Strangers by Paul Finch Page B

embarrassed in front of the new girl to allow herself to be assisted.
    ‘No,’ Lucy said, refusing to release her arm. ‘Let me help.’
    ‘Not here, for fuck’s sake!’ Tammy snapped, voice turning nasal as the tears flowed. ‘God, the stink!’
    ‘I can clean it off,’ Lucy insisted.
    ‘Yeah, but not out here !’ Tammy yanked her arm loose and strutted quickly away, working her way deeper into the copse of trees, heels clacking as she joined a paved pathway, which snaked from the road into denser shadows. Lucy followed, shoving the wipes back into her bag. Fleetingly, Tammy was invisible in the darkness ahead – it was only possible to follow her by her footfalls and sniffles. By the sounds of it, she’d quickly got on top of the tears. Probably couldn’t afford not to in this line of work. Lucy accelerated and fell into step alongside her. The path weaved away from the picnic area towards what looked like an open, well-lit space, though they passed several more girls before they got there, most of them standing talking quietly, indistinguishable in the darkness, only the tiny red pinpoints of cigarettes and the occasional whiff of cannabis revealing their presence.

    Tammy sniffled again and tried to wipe under her eyes, inadvertently smearing her fingertips with excrement. ‘Bastards!’ she hissed. ‘Can’t fucking believe this!’
    ‘Nor me,’ Lucy agreed.
    ‘Yeah, but you’re new. I ought to have learned my lesson by now.’
    The path ended at the edge of what was actually a lorry park. This was a rectangular dirt lot, rugged and rutted at this time of year, and about thirty acres in size. It was still close to the East Lancs, extending along it in a southerly direction, but was encircled on three sides by trees and undergrowth. At the far side stood a single-storey red-brick building, a combo of service garage and lorry drivers’ cafe.
    ‘There are some toilets round the back,’ Tammy muttered as they walked over there, passing numerous trucks and wagons, some old and some new, some with curtained interiors.
    When they reached the building, they circled round it, away from its glazed, brightly glowing frontage, passing a row of bins and a pile of spare but rusting auto-parts. At the very rear, two doors stood covered with flaking paint. One was marked ‘Gents’, the other ‘Ladies’.
    Two more girls were standing here, chatting as they smoked. One of them, a bottle-blonde in a fur coat and a preponderance of mascara, spotted them as they approached. Initially she looked shocked, but then she grinned,
    ‘And what happened to you, Tammy, love?’
    ‘What’s it look like?’ Tammy replied sulkily. ‘Some bastard threw a turd at me.’
    The bottle-blonde coughed cigarette smoke as she guffawed. ‘Oh my God … sorry, love, but rather you than me!’
    The other woman, who was older, grey-haired in fact, and considerably heavier – and thus looked awful in her matching red mini-dress and stilettos – seemed completely unmoved. She simply took in the night air, expelling streams of smoke through her flaring nostrils.

    ‘They were a lot of help,’ Lucy said when they’d entered the toilets, to which Tammy only grunted.
    The Ladies was a small, boxy room with white-tiled walls and a damp concrete floor. There were four cubicles, three of them marked “Out of Order”, and two large mirrors over two side-by-side washbasins. The mirrors were grubby and smeared. Across the top of each one, some past comedian had used a black marker-pen to offer his opinions on the unfortunate women who’d routinely imprint their faces in the glass below in order to fix their make-up. The one on the left read Blowjob Queen of Manchester! , and to ensure there was no misunderstanding, an arrow pointed downward. The one on the right was signposted: Takes it up the arse! Yukkity yuk!
    Lucy handed the face wipes over so that Tammy could clean herself, though it was already apparent that the girl was going to