There were few things she liked better than to play, said aloud:

‘Game on.’

She lifted a few loose boards from under the threadbare carpet and stashed the money. Then dabbed some perfume behind her ears. It was the brand Jimmy loved. He never tired of asking her what it was and she’d always reply the same:

‘Money.’

Angie had absolutely no feelings about Jimmy, he was simply the means to an end. Sometimes he amused her but not in any fashion that she’d miss.

She took a shower, the coke singing in her veins. She was looking forward to the remainder of the evening. Naked, she assessed herself: looking good, maybe she’d cut down on the booze a bit but otherwise, in fine shape.

She selected an outfit that Jimmy usually drooled over. Stockings and suspender-belt, sheer black top and black miniskirt, add a black bomber jacket that Ray had boosted from some Europeans who’d had a place on the Balham High Road. Finally, a few lines of coke to get Jimmy off his game completely.

Leaving the place, she double-locked it and put on the deadbolt. At the end of the street was a mini-cab office and she asked for a car.

The driver, a Rasta, gave a low whistle of appreciation as she got in.

‘Yo sho looking fine, girl.’

‘Whatever, I need to go to Kennington.’

He had a spliff going, asked:

‘You wanna get some dis good vibe?’

‘I don’t do drugs.’

‘Yo baby, dis be life, not no drug.’

He got the car in gear and turned up the sounds. The Wailers doing their thing, he kept up a constant monologue of which Angie heard little. The music drowned him out but it didn’t put as much as a dent in his rap.

When they got to Kennington, she asked the fare and he stroked his dreads, said: