MaeB

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘…

𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝙶𝚒𝚛𝚕 & 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙱𝚞𝚡𝚝𝚘𝚗

Mama always taught her Precious Pearly Girl that a John was the reason she had a roof over her pretty lil’ head, clothes on her back and food on the table. Johns weren’t always called John. Sometimes they were Brad. Or Elijah. Or Terry. Or José. Sometimes Johns weren’t even Johns. They were Janes. When she was just 16 years old, Mama said that Janes were Pearly’s weakest point.

“What’s wrong with you, Pearly? A Jane is just as important as a John. You ain’t to treat them no different, ya hear? They’re the reason you got a roof over your pretty lil’ head, clothes on -“

etc etc

How could she explain to Madam Moira that she wanted to flinch every time a Jane touched her thigh? Her eyes would sting like the acetone on her nibbled fingers each time a Jane pressed her velvet lips on hers. How could she articulate the sickness she felt with every scrape of a fingernail down her walls? Johns were fuckin’ easy. Pearly just followed set steps of service with the men. It was like a game of hop scotch in chalk on the sidewalk. Left foot. Right foot. Both feet.

etc etc

But those empty husks of women that arrived at Soirée looking for company? The ones that smelt like lavender, talc and tobacco with their hosiery and kitten heels? They made Pearl want to scream until her lungs fissured, fractured and fell apart.

Mr Theodore Buxton was different, though. He wasn’t really a John anymore, anyway. They’d surpassed that stage! He didn’t even really pay anymore! He said it wasn’t normal for a boyfriend to pay for his girlfriend’s time. Pearl’s heart had practically dropped out the bottom of her lollipop ankles when he’d said that. Boyfriend? Theodore? He went from a John that visited her once a month to a once a week regular. Theodore had always been sweet on her. He liked missionary and kissing and talking. He always started with the talking. She liked that part the best. Pearl and Theo spoke about everything.

He was a Military Man, he said. He was just taking a break, though. That’s what he said. Something about his mind needing a rest. Sometimes Theodore would tell her tales of his bravery and once upon a times of rescuing comrades and dodging bullets by the skin of his teeth. He had medals. At home. Other times, he didn’t want to say a word about war. Those times, Theodore didn’t want to hug her or hold her hand or stroke her hair. His face would twist like a pretzel and he’d shove his thing in her so hard she’d gasp for air that would ball its fist inside her throat and tug on her tonsils. He’d grunt and snarl and tell her nasty things. Things he’d apologise for weeks later. She’d smile and say it’s okay and tell him she loved him. But those nasty little words would thread themselves like chicken wire into her brave, wry smile. Those things would make her palms slick with sweat and shake beneath the sheets. Theodore liked to be called daddy. At first, Pearly’s teeth would natter around the word, nibbling around it like a child may avoid greens on a plate. Like how she’d pick out the raisins from the cookies he’d bring her. But she got used to it. She’d greet him at Soirée by running and jumping into his arms, giggling and kicking her feet as they hung inches and inches off the ground.

He always kept boiled sweets in a tin in his car. One day Pearly was suckling on one, making it small and smooth as a pebble on her tongue, when Theodore suddenly said he had to stop off somewhere and pick someone up. Pearly had nodded gleefully and stared out the passenger window at the rain-slicked, chewing gum dappled sidewalks of Minnenoona. She tapped her ballet pumps in the footwell, humming as Theodore drove the car in silence. When they mounted the curb minutes later, she’d watched through narrowed eyes as a little girl approached the parked car. She was in school uniform. A checkered pinafore dress and a bowler hat. She had his eyes. When she popped the back door and clambered into the backseat, Pearl looked at Theodore with a widened, pleading stare.

“Is Mummy not picking me up today, Daddy?” the little girl had asked, her voice squeaky like new shoes. Pearl crunched her molars down on the suckled boiled sweet. It shattered like shards of glass in her mouth. Shattered like the fragments of her heart that now tinkered like a wind chime in her chest.

“No, sweetheart” Theodore had replied, his eyes fixed on a streetlamp unblinking and avoidant.

“Okay. Who’s that, Daddy?” she’d barked, accusation refracted in the rearview mirror.

“This is Daddy’s friend’s daughter,” Theodore answered too quickly. “I’m taking her home now.”

“Was she at school today, too?”

“She wasn’t very well so Daddy picked her up. As a favour to his friend,” Theodore turned the wheel of the car. He repeated again, parroting his own stupid self. “I’m taking her home now.”

