It Only Takes A Minute, Jayne

That will be eighteen pounds and thirty pence, please.

Shakey Jake, Bisdale's resident smackhead, pushed his grubby fingers into the pockets of his greasy parker and rummaged amongst God-knows-what for the required coin.

Jayne watched patiently, trying not to gag as dank wafts of stale fags slapped their way over the cash desk between them.

Aha! After much muttering, Shakey brought from the bowels of his coat a mauled twenty-pound note and handed it to her. Sanitiser ready in her peripheral vision, she took it and handed over the goods.

Thanks. He winked.

Bye, she hissed through gritted teeth.

With the smell of him lodged in her nostrils, she looked up at the shiny, closed-circuit plastic eye recording her every move.

She caught sight of herself in the perspex security screen and looked down at her feet. Her pretty pink shoes dangled next to a large grey safe that seemed to be screaming out like a fat man in misery.

Fuck. This. Shit.

This was not her life.

These were not her people.

Four clicks of the safe dial later, and in seconds, she had stuffed her bag full, and an Uber was en route.

Mexico... Get ready for Jayne.