No Future Ch. 62

Olive was dreaming about her daughter. It wasn't the sort of dream she often had. It was a dream not so much about the mother she was, but the mother she'd liked to have been. And that was a mother who would sacrifice everything for her child and ensure she was blessed with the best education that money could buy. A mother who stood by Emily's side through thick and thin. One who cared more for her daughter's welfare than her own.

It wasn't a dream about a mother who'd dumped her daughter with Emily's great-grandmother, Babushka Oxana, and sped off before Gran could turn down the dubious honour of taking care of the child.

On the other hand, Gran didn't seem especially surprised by this turn of events. "I suppose it's just got too much for you, dear," she said beaming a warm smile at the little girl. Emily had always liked Babushka Oxana: possibly more than any of her other relatives. "But what about your mum? Wouldn't she be just as good as me?"

"You must be fucking joking, Gran," said Olive. "She's a fucking waste of space. All Mum ever does is mainline and turn tricks for arseholes."

"Not like you, of course," said Babushka Oxana sardonically, despite knowing that any hint of reproof would be totally lost on her wayward granddaughter.

"Fuck no," said Olive affronted. "My mum's a fucking pin-cushion. I'd never stick needles in my arm and I'm not a fucking whore."

But now, just two weeks later, Olive wasn't sure about the truth of either assertion. Survival would be well nigh impossible if she wasn't willing to exchange blowjobs for cash and she wasn't sure whether she might not make just one small step further down the road of addiction since smack wasn't doing quite the same business for her now that it once did.

Life was tough. Fucking tough. And she didn't have much choice. Either she would remain homeless or end up dead. Olive wasn't gonna give satisfaction to the fuckers who were after her for the debts she could never pay. She wasn't gonna be one of those who'd be found rotting under a pile of garbage in a skip. Or tossed into a canal to float with the turds and ancient rusted shopping trolleys. Or thrown out of the top-floor window of a tower block.

She was a survivor.

But survival in South London so far from her manor was no picnic when she had nowhere to stay. The only cash she had was what she got from giving blowjobs and by trading what she'd managed to salvage from bins or nick from shops.

It took Olive a few moments to work out where she was when she'd opened her eyes after her sweet dreams of maternal responsibility. And that was despite the fact that this wasn't the first night that she'd slept under a bush in the park. And as this was a park she'd had to pay to enter, she was less likely to get fucked over than on any other open area of grass.

Olive wasn't the only one who'd been forced to sleep in the park, but the authorities were generally inclined to pass a blind eye to this abuse of municipal facilities. Such dereliction of duty was a rather more remunerative policy than to try and enforce the borough's by-laws.

South Croydon was no paradise, but Olive was relatively safe here. She couldn't see Fat Cunt Ozzibanjo wander this far south from Dalston Junction. Nor would Oz go somewhere that wasn't either walkable or on a familiar bus route. But for the foreseeable future Olive would have to keep a wary eye out for Igor, Kev and that psycho cunt Hombre. And knowing what these fuckers would be like once they discovered that she'd defaulted on her debts that future would be pretty much for the rest of her life.

Today was yet another day for Olive to get through. Already the life she'd once led in Hackney now seemed comparatively golden. The few times she'd spent with Emily when the child wasn't grizzling or being sullen or just keeping out of the way of whichever bloke Olive had brought back for a fuck: those were precious moments. It wasn't all just wiping snot from her nose, cleaning shit from her arse-cheeks or locking her in the bathroom to keep her out of the way. For instance, there was that time she took Emily to the zoo with the proceeds of a drug transaction that had gone totally without a hitch. That was a happy day. Emily loved the meerkats and the giraffes, but most of all the goats in the children's zoo. Would Olive ever know moments like that with her daughter ever again?

Olive had to take care of her appearance. It was more important now she was sleeping rough than when she'd had her own home. She couldn't wander around in the buff now. If she had any hope of attracting the sort of john that wouldn't fuck her over, she had to keep herself clean and tidy. She squeezed her sleeping bag into her rucksack and applied lipstick while she regarded her reflection in a cracked make-up mirror. She could use the loo in a shopping mall or department store, but she had to be careful. If she used the same ones too often, she risked being kicked out forever. But those were the best places to go for a wash and to clean her teeth. Olive had to be more organised than she'd ever been before, but what she needed, especially before autumn set in, was to find somewhere to stay that was more comfortable than under a bush in a park.

The first thing she had to do was get some cash. Anywhere was fine if you kept a good look out for business, although the streets with the best prospects were also where there was the most competition from the regular working girls, some of whom were at least as desperate as her.

"You looking for something?" Olive asked a sun-tanned man wearing a suede jacket and chinos who was walking past the spot she'd claimed for herself on the Selsdon Road.