Pearl’s nails dug into her knees. They dug in so hard she wondered if she could scoop out her knee caps like sand into a bucket and launch them at the man sat rigidly in the drivers seat. She wasn’t sure who she hated more… The little girl in the backseat? Or the Mummy who hadn’t picked up her daughter that day.

_{__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

As the sun began to rise beyond the windows of Soirée, Pearl retired to her bedroom with the remnants of a bottle of whiskey in one hand and her tin of cigarettes in the other. She clicked her bedroom door shut, flipping the latch and swaying like a willow tree in the wind before stumbling to her unmade bed. Kicking aside her high heels and fumbling with her dress, Pearly stripped to her skin and flopped onto the mattress. The springs cried out, creaking with rust beneath her. She wrapped her lips around the neck of the whiskey bottle, upturning it to deposit a full mouthful of her “goodnight” and “sleep tight.” It burned down the length of her throat. It deleted the noise in her mind. She stared up at the ceiling overhead, the image of a very dead Luca flashing before her. His bulging eyes were the last thing she remembered seeing before she let sleep accost her with its chilling embrace. She’d decide what to do with Dixie tomorrow. For now, she would get a precious few hours sleep. Theodore kidnapped her dreams last night, the smell of his cologne seemed to cling to her nose hairs.

£ 𝕚𝕟𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖 £ - A Murder Mystery RP

@Jimbo Welcome back!

Hope you’re feeling better…

This RP is still hobbling along. Jump back in whenever you’re ready.

I think Ady has been 86’d and is on hiatus or just ghosted. Wishing her well!

But it’s good to see you back.

❃ ꯱ׁׅ֒℘ꫀׁׅܻᥣׁׅ֪ᥣׁׅ֪ϐׁׅ֒ᨵׁׅυׁׅꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ ❃ ᴿᵘᵇʸ ˣ ᴹᵃʸᴮʳᵉᵉᶻᵉ

As the magic took hold of Nora’s mind, she felt the talons of forced perspective pierce themselves through her sockets. She staggered, reeling from the motion sickness. The forest around her melted away, blurring and swirling like engine oil in a puddle, reforming and reframing to create an entirely new landscape. Muddied memories and quick smacks of second-hand smoke emotions made Nora almost sick with intensity. They were rich, decadent visions and the Witch gorged herself, feeling her intestines stretch with the pressure of containment. Her skull filled with pressure, palms flush against her head, pushing as if pining for freedom. Nora blinked blearily, trying to make sense of what was being shown. She struggled to grasp the sands of memories, grains slipping between her fingers, Sirossa’s emotions coursing through her veins. After what felt like years, floating whilst suspended in the dream state, Nora returned to her own body with a jolt. She gasped for breath, clasping at her chest with shaken hands, the forest floor sliding back into focus.

“Welcome back. Turn me in if you want. I don’t really care.”

The Sorceress had the edge of accusation in her voice, her eyes narrowed and pointed like daggers. Nora said nothing for a moment, lowering her gaze as the sparks of Sirossa’s feelings still tingled beneath her skin. She hissed air through gritted teeth, shifting her weight from one foot to another.

“I’m not turning you in,” Nora whispered, softness rounding off the syllables. “Not after what you’ve just shown me.”

Her mind wondered to what the Coven would say, specifically what her Mother would say, if they were present for this conversation. Their sympathy wouldn’t stretch far. They’d take one look at the luxuriously-dressed Sorceress and throw her out in the cold without a second thought. But Nora took pride in thinking independently to her fellow Witchhood. Besides, they hadn’t seen what she’d just seen. They hadn’t felt the raw, unfiltered emotions of an orphan Sorceress, abandoned by her own kind. Hunted by those she may have once called family. This woman’s isolation plucked at the strings of Nora’s heart, melted her hardened exterior, made her really see who was stood before her. Suddenly, she was no longer an intruder in the forest. She didn’t even feel like a stranger. The window into a plagued mind that she’d just pressed her nose against had cured her of ignorance. Now, she looked upon Sirossa with new eyes.

“I’m Nyota,” she called out. “Nyota Gravesend of the Waxing Circle. And who might you-“

An introduction cut short. Words stacked like bricks in her throat. Shadows whispered, urgent nothingness hissing through branches, a foreboding chill rippled down Nora’s spine. The Forest was warning her once again. This time, there was a sense of urgency in the way the darkness called out to Nora. Her head whipped round, ears straining to hear what her Magic was telling her.

