was going to bail. She wiped her mouth on the back of her glove and left a watery brown stain on the yellow rubber.
She dipped her mouth back into the brown water and took five gulps in quick succession. When she was done she came up gasping for air and flung her back against the wall, landing heavily on her ample backside.
“Congratulations Pam,” the Djinn said to the panting, distressed woman. “You have successfully completed your first task. I shall come to you daily to grant your wish and issue further instructions.”
Pam barely heard him. It pained her to breathe and her ears were ringing. Her heart beat hard and fast and she found she was trembling all over. She felt something land in her lap and when she looked down she saw a whole heap of tens and fifties.
And just like that, the Djinn was gone.
Pam twisted her head sideways, and threw up. She reached for her mop and then thought; what the hell am I doing?
She didn’t need this piece of shit of job anymore, she had ten grand in her lap. After holding a few of the notes up to the light to check they were real, she lifted up her pullover and stuffed the notes in her bra.
She made her way back into the pub to collect her bag and coat, clutching the lamp in her trembling hands.
“That was quick,” a gravelly male voice said behind her, making her jump.
“I quit,” she said, not even bothering to turn around and reaching for her coat and bag that was slung over the bar.
“What the fuck do you mean, you quit? Pub opens in half an hour, clean those fucking toilets now. And what the fuck is that?” he asked, nodding towards the lamp she held clasped to her chest.
She turned round to face the bullying landlord. He was a right prick. Short, fat and obnoxious, his reputation for groping staff was legendary. Not her though, she wasn’t pretty enough for that fat bastard to touch her. She had never known if she was pleased about that, or insulted.
“Clean them yourself, you fat prick. And when you’ve done that, go fuck yourself,” she said, ignoring his question about the lamp.
His face turned a bright shade of red.
Boy, that felt good.
“How dare you talk to me like that, you good for nothing, ugly slag.”
She stalked out the dive of a pub with the shitty carpets and flat screen TVs on every wall that showed every football match known to mankind and called to him over her shoulder:
“The puke in the second cubicle from the left is mine. Enjoy cleaning it up.”
She stepped outside onto the busy London street, feeling happier than she had in years.
Her euphoria didn’t last long. She was mugged on the way home. Looking back, she knew perfectly well she had brought it upon herself when she was sat there at the bus stop, waiting for the number fifty eight. Some money had fallen out of her bra and drifted to the pavement. Hastily she had picked it up and stuffed it into her bag. When she had glanced nervously around, she noticed a couple of young guys in the small crowd gathered at the bus shelter, and when she looked at them, they quickly looked away again.
She didn’t like the look of them one bit. One was black and the other was white. They fit every stereotype going of modern disenchanted youth; designer baggy jeans with their underpants showing, hoodies pulled up over their shaved heads, trainers that probably cost more than she earned cleaning in one whole month.
Alarm bells rang when they got off at the same stop as her. But there was little she could do about it, so she had walked briskly in the direction of home, going the long way round to avoid the quiet streets.
Fat lot of good that had done her. They pounced when she was less than five minutes from home, dragging her into an alleyway between a tanning salon and a betting shop.
The white guy pushed her to the floor. She landed on her rump, the shock of it knocking her sick for a second.
“Hand over the money,” he said.
“We saw that money fall out of your jumper at
She dipped her mouth back into the brown water and took five gulps in quick succession. When she was done she came up gasping for air and flung her back against the wall, landing heavily on her ample backside.
“Congratulations Pam,” the Djinn said to the panting, distressed woman. “You have successfully completed your first task. I shall come to you daily to grant your wish and issue further instructions.”
Pam barely heard him. It pained her to breathe and her ears were ringing. Her heart beat hard and fast and she found she was trembling all over. She felt something land in her lap and when she looked down she saw a whole heap of tens and fifties.
And just like that, the Djinn was gone.
Pam twisted her head sideways, and threw up. She reached for her mop and then thought; what the hell am I doing?
She didn’t need this piece of shit of job anymore, she had ten grand in her lap. After holding a few of the notes up to the light to check they were real, she lifted up her pullover and stuffed the notes in her bra.
She made her way back into the pub to collect her bag and coat, clutching the lamp in her trembling hands.
“That was quick,” a gravelly male voice said behind her, making her jump.
“I quit,” she said, not even bothering to turn around and reaching for her coat and bag that was slung over the bar.
“What the fuck do you mean, you quit? Pub opens in half an hour, clean those fucking toilets now. And what the fuck is that?” he asked, nodding towards the lamp she held clasped to her chest.
She turned round to face the bullying landlord. He was a right prick. Short, fat and obnoxious, his reputation for groping staff was legendary. Not her though, she wasn’t pretty enough for that fat bastard to touch her. She had never known if she was pleased about that, or insulted.
“Clean them yourself, you fat prick. And when you’ve done that, go fuck yourself,” she said, ignoring his question about the lamp.
His face turned a bright shade of red.
Boy, that felt good.
“How dare you talk to me like that, you good for nothing, ugly slag.”
She stalked out the dive of a pub with the shitty carpets and flat screen TVs on every wall that showed every football match known to mankind and called to him over her shoulder:
“The puke in the second cubicle from the left is mine. Enjoy cleaning it up.”
She stepped outside onto the busy London street, feeling happier than she had in years.
Her euphoria didn’t last long. She was mugged on the way home. Looking back, she knew perfectly well she had brought it upon herself when she was sat there at the bus stop, waiting for the number fifty eight. Some money had fallen out of her bra and drifted to the pavement. Hastily she had picked it up and stuffed it into her bag. When she had glanced nervously around, she noticed a couple of young guys in the small crowd gathered at the bus shelter, and when she looked at them, they quickly looked away again.
She didn’t like the look of them one bit. One was black and the other was white. They fit every stereotype going of modern disenchanted youth; designer baggy jeans with their underpants showing, hoodies pulled up over their shaved heads, trainers that probably cost more than she earned cleaning in one whole month.
Alarm bells rang when they got off at the same stop as her. But there was little she could do about it, so she had walked briskly in the direction of home, going the long way round to avoid the quiet streets.
Fat lot of good that had done her. They pounced when she was less than five minutes from home, dragging her into an alleyway between a tanning salon and a betting shop.
The white guy pushed her to the floor. She landed on her rump, the shock of it knocking her sick for a second.
“Hand over the money,” he said.
“We saw that money fall out of your jumper at
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