In My Skin by Kate Holden Page A

it.
    ‘Is there anything I can do?’
    I thought, all I need is money. But I didn’t think that was what she had in mind.
    It wasn’t the work that was most tiring, or even the perpetual toiling around that damn block. It was the fight to be paid, the inevitable haggling and cheating. I was guilty of lowering my prices out of need, which encouraged the mugs to barter shamelessly—but how angry I was that these men could see my desperation and use it to halve my asking price. Usually I settled for half or even a third of the going rate just to avoid having to get out of the car, sometimes a distance from the block—wherever they dumped me—and walk back, to start the whole trawling process again. The night would pass, the busy hours dwindle, and still after hours of walking and arguing I was short. Even on a good night it was hard to get ahead. Exhausted, forlorn, I would simply buy more smack.
    I endured the weather. Heroin insulates against sensation; I could stand in a short-sleeved top in the middle of the freezing night and not feel cold. Rainy nights, when my umbrella blew inside out and the mugs wouldn’t stop to let a wet girl in the car, were worst. The rain blinded me and the jobs were few. I walked against the wind, hoping for the warmth of a car, went home soaked and sniffling. Nights like that it was a push to make the money. But I had no choice.
    I worked through illness and pain. Somehow—perhaps it was the scouring of the drug in my system—I rarely got sick. But my teeth were getting bad and I had no money or time or energy to get to a dentist, and so I worked with my face swollen from toothache, eyes tight with headache. My feet were sore from the walking; my vagina was chafed. I fell and bruised my chest; the men pressed on it and I bit my lip. I had a semi-permanent urinary tract infection from the rough sex.
    Shoulders rigid with tension, I made myself stride on all night.
    Running against time. Only ten hours or so until I’d be too sick without heroin to be able to get some. By the time I woke, the drugs would have seeped out of my system until I was watery-eyed, fever-hot, stiff, aching, nauseous; my eyes dry, my skin clammy, exhausted and restless at the same time. I’d have to go out—get the tram across town, set off around the block, trying to disguise my illness with facepowder and a hopeful smile. It didn’t matter how sick I was, how trembly; if I didn’t go, I’d only get worse. I pictured myself sprawled on the floor of my room, undone, helpless for days. I made myself go. To stand sweating and dizzy, waiting for a car to stop, take the meagre payment offered—anything, just enough, please, gagging at the condom nudging the back of my throat—do what I had to do, and somehow force my failing legs up to Jake’s place. Ringing at the phonebox, no answer, waiting, ringing again. Thinking, I just can’t wait another second, another second, another second.
    Sometimes I’d go out before dark, to catch the late-lunch trawl: truckies, tradesmen on their way to a job, business guys heading back to the office after a nice lunch. Parking was harder in the daylight; we might drive for half an hour, inspecting carparks and alleyways. At least the truckies, with their snug cabs, could tug the curtains over the windows as if pulling over for a nap. The other guys yanked down their pants furtively, in bluestone lanes, while I bent over their laps.
    Down at the needle exchange on Grey Street—passing the even more bedraggled girls who worked down there—I could get my brown paper bags of clean fits and condoms. I would stuff a few condoms and lubes down the sides of my bra, stash my bag of fits under a bush, and set off. I battled to make my clients use condoms, especially for oral. So many of the girls, they said, didn’t use them; why should they go with me?
    ‘Do you really want me, if I’ve been with other guys without protection?’ I’d ask.
    They’d shrug, then wheedle: ‘I