than ever, I’m glad I hung onto it, even if I know deep down she’d be ashamed of the reason I’m wearing it.
She wouldn’t be ashamed ofme, though, I don’t think. She’d be ashamed of my father, if anything, for putting me in this position. For leaving Georgie and me this desperate.
I leave my hair down, slipping on the nude patent heels I bought to go with the dress, and tap a little blush onto my pale cheeks. A swipe of drugstore mascara and a little rosy lipstick, and I’m ready to go.
My stomach is in knots as I check in on Georgie, who is still sleeping. I leave a note on the table,Gone to speak with debtors, be back soon,and close the door carefully behind me, stepping out into the cold chill of the London evening.
Somewhere in the city, it’s bright with holiday décor, lights strung up and streetlamps wrapped with garlands, and bright buttery light glowing in decorated shop windows, but not in our part of the city. The neighborhood where we live is run down and shabby. I step around dubious puddles and am careful not to look at the men who pass by as I pull my worn black wool coat tighter around me, my old leather gloves not doing much to keep my hands warm.
We haven’t even had a snowfall yet. Even though it would make it harder for Georgie to get to school and me to work, I still would have been glad for it, if only because it would make the streets seem a little prettier, bringing a little holiday spirit into our rundown part of town. As it is, my heart aches every time I think of Christmas. It hasn’t been much of a holiday since our mother died. Still, I tried to do something every year for Georgie—a few decorations, a small tree, and a gift underneath it for him and our father.
There won’t be anything this year, though. No tree, no presents, because there’s no money. At this point, the greatest gift I can think of would be for our father’s debtors to leave us alone, so we can try to figure out how to start fresh.
I don’t even know what my life is going to look like now. But I’d like a chance to figure it out.
I look down at the address on the slip of paper.Market Street.I turn down street after street, only to find myself in a nicer neighborhood than I’d imagined. It’s no ritzy part of London, but at least the houses and flats don’t look as if they’re falling in on themselves, and the sidewalks are less cracked. The address leads me to a street with a handful of exotic restaurants—L’Orange, Bistro Italia, The Genie’s Lamp,and a few bars, all the way to a dark building that, when I glance into the windows, looks like a speakeasy. When I step inside, the smell of cigars and alcohol hits me in a warm wave, and I look around, taking in the Art Deco décor and the long mahogany bar. It’s all meant to look luxurious and high-end, but a closer glance reveals that the velvet seats are a little threadbare, the tables scuffed in places, and the bartop not quite as shiny as it could be.
The bartender looks at me. It’s a Tuesday night, so it’s a bit dead—there’s a handful of patrons but nothing too busy. He’s shining glasses, and I notice that he looks like he’s in his late twenties and handsome. He doesn’t look like the kind of ruffian that would have beaten my brother up earlier. It makes me wonder if I’m in the right place. “You lost, little lady?” he asks, not unkindly. “You look lost.”
I swallow hard, taking a step up to the bar. Behind him, a row of glass bottles wink and shimmer in the light, with names I’ve never seen before. I’ve never tasted a drop of hard liquor in my life, just the wine I’d be allowed a glass of at holidays—once again, before my mother died. Now, after my father’s descent into alcoholism, I wonder if I ever will.
They all look like the enemy to me, culprits pointing directly to the reason I’m here, the reason I’m about to offer myself up like a lamb to the slaughter just so my brother and I can have a chance at a fresh start.
“I don’t think I’m lost.” I clear my throat, taking a step closer. “I’m Noelle Giles. My father was George Giles—I’m here about his debt.”
The bartender’s eyes narrow. “Youarelost then. I don’t know about any debt. But all the same, I don’t think this is the place for a pretty little thing like you. You should get going.”
It’s tempting. I could turn tail and run. I could go home and tell Georgie I tried. Maybe get our things together and leave town for good. Surely they won’t chase us outside of London. I wouldn’t have to offer up my body to pay off a debt that isn’t even mine, give my virginity to god knows how many men before they’re done with me. We could leave and start over somewhere else. Make new memories, a new life.
With what money?Georgie was right earlier when he said we’d spent our last bit leftover from rent on food. I don’t even have the money for a train ticket out of London for us, let alone lodging or food wherever we end up. And outside of London, it will be harder for me to find a job. Without a permanent address, it’ll be difficult to get Georgie enrolled again. People would come asking questions.
In time, I might save up enough to solve the money problem—in a week, or two, if I picked up extra shifts. But these men aren’t going to wait that long.
In a week or two, they might kill Georgie. They might come and see me anyway, and then what little power I have won’t be in my hands anymore.
This is the only way.
I take a deep breath and hold up one of the IOUs. “I’m not lost,” I say with as much bravery as I can muster. “This is the address, right? Whoever here my father owed money to, they beat up my little brother today. I’m here to set things right. So just go and get—”
“Miss, you need to leave.” The bartender’s voice is harder now, more urgent. “You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t—”
“Now, now, no need to be hasty.” There’s a deep, Cockney-accented voice behind me, and I freeze in place, afraid to turn around. “George Giles’ girl, hmm? Turn around, so I can take a look at you.”
My heart is pounding in my chest. The bartender gives me a look, as if to sayI told you to leave, and I force myself to stay calm as I turn to face the man behind me, feeling myself pale a little as I look up at him.