The Interview

I took out my little black notebook and began to write.

Dear Diary,

I am absolutely dreading today’s interview, but I really need the job. I’m so sick and tired of being skint all the time and borrowing off mum and being on the dole. How did things get to this point? I should’ve gone to school. I should’ve paid attention. I really need the money. Apparently, they pay well, especially if customers are happy.

I was lounging around in my sweats on my bed having just finished my Chinese takeout when my phone beeped. It was 7pm and I had to get up and get ready. Crikey, already? I was bloody nervous.

The appointment was at 20:30 in Soho’s sleazy nightclub district and I couldn’t afford to be late. I tossed my pen into my side drawer and stuffed my notebook into my bag. I’d continue writing on the tube, perhaps.

What to wear? I needed something sexy and revealing, yet modest. This was an interview after all and not a lap dance. I went with a pink, tight-fitted skirt and a black V-neck top that showed some cleavage. Big, hooped white earrings (never mind the tacky 80’s look) and pink and black shiny pumps. Gotta love the charity shops. I took out a huge black shoulder bag and, just for safe measure, stuffed it with other tops and skirts and panty-hose. You just never know what they’re going to expect.

I brushed and flossed my teeth, grabbed my peppermint spray, and sped out the door down the road towards the tube stop. It was 19:45 and I was cutting it thin.

The tube stank and felt claustrophobic. As always at that time in the early evening, there were no vacant seats and I had to stand. I could smell whiskey on the breath of the bearded man to my right and the armpit stench of the tall, lanky teenager to my left. Bloody hell, I forgot to apply deodorant.

One thing I actually liked about tube travel was people-watching; I found them fascinating. Where were they going? What were they thinking? Who were they meeting?

People that particularly stood out were: a party of five very loud Italians, a blind man and his dog (how they navigate public transport was beyond me), a punk rocker with purple, spikey hair and rings in every place fathomable, a few businessmen in suits (probably venturing out to the pub or on their way home), a couple making out, and a group of Japanese tourists that practically filled the compartment I was in.

“Nice ass.”

God, it was Whiskey-Breath. I had my back to him at that point but he was obviously checking me out. I ignored him, but he tried again.

“You’re lookin’ mighty fine tonight, sweetheart,” he slurred under his breath.

I cringed, but inched my way forward so that I didn’t have to be near him anymore. I really didn’t have the energy for weirdos coming onto me.

With a slightly new perspective now that I was standing elsewhere, I scoped the carriage out to see who else was around. This also gave me the chance to have a good, long look at Whiskey-Breath, who now had his nose buried in his phone. He had virtually no hair on his head and a long, white beard. He wore massive golden rings on his little fingers on both hands and sported a bling-bling necklace. I noticed a scar on his right cheek. I felt a shiver down my spine but just before I looked away, I spotted a large, pink bag on the ground between his legs. That’s odd. It didn’t go with his outfit at all. It was clearly a woman’s bag. Maybe it’s his wife’s or girlfriend’s…

My phone beeped. I took it out. Message from mum. “Let me know how your interview goes, love.” I hadn’t told her what the actual job was. I just said it was a waitressing gig.

I texted her back and put my phone away, and it was then that I realised I had just missed my stop. FUCK! I had been so immersed in my phone that I didn’t hear the announcer.

The doors closed and the train began to depart from the Piccadilly Circus station. God, it was 20:15 and I had fifteen minutes to get off at the next stop and turn back around. I knew I was going to be a bit late. As I mulled over whether I should take another train back or go up to the top and take a taxi or run, I noticed the pink bag. Whiskey-Breath was no longer in the carriage but his bag was. Just as we pulled into the station, I found myself walking up to the bag, picking it up and rushing out of the doors. I had no idea what I was going to do with it, but I’d figure that out later. Right now, I just needed to get to my interview.

***

The bar was called Voodoo Haven and I’d been there a few times in the past when out on the pull with mates. We would bar hop and then end up at Voodoo for some cheap drinks. It was basically a sleazy dive bar.

I raced in, sweat dripping down my back (as I had decided to sprint), but upon walking into the place, I realised I had no point of reference so I ended up going to the bar itself and asking a hefty looking barman. “Hi, I’ve got an interview with Spuddy at 8:30. I’m a little late, but is he around?”

Hefty-man eyeballed me up and down. “Nice,” he said, with a wink and a smirk. “Yeah, Spuddy’s here. He’s out back. Just go through that way,” he continued, nodding his head toward an opening in the wall. “And good luck,” he added. “The last girl we had just disappeared.”

Okaaaay. Why was he telling me this?

I found myself in front of a large door that had a sign which read: Spuddy Holly. I looked down at my outfit, used my hands to iron it out, ran my fingers over my eyebrows and hair, took a deep breath and knocked three times.

Nobody answered. After waiting a few minutes, I turned the doorknob and slowly opened the door.

“Hello? Anyone there? Mr. Holly?”

As soon as I walked in, I noticed the room smelled musty and spent. It was dimly lit with red lights and in the middle of it was empty save for a wooden desk and office chair. Frank Sinatra was playing from a large gramophone in the corner.

My heart was pounding.

“Hello? Mr. Holly? It’s Tara. I’m sorry I’m late.”

Just then I heard a voice come through a side door. “Yeah! Yeah! I’ll be there in a fucking minute! Keep your knickers on,” boomed the voice. I guessed that was Spuddy. He sounded pissed off – and slightly intoxicated.

Well, the silver lining was that my tardiness didn’t seem to be an issue. I made myself comfy on one of the grimy chairs and tried not to think about who had sat here all the times before me.

It was then that I remembered the pink bag. It felt relatively heavy on my way over here and I was surprised Whiskey-Breath forgot it. I clearly remember it was sitting between his legs on the tube. I decided now was as good a time as any to have a look through its contents. I’d probably need to drop it off at the London Underground’s lost property point. I picked it up, put it on my lap, and opened it.

My jaw dropped. I was not prepared for what I saw.

Money. Cash. Wads of it. At least 20 grand in there. Fuck me. Was this legal? Shit. What do I do?

I started to panic.

Just then, the side door opened.

I quickly crammed the bag into my larger bag full of sexy barmaid gear. I’d have to deal with that later.

“So, let’s get this over and done with, sweetheart,” Spuddy said quickly, lighting a cigarette and getting straight to the point. “I have shit to deal with. Tell me, why do you wanna work here?”

I froze.

What the fuck was Whiskey-Breath doing HERE?