Buying The Virgin Part 1-3

I stare at the papers Richard pushes at me: old headlines. “By the time they’d pulled out what was left of him,” he says, “a stab wound inflicted by a fourteen-year-old girl would have been the least of his injuries. Certainly, it didn’t show up in the autopsy report.”

I digest that. He continues, “Witnesses at the time reported him, apparently giving chase to a young girl, a redhead. There was a search for you.” He holds up another sheet. I stare out at myself from a much younger face, ginger, freckled and gawky.

He looks at the photo. “I have to say, Charlotte, that you have bloomed since then...” Then he looks at me over his glasses, critically, “Although you need to eat. You’ve lost weight in the last couple of days…. What happened to the knife?”

“I threw it over the bridge into the river.”

“Mmm.... Anyone’s guess then, where it is now. We’ve dredged that section since then. Could even be part of the pilings for the new bridge.

He picks more papers out of the flurry still issuing from the printer, again pushing them towards me.

“This report, which, by the way, you have not seen, is from the police files. Although Jenkins died at the time, when the story broke about the home, some months later, it was found that he had been one of the leaders of a group trafficking in youngsters for purposes of prostitution….”

He pauses. “Do you want to see anymore?”

“Um, no, not right now. Don’t think I could handle it just yet. Later perhaps.”

“I’ll have all the information I have sent to you, and James of course.” He glances over at my Master, who is browsing his way through the assorted papers, reading, his expression impassive.

Realisation washes over me. My breath shuddering with relief, “Oh, God. It’s over. It’s over.”

“Yes, it’s over. The police may want to interview you, but they are not interested in giving you a hard time. It’s perfectly clear that you were a victim, not a perpetrator.”

Shaking, my breath is short. My head won’t take it in. Michael tries to hold me, but I twist free. “Mr Haswell, how can I ever thank you enough?”

Jabbing a finger towards my Master. “You can make sure I get my money’s worth out of him, for a start.” But he is smiling, and my Master nods a brief smile in return.

Then he turns back to me. “Take a few days off. Get yourself together again. Then I want you back in my office, Monday morning, ten am. Yes?”

I nod. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have enough words to thank you.” I walk around his desk and bending, kiss him on the cheek.

He looks at me sideways. “You’re welcome, Charlotte. I can assume this is the last of your secrets?”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Yes, oh yes. You’ve got it all now.”

whatever it is you do, with

*****

departs, leaving me with Michael and my

me, kissing me firmly on the mouth. My Master lays a hand on my shoulder, kissing me on the forehead, but there is no joy in his eyes. After a few minutes, he leaves

*****

at a time. Michael tries to chivvy up some conversation, but is stone-walled, my Master answering in

“Master?”

There is no welcome

What can I

land against the wall with

is that everything now? Michael and I have been

got it all

down at me, his dark eyes, black

I promise. There’s nothing

“Yes, what?”

you.

do you think? I recommended you to Haswell. Difficult is not an adequate description of what I’ve had from him the last couple of

hang my head. “I’m sorry. I

of opportunities. What did you

voice

Why did you

to. Really, I did.

Is that what you’re saying? You couldn’t tell me. But you could tell Haswell, almost a

I do to make

Right now,

away, into the lounge, banging

around my shoulder, giving me a squeeze. “He’ll come round. He’s had a rough ride the last day or two. Let him

round. My Master sits, by himself,

the same. He sits

make a pot of coffee, strong, the way he likes it. Timidly, I tap on the