I wonder if this is what it's like to kill someone, Sannah thought. Something that you're sure you would never, ever do, that you know you're incapable of. Then one day you do it, and it's no big deal.

She sat down in one of the leather bucket chairs, tucked in a shadowy corner, and pulled off a shoe to rub her aching foot. It seemed surreal that she'd just taken all her clothes off in front of a crowd of strangers. Not just the once, now, but multiple times.

The first time had been awful. She'd stood on that tiny stage, blinded by the lights, her hands shaking as she undid her top, moving her body in a pitiful impersonation of a dance.

The other girls watched her impassively. Rade leaned in to whisper something to a friend, who laughed. The men were clearly uncomfortable. One turned to the bar, one got out his screen. The drunk in front of the stage got up and moved to the corner of the room.

I've blown it, Sannah thought. They can't even stand to look at me. Carter, however, clearly had pretty low standards. He just said, Alright, start tonight if you want to. Sannah really didn't want to start tonight. But she knew that she had to think of Judit, and that time was of the essence now thanks to Lox, so she agreed.

"Them's the booths," Carter had said, pointing to a row of doorways hung with purple velvet curtains. "You'll need one of the girls to show you how to do a private dance," he went on, his eyes scanning the club. "I'll just find Kismet..."

"No," Sannah interjected quickly. "Not her. Dierdra—I mean Ebony. Ask Ebony."

Carter chuckled. "Exotic pieces stick together, eh?" He beckoned Dierdra.

She came, the lights hitting her bejewelled dress in a thousand places. Carter leaned in and said something in her ear and she nodded, then beckoned Sannah to follow her downstairs. She waited until they were in the empty changing room before she spoke.

"You looked nervy, but you'll do fine. Here, have a drink of this. It'll take the edge off."

She took a small silver flask from her bag, and pulling the lid off with her teeth, passed it to Sannah. Sannah took a swig and grimaced. It tasted like a chemical factory fire. The heat moved down her neck, spread through her chest, made her fingers tingle.

Dierdra took a mouthful herself, seemingly immune to the burn, then looked at Sannah.

"Look, don't take this the wrong way, but do you wanna borrow some makeup?"

Sannah nodded gratefully. With make up, maybe she'd feel less like a child in fancy dress.

After watching her cack-handed attempts to apply eyeshadow, Dierdra gently took the brush and, sitting Sannah in the plastic seat, started to do it for her.

"How old are you?" Deirdra said, an eyeliner pencil in her mouth.

"Twenty," Sannah replied, the lie hanging heavy in the air between them.

Dierdra put down her tools and, using her fingers, raked through Sannah's hair, pushing it up at the crown.

"There." She stepped back as if satisfied with her creation. "All done. You have sleek hair."

"You too," Sannah echoed, looking at herself in the mirror. She looked about ten years older now she was made up. Like someone else. Good. This woman wasn't her, it was just a part she had to play to get to Judit.

"What's your stage name?" Dierdra asked.

"Clera," Sannah said, flushing a little. "It's my mum's name."

"Well that's off kilter," Dierdra arched her brows.

Sannah nodded. It really was.

"So the private dances are easy." Dierdra became businesslike. "You gotta get as close as you can without touching. And you're not allowed to put both feet on the chair—though Kismet does it all the time, I've seen her. Sit on the bench, I'll show you."

Sannah sat on the bench, feeling inexplicably nervous. Dierdra leaned into her, as if she was going to whisper something in her ear, then moved away. Her movements were snake-like as she swayed in time to the dull music filtering in from the club upstairs. She turned her back to Sannah, her hips undulating, then bent over to touch the floor, her hand sliding up the inside of her thigh.

She turned again, peeling back the strap of her dress, releasing one breast, then the other, then dropping her dress in one smooth movement to the floor. She was wearing nothing, and like the hard-faced girl from earlier, had no body hair. Her skin was beautiful, flawless, even under the ugly light of the bare bulb, reflected back infinitely through the multiple mirrors.

Dierdra swayed gracefully, extending her arms above her head, then leaned into Sannah again, her hair tickling her cheek. She smelled of a musky, floral perfume, a hint of citrus. Her movements were languid, full of a strange, sexual energy. This is actually beautiful, Sannah thought. Am I turned on?

"Okay, there you go!"

