The Burn Read Free Page A

seemed to be as
well; it was the fashion.
    The more he thought about it the more he started thinking she might be on the game, a prostitute. He glanced at her out the side of his eye. It was definitely possible. She was good-looking and
she was a bit hard, a bit tough, she was probably wearing a lot of make-up. Mostly all females wore make-up so you couldnt really count that. What else? Did she have on a ring? Aye, and quite a
few, different ones, on her different fingers. She shall have music wherever she goes. Rings on her fingers and rings on her toes. Bells on her toes. She had black hair, or maybe it was just dark,
it was hard to see properly because of the light; and her eyebrows went in a high curve. Maybe she
was
on the game and she had got a hard time from a punter, or else somebody was pimping for
her and had gave her a doing, or else telt her he was going to give her one later, if she didnt do the business, if she didnt go out and make a few quid. Maybe her face was bruised. Maybe she had
got a right kicking. And she wouldnt have been able to fight back, because she was a woman and wasnt strong enough, she wasnt powerful enough, she would just have to take it, to do it, what she was
telt, to just do it. God Almighty. It was like a form of living hell. Men should go on the game to find out what like it was, a form of living hell – that’s what it was like. He should
know, when he was a boy he had once went with a man for money and it was a horror, a horror story. Except it was real. He had just needed the dough and he knew about how to do it down the
amusements, and he had went and fucking done it and that was that. But it was bad, a horror, a living hell. Getting gripped by the wrist so hard you couldnt have got away, but making it look like
it was natural, like he was your da maybe, marching you into the toilet, the public toilet. Getting marched into the public toilet. People seeing you as well, other guys, them seeing you and you
feeling like they knew, it was obvious, him marching you like that, the way he was marching you. Then the cubicle door shut and he was trapped, you were trapped, that was that, you were trapped,
and it was so bad it was like a horror story except it was real, a living hell, because he could have done anything and you couldnt have stopped him because he was a man and he was strong and you
were just a boy, nothing, to him you were just nothing. And you couldnt shout or fucking do anything about it really either because
    because you were no just fucking feart you were in it along with him, you were, you were in cahoots, you were in cahoots with the guy, that was what it was, the bad fucking bit, you were in
cahoots with him, it was like you had made a bargain, so that was that. But him gripping you the way he was! What a grip! So you had to just submit, what else could you do. You had to just submit,
you couldnt scream nor fuck all. Nothing like that. Men coming into the urinals for a pish, no knowing what was going on behind the door and him breathing on you and feeling you up, and grabbing
you hard, no even soft, no even caring if he had tore your clothes. What the wonder was that nobody could hear either because of the rustling noises the way he had you pressed against the wall and
then you having to do it to him, to wank him, him forcing your hand and it was like suffocating, forcing his chest against your face and then coming over you, no even telling you or moving so you
could avoid it it was just no fair at all, all over your shirt and trousers, it was terrible, a horror story, because after he went away you had to clean it all up and it wouldnt wipe off properly,
all the stains, the way it had sunk in and it was like glue all glistening, having to go home on the subway with it: broad daylight.
    For a pile of loose change as well. How much was it again? No even a pound, fifty stupid pence or something, ten bob. Probably no even that, probably it was something