She wandered past a large brass four poster bed and followed the sound of a jazz record crackling away in another room. She entered a large oak paneled kitchen and stepped unwittingly into the wiry arms of a masked stranger who threw her to the ground, hard.

Abbey woke with a start, her dream shattered by stale bath water violently invading her lungs. Water and oxygen exploded from her as she coughed wildly. Half a bottle of bourbon had aided her semi-comatose dreams and now, back in reality, she found herself disappointed to have woken at all. She eventually abandoned the tepid bath in favour of her bed, but was interrupted by a knock at her door. Shit Head had come to call in his favour. They had a parcel to deliver.

People smuggling had become a currency unto its own in the UK. Human traffic was flowing from Europe into Britain in unprecedented numbers providing slaves; whores and mail order brides to the wealthy and unscrupulous. Abbey was left in the front room of a brothel to wait for Shit Head to return. She watched as the refugees-come-prostitutes paraded themselves to each prospective client, who then picked the woman he wanted.

Inside the basement Shit Head was welcomed like an old friend.

“You’re just in time for the show!” the man declared, his face was gnarled and furrowed by the ravages of addiction, “We are going to show this slut what happens when she tries to run away without paying her debts.”
 

He loaded one chamber of his handgun, spun the cylinder and explained to her that she had a one in six chance of being killed. The girls slip dress barely covered her breasts, revealing her thin adolescent frame. Her cheeks shone with tears and the wretch wailed miserably at the gun being pressed to her forehead. Her body was buckled and twisted in surrender. The cement wall was transformed into a grisly Jackson Pollock as blood and brain matter sprayed its surface.

“Hmm,” he murmured, “that was unlucky…”

Horror was etched on the young girl’s face as it hit the floor.

A similar expression was mirrored in Shit Heads face.

“Why do you have to show me that kind of shit?! I’m just the delivery boy Frank; fuck you.” He growled, picking up the bag of cocaine and headed for the door.

“You dumb Serbian cunt,” Frank spat at him.
 

From her vantage point, on a couch in the front room, watching the sex workers strut reminded Abbey of an illegal cockfight her father had taken her to when she was young. In either case the unwilling participants were given only the option of competing for survival, these women were simply armed with stilettos instead of spurs. She was certain most of the girls working here had been smuggled in from Eastern Europe and were forced into prostitution to pay off their ‘travel expenses’. Shit Head slammed the door leading to the basement and stormed across the room to Abbey.

“Let’s go.” He hissed pulling her outside in a hurry.

A rhapsody of screams erupted from the brothel as Frank dragged the dead girl’s body through the front room and into the kitchen where he intended to dismember it. The impact of this was simple and effective: Don’t fuck with Frank Grossman.

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