Dierdra snapped up straight, hands on her hips, and the spell was broken.

"Easy, see? Your turn. Close as you can without touching."

She plonked herself down on the seat and smiled at Sannah.

"Um, I..."

Sannah stood, awkwardly.

"Don't worry," Dierdra said. "It'll be easier with the men than with me. You don't give a dag what they think."

Sannah tried to copy Dierdra's movements: lean in, lean out, turn, bend, turn. Her body was jerky, and she toppled off her heel and nearly fell when she bent over. She definitely couldn't touch the floor. She was awful.

"Sharp!" Dierdra nodded encouragingly, like a primary school teacher. "You'll get used to it. Now, let's get out there. Always get the money before the dance. If any of 'em try to touch you, scream for the doorman. And don't go stealing my regulars."

She gave Sannah a comforting squeeze on the shoulder, then was up the steps, into the club.

Sannah exhaled, thought of Judit, and followed her.

The club was crowded now, the sleazy music pulsating through massed bodies. Tahki Leoni, again. Men were everywhere, and it was harder to spot a girl. A blonde was on stage, one leg lifted high over her head, and the audience were whooping and throwing money at her.

It took Sannah a while to work up the courage to approach a man and ask if he wanted a private dance. The first one said no. The next one said no. The rejection went on and on, until number nine finally said yes. She led him to one of the purple velvet curtains and pulled it back. They were in a tiny booth, nothing but a bucket-chair inside.

She pointed to it, and he sat. She asked for twenty digits, and he gave it to her. She copied Dierdra's movements, leaning in so close she could smell the alcohol on his breath, see the dandruff on his suit, turning, bending—not falling this time—leaning, dropping. He seemed satisfied, and left the booth. That was that. Ten digits. She got dressed, went back outside, and started again.

The undressing wasn't as hard as she'd thought it would be. The rejection was harder, having to talk to all the skithead guys, but she thought of Judit and kept going, her smile fixed until someone said yes. Then another, then another, her small pile of crumpled notes growing.

She realised she just spoke to the men in the club like she spoke to her teachers at school: polite, respectful. Would you like a private dance, please? Whatever, they seemed to respond.

Two hours had passed and she had done ten dances. She was sweaty and her feet were hurting, but she'd made a hundred digits, and there was still six hours to go until closing. I'm doing it, Sannah thought. I'm going to rescue Judit. Then I'll make back my Sherbourne application fee, and we can go on with our lives.

Sannah leaned back in the bucket-chair and replaced her shoe, surveying the crowd as she tried to subtly wipe sweat from her face without smudging her makeup.

She could see Dierdra, surrounded by men, laughing. Another girl, a Generic in a frilly pink neglige, was watching jealously, neglected by the crowd. A man leaned in and Dierdra took his hand and led him towards the purple velvet curtains.

The hard-faced black-haired woman was on the stage now, gyrating furiously in time to the music. She kicked off her pants in one smooth movement, flick! They landed on the head of a guy in the crowd. His friends cheered, hitting him on the back.

The men were in their twenties, in their sixties, old, fat, thin, tacky, well-dressed, built, skinny, seedy. Their fun seemed hollow and forced. Sannah didn't care about them at all. All she wanted was their money. A hundred digits, she thought. How much can I make tonight, before closing?

Someone touched her shoulder, and she jumped, ready to scream for the doorman. She relaxed when she saw it was Dierdra.

"Poosh," Dierdra dropped dramatically into the seat next to Sannah, legs splayed in mock-exhaustion. "What a night. Busy, eh? How's it going?"

"Okay, thanks," Sannah said. "A hundred digits."

"Hundred? That's crude for your first night! Sharp, kin!"

"What about you?" Sannah looked at Dierdra curiously.

"280. But I had a long session in the private room with one guy, so a lot came from that." She took out her wad of cash and used it to fan her face.

"Oh dag off." Dierdra looked over Sannah's shoulder, her face annoyed.

Sannah turned. It was Rade, or Kismet as they called her here. She staggered over to them, weaving in between the chairs, dropping heavily into one facing Dierdra and Sannah. She was carrying a short, full glass, and seemed drunk.

Her eye makeup, which had looked ridiculous in the light of the changing room, actually looked good in the dark club, striking and dramatic. You couldn't tell how bad her skin was either, or see the roots of her brassy hair. In this light, Rade looked beautiful.