The man looked startled. He probably hadn't expected a young woman like Olive to address him. He wore wire-framed spectacles, his hair was specked with grey and he was dragging a suitcase on wheels behind him.

"You're very perceptive," he said in a weird Northern England accent. "Iamlooking for something. I wonder if you could help me."

What the fuck was this? Was this cunt a fucking mong? Of course she could fucking help him. As long as it didn't involve her being poked up the arse. At least, not without a good strong condom.

"I'm sure I can," said Olive. "What do you want?"

"Well, I'm new here," he said. "I'm looking for Park Hill Road. I'm renting a place down there."

Hold on, thought Olive. This was too much fucking information all at once. What was this fucking punter trying to say? Did he want a blowjob at the place he was renting in Park Hill Road?

"Yeah, I know the road," she said. "It's just round the corner from here."

"Where is it?" he asked. "Can you show me?"

"I'll take you there if you like," said Olive. And then we can find somewhere private, she thought to herself.

"That's very kind of you," the man said. "I come from Otley, near Leeds, and I haven't been in London very long. It's all very new to me."

"What's it like up there?" wondered Olive who'd never been further north than Wood Green. "Is it like it is down here? All rubbish?"

"Things have got tough up there, of course. But it's the same everywhere, of course. That's why I've come down here. I found a job in Croydon and my employer's organised somewhere for me to rent. I've not seen it yet. I hope it's all right."

"Well, here's Park Hill Road," said Olive as she pointed at a street sign. "Which one's your doss?" The bloke showed her an address he'd written on a post-it note. "That's right at the other end of the road."

"Well, thanks for your help and everything," said the bloke who put the note back in his pocket. "I don't want to trouble you any longer."

You don't get away that easy, you cunt.

"I'll walk with you to your new home," said Olive. "Is it a flat or are you renting a whole house?"

"It's a house," said the bloke. "It's probably too large for me. The company's paying so I can't complain. But you really shouldn't put yourself out."

What kind of div was this bloke? "It's no trouble at all," said Olive.

She walked along with her new companion as he chatted freely and amiably with her. He was called Omar, so Olive reasoned that with a name like that he'd probably not got his complexion from a sun-bed or a foreign holiday. Although Omar wasn't your usual London moniker, Olive couldn't place the name with any particular location. Perhaps all men were called that up in Leeds.

The critical issue though was to determine what Omar wanted. It was a bit tiresome him playing like he was hard to get. That was something that would have to be factored into whatever she got him to pay. Still, the general rule was that the longer a john kept you dangling the more you could squeeze out of him.

"Well, here we are," said Omar when they walked up to the gate of an aging twentieth century house surrounding by a high metal wall to keep out burglars and squatters. "Thanks for your help, er..."

"Olive."

"Yes, Olive," he said. "I'll just see if the key fits..."

Fuck! This was tedious. When was he going to ask her in? Olive became worried he might not and that she'd have wasted nearly fifteen minutes on a fucking Arab or Indian jerk from up north somewhere.

"What I wouldn't do for a cup of tea," she said, as if that was all she'd be happy with.

"Tea?" said Omar naively. "You might just be in luck. I've got some tea bags. Let's just hope the landlady's left me a kettle."

"I'm sure she has," said Olive who frankly didn't give a fuck whether she had or not. How long was this bloke gonna keep teasing her? The dread was beginning to grow in her mind that perhaps he was genuinely green, that he really didn't know what the deal was. That would be more of a challenge.

After sorting through several keys and locks and opening two or three sets of doors, Omar finally let himself and his tea-hungry friend in. However, when Olive saw the domestic bliss inside a new plan began to form in her head. It was a very long time since she'd last been inside a house that was so well-appointed. There were sofas, cushions and tables all in good condition with a new television screen on the wall that was nearly twice the size of the one she used to own before Igor took it away with him in lieu of his debts. There were pictures on the wall with frames around them and even some flowers in a vase. Everything smelt fresh and clean.

"It's very basic," said Omar with a slight tone of disappointment in his voice.

"It's very nice," said Olive with a choke in her voice.

"How about that tea?" Omar asked as he opened his suitcase and pulled out a packet of tea. It wasn't a brand Olive had ever heard of before. It wasn't Lidl, WalMart or CostCo, but something called Darjeeling. It must be a fucking northern supermarket chain.

"Actually I feel a bit faint," said Olive who now saw her chance to get a place that she'd like to sleep in for the next night or so where Igor, Kev and Hombre could never find her. "You don't mind if I just rest on the sofa."

"Not at all," said the unsuspecting Omar. "You just lie down. I see there's both a kettle and a tea pot here. I'll brew us both a cup of tea. Would you like that?"

"There's nothing I'd like more in the whole world," said Olive.

And this time she most definitely wasn't lying.