“Do you hear that?” she hissed at the Sorceress, inching closer to her and the steed that stood loyally by her side. “We’re not alone.”

Intriguingly's

Miko looked up from her copy/paste work desk, a rickety wooden plank topped with her Macbook and a phone that scarcely rang, eyes scanning the rows of fellow corporate slaves that occupied the other desks in the office. She’d barely spoken to any of these people save for a polite exchange or two at the coffee machine. Sometimes, she could go the entire day without uttering a word to anyone. The office had a stale smell, carpets thinning and worn with the shuffles of less-than-enthused employees. She sighed, the clock on her Macbook staring back at her facetiously. It stubbornly refused to progress, refused to gift her even another minute. Some days, she’d challenge herself not to watch those numbers trickle by, to avert her eyes and allow time to pass naturally. But today she watched like a hawk, praying that the digital clock would read “16:59” and she could begin packing away.

Vacantly answering some emails with fingers that reluctantly probed the keyboard, Miko decided that once she’d cleared her inbox, she’d take lunch. The 45 minute break was sometimes the only thing that kept her going. The idea of leaving her desk for a while and staring at the back wall of the Staff Room was a respite she begged for daily. Her packed lunch, perfectly wrapped and stored in the exact same spot in the fridge, awaited her. Miko clicked send on her final email and cleared her throat. She rose from her seat, smoothing down the material of her tailored dress. Heels thudding against the threadbare carpet of the office, she made her way over to the staff fridge and hunched over the door. That yellow-hued, cool refrigerator light illuminated her face as she reached within and wrapped her hand around her lunch. Everyone knew it was hers. It was sat in her spot. Yet, still, she slapped a Post It with her name on to the foil wrapper. Just to be sure.

It was a serene, clear day in Nowhere. Miko had chosen to enjoy her lunch al fresco, taking slow steps along the pavement as she chomped down on her sandwich made of last nights leftovers. Her eyes steadily took in the streets of Nowhere, sandwich in one hand, handbag in the other. A pearl of mayonnaise beaded in the corner of her mouth as she spotted the infamous Antique Shop that she’d overheard some colleagues discussing in the printer room earlier today. They’d been complaining about the fact it occupied a “prime high street spot” and how “Nowhere would benefit from a Starbucks’s or something” instead of shelves filled with dusty trinkets and discarded possessions that were once loved and cast aside. Miko’s steps halted, her body turning toward the Antique Shop. It was the kind of bricks and mortar that harboured more than just the secrets within. It had a strange energy. One that Miko found herself curious to see with her own eyes. Wrapping the last of her sandwich, Miko crossed the road and made her way toward the shop.

The window displays were cluttered with a vintage Singer sewing machine, an armchair with cracked leather worn by many asses and a trunk spilling over with assorted hats and scarves… Amongst other anonymous pre-loved items, Miko spotted a framed artwork depicting a religious scene. She squinted through the fingerprint-smudged glass and furrowed her brow. It seemed the painting was retelling the story of a soul damned, greeted by Satan’s servants in the fiery pits of hell. Miko wondered what sort of person would choose to hang this haunted picture in their home and shook her head. She glanced at her phone, brushing her thumb across the screen to awaken the time. Her clock informed her she had a meagre 25 minutes left. Only 25 minutes until she had to return to the shackles of her desk to answer more emails and stare blankly at a screen. So, she seized the opportunity to take a look inside. The door hinges groaned as Miko pushed her way in, the bell hung above the door rang out shrilly. She grimaced, eyes darting round to see if she’d awoke a sleeping beast that protected the heirlooms and mothballs of the Antique Shop. No such luck. Miko began to peruse the various shelves, taking slow and curious steps. Something about the place made her feel uneasy… Perhaps it was the damp. The smell of musky old clothes. Either way, she found herself thinking about the fact that so many wanted a Starbucks in lieu of this cultural paradise. she smiled to herself. This lunch break would certainly make the remainder of her working day move quickly.

Intriguingly's

@RickyG85

No worries, Ricky!

I’m sure we can figure it out. I just wanted to check in and see if you had anything in mind!

Intriguingly's

@RickyG85

An interesting first IC post… What did you envision for our Character’s arrivals?

Would you like us to each arrive separately?

