Follow Me by Angela Clarke

face down into his lap. Anya struggled, his cock came free and he ejaculated into her face.
    The other guy began to whoop and the girls and the bookers clapped and cheered. Anya staggered back, clawing her face, wiping spunk from her eyes.
    Paige ran. She was fourteen.
    Older now, she can barely remember what it was like to have never tasted alcohol. To have felt shock – was it cold? ‘I need more! I’m coming down,’ she shouted into the darkness.
    The photographic assistant brought a white dinner plate with pre-chopped lines. Paige inhaled the white powder. The lights grew brighter still. The dark edges disappeared.
    Kenny grinned at her. He licked his fingers and tweaked her nipples. ‘You hot slut, let’s do this!’
    She shrieked and jumped, her arm up, her tattoo aloft, riding the inflatable banana like it was a rodeo bull. Her hair flared up and around her face. White light shone from her skin. They would make the cover.
    A prefab photographic studio squatting under the Hammersmith flyover didn’t strike Freddie as a particularly glamorous place for a fashion shoot.
    Nasreen and Tibbsy were stood either side of Moast, and Jamie was bringing up the rear. A unit. A team. All dressed in suits, and Jamie in his PC Plod uniform, they looked ridiculous in this urban setting as trance music blared from every speaker.
    ‘We’re looking for Miss Paige Klinger – we understand she’s working here today?’ Moast asked a cute boy with pink quiffed hair and bolt earrings behind the desk.
    Freddie caught the look of disdain Moast gave the boy. It was the same look he gave her charity shop checked jumper. What the hell was she doing here?
    Moast knocked on the studio door, but she heard nothing over the pulsating music. He opened it and the big white space illuminated the concrete corridor they were in. Against the back wall, Paige Klinger was posing.
    ‘Oh my God,’ breathed Nas. Tibbsy started to giggle.
    ‘Never seen breasts before, Tibbsy?’ Freddie said, but it was lost in the noise. They edged into the room. A group of people clad in what passed as achingly cool clothes gathered round a camera connected to a laptop. Looking intently at the images of Paige that flashed up on screen, none of them noticed their arrival. Moast, Nasreen, Tibbsy and Jamie stood transfixed in the doorway. Pills, powder and bottles of Scotch were easily visible. Freddie knew there’d be no chance of her securing a Paige exclusive if this got ugly. She sidestepped Tibbsy, who was now furiously blushing and looking anywhere but at Paige Klinger’s tits, and stood in an empty open-plan kitchen area. Obscene amounts of sushi sat on the work surface. She popped a tuna sashimi in her mouth. She was bloody starving. Besides, these fashion clowns were too high to eat.
    Moast gave up waiting for someone to notice them and approached Paige Klinger. ‘Excuse me, Miss.’
    ‘What the fuck! Get out of my shot! Who are you! This is a closed set! Stefan! Stefan!’ the photographer, who Freddie now recognised as Kenny Reynolds, started shouting.
    Paige looked wide-eyed. An inflatable banana fell from between her legs. A young hipster kid in a flannel-neck shirt, who Freddie assumed was Stefan, ran at Moast in a rugby tackle move. Moast swung his leg and arm round. Stefan went up into the air, a flailing flannel bird, and landed on his back with a sickening thud.
    Shit!
    Paige Klinger screamed. Hands in front of her face. She was shaking. Her tiny rose-pink breasts bobbing.
Jesus!
Freddie’s heart was beating in time with the frenetic music. Nas sprinted to grab Kenny Reynolds’ upper body in a bear hug as he swung his camera down at Moast’s gelled head. Freddie took a photo on her phone.
This is insane!
    Moast, pinning the whimpering Stefan down with one knee and one hand, wrenched his identification from his pocket. ‘I’m DCI Moast, with the Metropolitan Police. Stop struggling.’
    Stefan went limp.
    ‘Christ,’ said Kenny, still held