Intriguingly's

ꪑ𝓲𝘬ꪮ ρꫀ𝓽ꫀ𝘳ડ

+

ꪑ𝓲𝘬ꪮ ρꫀ𝓽ꫀ𝘳ડ

✿ Personality & Background: Miko has always been the type of girl you’d describe as a “wallflower.” Preferring the company of her cat and finding more comfort between the pages of a book than with people, Miko is a woman of few words and even fewer friends. Not for lack of trying, she simply struggled to… Fit in. Partying, gossip and boys ignited nothing within her. She didn’t crave popularity, she didn’t bend to the will of others. Miko’s mother always told her she had an “old spirit.” She’s not unkind nor unpleasant. No one would describe her particularly negatively… In fact, it’s unlikely that anyone would describe her at all.

Up until recently, Miko has managed to coast through life, education and her earlier 20s fairly unscathed. Not a bully nor bullied, from a dedicated student to a committed employee, she’s enjoyed the anonymity of fading into the background. That way, she can focus on her writing. Miko has a blog, an online platform of reasonable popularity, where she pours her well-hidden personality and life’s philosophies under the alias “Mickey.” The blog “Dear No One” started off, initially, as an online journal for teenage Miko. The blog served as a soundboard for the person she kept hidden away inside, a place to describe her apparently relatable life and her innermost thoughts. “Dear, No One” became Miko’s safe haven for a soul felt unseen. As the blog gained traction, Miko’s confidence grew. She began documenting her solo adventures; Her travels, camping trips, hikes… Everything. The loneliness of her day to day life quickly faded away as she interacted with her readers. The online audience of strangers provided her with the false feeling of friendship...

Then, her mother died. And everything changed. Suddenly, she craved real connection. The one person who saw her, really saw her, was gone. The fragility of life became, all at once, abundantly clear and Miko promised her mother she’d make an effort to put herself out there. She promised her she’d embrace life not just as Mickey… But as Miko, too. Her philosophy was to “say yes.” Say yes to new experiences, new people, new friends.

✿ Skills:
• Well-Read: Being a bookworm has its upsides.
• Astute: All her time on the outskirts left Miko plenty of time to observe people, analysing their behaviours.
• Curious: She loves to know the answers. Nothing bugs her more than a question mark. If there’s a question that needs answering or a problem that needs solving, Miko’s thirst for knowledge compels her to persist until she reaches a conclusion.
• Creative: Reading, writing, theatre, music… The Arts are a what lights a fire beneath Miko. In creativity, she can be her truest self.

✿ Her smartphone / A journal & pen / Her bank card & ID

Intriguingly's

ꪑ𝓲𝘬ꪮ ρꫀ𝓽ꫀ𝘳ડ

ꪑ𝓲𝘬ꪮ ρꫀ𝓽ꫀ𝘳ડ

✿ Personality & Background: Miko has always been the type of girl you’d describe as a “wallflower.” Preferring the company of her cat and finding more comfort between the pages of a book than with people, Miko is a woman of few words and even fewer friends. Not for lack of trying, she simply struggled to… Fit in. Partying, gossip and boys ignited nothing within her. She didn’t crave popularity, she didn’t bend to the will of others. Miko’s mother always told her she had an “old spirit.” She’s not unkind nor unpleasant. No one would describe her particularly negatively… In fact, it’s unlikely that anyone would describe her at all.

Up until recently, Miko has managed to coast through life, education and her earlier 20s fairly unscathed. Not a bully nor bullied, from a dedicated student to a committed employee, she’s enjoyed the anonymity of fading into the background. That way, she can focus on her writing. Miko has a blog, an online platform of reasonable popularity, where she pours her well-hidden personality and life’s philosophies under the alias “Mickey.” The blog “Dear No One” started off, initially, as an online journal for teenage Miko. The blog served as a soundboard for the person she kept hidden away inside, a place to describe her apparently relatable life and her innermost thoughts. “Dear, No One” became Miko’s safe haven for a soul felt unseen. As the blog gained traction, Miko’s confidence grew. She began documenting her solo adventures; Her travels, camping trips, hikes… Everything. The loneliness of her day to day life quickly faded away as she interacted with her readers. The online audience of strangers provided her with the false feeling of friendship...

Then, her mother died. And everything changed. Suddenly, she craved real connection. The one person who saw her, really saw her, was gone. The fragility of life became, all at once, abundantly clear and Miko promised her mother she’d make an effort to put herself out there. She promised her she’d embrace life not just as Mickey… But as Miko, too. Her philosophy was to “say yes.” Say yes to new experiences, new people, new friends.

✿ Skills:
• Well-Read: Being a bookworm has its upsides.
• Astute: All her time on the outskirts left Miko plenty of time to observe people, analysing their behaviours.
• Curious: She loves to know the answers. Nothing bugs her more than a question mark. If there’s a question that needs answering or a problem that needs solving, Miko’s thirst for knowledge compels her to persist until she reaches a conclusion.
• Creative: Reading, writing, theatre, music… The Arts are a what lights a fire beneath Miko. In creativity, she can be her truest self.

✿ Her smartphone / A journal & pen / Her bank card & ID

Intriguingly's

@RickyG85

So sorry! My CS will drop sometime in the next 24 hours - apologies for the delay, my work week has been mental and I’ve been maintaining the games I’m already committed to ><

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

_{__________
𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 & 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚠𝚜𝚘𝚗
𝚂𝚘𝚒𝚛é𝚎
𝟼𝟿 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝
𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊, 𝚆𝙸
__________}

Pearl’s acrylic nail extensions first became a permanent fixture due to the fact her natural nails split with a sneeze. They were wafer-thin and brittle as a breadstick. With just a bit of pressure, they’d fold like an envelope. As a little girl, she’d bitten them right down until they became sore and puckered, little flecks of hang-nails she’d gnaw off with a whetted wince. When her Mama noticed those “stubby little boy” fingernails, she’d invented a punishment that would act as a deterrent for the bad habit. Soaking them in acetone, the chemical stinging extra good as it sunk its claws into the little nibble wounds, was something her mama ordered sometimes as much as once a day. It took a while to establish a successful causal effect. Not only did it set her skin on fire with every soak, Pearly’s fingers then tasted chemically acidic every time they absent-mindedly found themselves between her incisors. Consequently, even in adulthood, her nails never grew past her fingertips. They’d crack and fissure if they managed to become anything more than just pink pillows. So the trademark nail extensions became a necessity as soon as Pearl discovered she could simply pick and choose a length and style with the sweet little Vietnamese girl downtown.

She always asked the girl to make her pinky nail extra long and shaved into a sharp point. Then the extensions became more than just an aesthetic choice. They were useful tools. Like a pocket knife that doubles up as a corkscrew or somethin’. Her elongated, pointed pinky became a miniature shovel to plunge in her packets of white. It was more practical than a rolled up bill or a plastic straw cut in half. Felt more divinely feminine, too. It was transportable, no chance of her ever getting caught short. All she had to do was pluck the baggie from her bra or her panties and she could baby bird that shit right into her nostril of choice. Plus, it was real good at hooking boogers. And tappin’ rhythms on the bar top. They weren’t so useful when balled into a fist and flying into faces, though. No, they tended to get in the way those times. Though Pearly never failed to find a way of blaming the person on the receiving end of those beatings for her broken nails. Nothing quite irked her like the clatter of an acrylic nail pinging across the floor.

“And that’s why I couldn’t do it, Winifred!” the Madam exclaimed, waggling her fingernails as if she were playing keys in the blues band downstairs. “These babies just ain’t built for hard labour. And I don’t think even I could pull off those overalls.”

Winnie didn’t answer. She was making quick work of resetting Dixie’s room. The hunched, hobbling troll-like physique moved with slow, deliberate precision without so much of a grunt in response to Pearl’s projectile-vomit conversation. It was a far cry from the mess the Cleaner was accustomed to:

“You could’ve dealt with this in-house, Pearly…” she’d grumbled when her wonky form first shuffled into the bedroom. Her pebbled eyes swept across the room, taking in the scene.

There was none of the usual blood spatters, no murder weapon, no body. But Winnie had still treated it like a surgical procedure, as usual. Scrubbing in with her Marigolds and pinny, she didn’t even spare a second look for the naked babydoll stood shivering in the corner, still cradling the phantom swaddle of clothes that Roge had snatched from her moments before. Dixie hasn’t said a word since Pearl had instructed her to keep quiet. Save for the occasional sniffle, Dixie obediently stood silently as if she were just a part of the backdrop. A cardboard cutout of a whore whose dilated pupils and trembling bones were the only giveaway she was indeed flesh and blood. Occasionally, Pearl fixed her with a disapproving look as Winnie made her way around the room, the grim realisation that this here was an animal in need of putting down knitting the Madam’s brow together.

The Cleaner stripped the bed sheets and vacuumed the whole room. She plugged in her steamer with a huff but not before excessively spraying every surface the eye could comb over. It smelt like citrus and headache-inducing disinfectant. She ran her rag over each and every touch point; The headboard, the bed-frame, the doors, the handles, the light switch… No square inch was safe from Winnie. Clouds of intoxicating cleaner spritzed into the air, their mist settling on unsuspecting skin in a sheer chemical curtain. Pearl’s eyes rolled and she sucked corrupted air through gritted teeth.

“I can’t stay in here no longer, goddamn!” Pearl griped, tottering over to the entryway, clutching her chest and theatrically struggling for breath. “You’re damned near disinfectin’ the oxygen out the air, Winifred!”

A small smile poked its head round the corner of Winnie’s mouth, her focus firmly fixated on the circular motion of the rag in her pruned hand. There was something hypnotic about watching the cyclicism of Winnie’s handiwork, like the trance of your favourite pair of panties swirling round the washing machine at the laundromat. Pearl hovered at the doorway for a moment, lips parting with the conception of a premature thought, quickly deciding against any parting words before slinking away back to Soirée.

Whenever Pearl left a room, the silence that fell in her absence was cavernous. Winnie set free the bird of her breath that had been caged in Pearly’s company. She straightened for a beat, hands hanging loosely by her sides, rag pinched between fingertips like a hankie. The itch of irritation skittered down every knob of her spinal cord. That devilish Madam got under her skin better than any medical-grade disinfectant ever could. The Cleaner’s dark brown eyes softened as she finally noticed the naked, twiggy body in the corner of the room. She cleared her throat, awkwardly fingering the rag as she searched for words that didn’t feel too-tight wrapped round her tongue.

“This your mess I’m here for?” Winnie asked, distributing her weight onto the handle of the vacuum for support. “Don’t worry, chile. You alright. I’ll be out your hair in no time. Then you can get yourself to bed and sleep away them bags under your eyes.”

Dixie’s widened eyes flitted across Winnie’s face searchingly, her bottom lip wobbling with words unsaid. The Cleaner sighed, turning back to the tasks at hand.

“You poor lamb,” she muttered, her daughter and granddaughters faces superimposed onto this bag of bones that rattled as it stood. “You must be exhausted, huh? Why don’t you get into somethin’ a lil more comfortable? You’ll catch a cold.”

Like a wary street cat, Dixie shied away from the caressing tone and the coax of Winnie’s softness. The Cleaner busied herself by making the bed, wrapping the mattress tight like Christmas, then nodded her head at her handiwork.

“Why don’t you climb on into bed, hmm? I’m sure Madam’s busy elsewhere for now. Get some shut-eye.”

Like a ghost, compliant and obedient, Dixie floated across the room. Her naked body sighed between the fresh sheets. Winnie tutted. Her chalky, weathered hands shot out and caught Dixie’s ankles before they disappeared beneath the sheets. The Cleaner unbuckled the straps at her ankles, letting the heels thud to the floor. Then, she tugged at the covers to tuck her in. Brushing invisible crumbs from the duvet, Winnie looked upon the woman that could be no older than 21, who still had the dismay of a scolded child draped across her face. The Cleaner never usually involved herself like this, preferring to take a “don’t speak unless spoken to” approach. But Tony had opened a door for her earlier, a slither of freedom creeping through the gaps, and it sweetened her. If she were to keep an ear to the ground for Luca as requested, she’d have to network. So, despite discretion always being her default, the next sentence clumsily tumbled from her lips spurred on by Tony’s promise.

“I’m going to start packing away now, mmkay? Think I’m just about done here!” she side-eyed the young woman, inching away from the bedside. Those weary, bloodshot eyes were staring back at her from above the duvet, tracking her every movement. “You know… People disappear all the time in these streets. It’s dog eat dog, right? So I don’t want you worryin’ yourself sick about this. Madam’s got it covered, ain’t she? And Winnie’s got this place so clean you could do open heart surgery right here.”

It was meant to lighten the burden, maybe even ignite the spark of a smile on her face. But Dixie’s eyes fell onto the bed she’d been tucked in to, the same one she’d been sprawled across just hours earlier, and an injection of horror spread across her features. To Winnie, it seemed like the poor girl was reliving some godawful memory. Quickly regretting her rebuffed offer of comfort, the Cleaner began to pack up her cleaning paraphernalia, clicking her tongue in tuts of disappointment. But it was too late. The dam had been broken. Dixie’s silence melted away into uncontrollable tears. She didn’t wail. There was no dramatic eruption. She muffled her cries into a pillow pressed so firmly against her face that Winnie despaired for the crumpling pillowcase. Those suffocated sobs, stifled of their chance to be heard beyond these walls, disappeared into the depths of the lumpy cushion.

“I d-d-didn’t mean to!… I didn’t fucking mean to!…” Dixie’s almost inaudible, wretched cries were nearly lost. But Winnie caught them in her wrinkled palms. She folded her fingers around them and clasped them closer to her curious, pricked ears. “It was an accident. A goddamn accident. He liked it! He s-s-said he liked it!”

Winnie was back at the bedside in a couple of shuffled steps, crooked back bent over Dixie, patting the inconsolable girl like a stray dog.

“I didn’t know it was him! I didn’t know, okay? If I’d have known… If I’d have known?… Oh, I don’t fucking know! I would’ve been more careful. Or s-somethin’. If I’d have known it was him I-“

There was no interjecting. No pacifying. This girl had finally snapped what little string of sanity tied her together. She bawled. Winnie watched on, unable to look away.

“You sh-should’ve seen her face when he said his name!” she’d ripped the pillow from her face now. It was pinned down at her side, her mouth freed and louder for it. Those eyes were 8balls in her upturned face. “P-Pearl. Her face! Oh fuck, her face when he said all casual ‘It’s Luca what’shisfuckingname.’ She looked at me like she could k-kill me!…” Then, all softly, Dixie added in a hoarse whisper “She’s going to kill me.”

Suddenly a shrill, eardrum-perforating ringing struck out in Winnie’s lugholes. She blinked. She did nothing save for blink. Had the hysterical girl just said what she thought she’d said? That downturned, agonised mouth was sliding in slow motion over her gums. The words she so nonsensically stitched together sounded distant and garbled now. All Winnie could hear was that name, echoing as if called into the tunnel of her mind. A shaking hand, tremors of disbelief trembling her fingers, hovered up to the girl’s snot and tear-streaked cheek. She rested her skin against hers. A genuine, whisper-soft touch. Dixie ground to a halt. Quickly, the sobs were snatched from her quivering lips. The girl did nothing, said nothing, simply staring back at Winnie whose hand stayed gently cupping that hollow cheek.

“That’s enough, chile…” Winnie crooned. Once again, she was a mother. An adoring, gentle mother. “Now. I want you to get some rest. It’s time to sleep. That’s right. It’s bedtime.”

Dixie blinked, her lashes thick and clumped together with salted tears. She looked like a child now more than ever. An exhausted breath flickered from her lips and like butterfly wings, her eyelids fluttered shut. Winnie stayed for a few precious seconds, her thumb brushing the damp cheek in those same circular movements she’d used with the rag in hand earlier. This time, the hypnosis lulled Dixie into an almost-slumber. The Cleaner edged away from the bed. She moved as if so much as a loud breath would wake the girl. A faint, bemused smile tugged at the corner of Winnie’s lips. The girl had no idea the gravity of the gift she’d just bestowed upon her. Ignoring the remorse that pooled beneath her cushioned ribcage, she excused herself from the whorehouse. Making herself scarce, Winnie gathered her cleaning utensils in a hurry. Roger nodded curtly to bid her farewell and watched from the entryway as Winnie took a couple of trips to load her stuff into the van. She almost left it all there. Abandoned it all. What use to her was it now that she wouldn’t be cleaning? This would be her final job, after all. All because she’d stumbled across a goldmine when she accepted the Madam’s late-night end of tenancy clean. The invoice, creased and crumpled, passed hands. It was futile and inutile now. Rendered null and void thanks to Dixie’s confession. The van’s engine reluctantly sprung to life and Winnie fumbled to shift the stick into gear. Once again, this body resisted cooperation. But she didn’t care. She was free. Soon, she could finally let these weary bones rest. Shooting a final thankful glance up at Soirée, the Cleaner pulled away from the curb. The wider implications of what she’d heard didn’t occur to her. She simply waved away any concerned voices that asked her conscience to consider the distraught whore’s fate. If that was the price of her freedom? So be it. It weren’t her mess to clean up. Not anymore.