"So." she pointed to Sannah accusingly with a tiny diamanté handbag. "You did it, eh?"

Sannah didn't reply.

"How many dances you done?" Rade demanded.

"Ten," Sannah said, quietly.

"What about you, Kismet?" Dierdra's voice was quiet too.

"Oh, loads," Rade said dismissively.

Dierdra, a note of challenge in her voice, said, "Count, then."

Rade opened her tiny bag and began rummaging through it clumsily.

"Seven," she said finally. "But I'm on a promise from that guy over there, and that other one wants a private session, so..."

"You want to watch out. It's only her first night,"–Dierdra pointed at Sannah–"and she's crucifying you."

Rade pulled a face, zipping her bag shut. She shot a vicious look at Sannah, then smiled.

"I know," Rade said, her voice all sweetness. "Let's talk about Saint, shall we? Are you guys rubbing or what, then? 'Cos me and Dai sure as skit can't work it out."

Sannah didn't say anything, looking down at her shoes.

Rade smiled at Sannah slyly and went on. "Course, me and Saint have rubbed. He's an animal in bed, isn't he? We even had a threesome once, with this crank girl he used to see..."

She was looking at Sannah intently as she spoke, her voice as sharp as a knife.

"...I mean, me and Saint understand each other, that's the thing. We're on the same page. He respects me, 'cos I'm not some nyaff who'll turn skitting crazy just 'cos we've rubbed it."

Sannah wanted to scream. She hated Rade. She hated her so much.

"Kismet," Dierdra snapped. "There's a guy over there looking for you. You better go find him."

Rade looked over her shoulder, her movements drunk and exaggerated.

"He can come get me," she shrugged, turning back around. "Now, what I was saying, is the thing about Saint..."

"Kismet! Take a skitting hint, will you? Just skit off. You're not wanted here. We were talking."

Rade gave Dierdra the most filthy look Sannah had ever seen. Dierdra didn't react, just stared Rade right in the eye, unsmiling.

"You're a dagging bitch, Ebony," Rade said under her breath, but she got up and turned away, her ankle wobbling slightly on her shoe.

Sannah had spent so long getting bullied by Rade that it was almost unreal to see her cut down to size. Despite that, she still wanted to throw up. The stuff Rade had said about Saint left Sannah bleak and broken and foolish and alone. Saint and Rade? Surely not. Surely not. She felt like she was teetering on the top of a tall cliff, about to topple to her death.

"You okay?" Dierdra's voice was sharp again.

Sannah nodded.

"That your man she's mouthing about?"

Sannah shook her head, wiping the corner of her eye, unable to keep back the tears. "No, but I like him." She was crying, so there was no point trying to pretend to Dierdra that she didn't care.

"I'd be careful there, leman. I dunno if I'd trust any guy that would rub her. God knows what she's got."

Sannah nodded, dropping her face and pressing her eyes with the heels of her hands. Her eye make-up would be ruined.

I've got this. Sannah told herself sternly. Saint doesn't matter. I don't care about him. He's a tilted, bedswerving loser. They deserve each other. I just want to get Judit. That's all.

She sniffed, gathering her reserve. Yes, she just wanted to get Judit. She was going to get out there, and get her digits.

"Look, go clean your face up," Dierdra said, looking at her sympathetically. "I'll get you a drink. Meet me by the bar and I'll introduce you to the guys in the corner, okay? They're totally out of it, we'll get some digits there."

Sannah nodded. She didn't know why Dierdra was being so kind to her. Was she out to get her? Could she trust her at all? She had no choice, not right now. She stood up uncertainly and headed for the toilets, shrinking away from the crowd.

The toilets were quiet, and she wiped under her eyes with a folded piece of tissue. Her makeup didn't look too bad, surprisingly. Oh, Saint. She thought. Who are you?

It doesn't matter, Sannah told herself firmly. Get a grip. Stop being so pathetic. Get out there, get the money, and go. Try to make three hundred digits. Then you can leave tonight.

She eyed her reflection adversarially in the mirror and wiped her hands on her bare legs, then taking a deep breath, stepped out of the toilet.

He was the first thing she saw, standing in front of the double exit doors. His eyes were wide, roaming the dark, pulsing room around him. He looked confused.

Confused, and fresh, and young, and sharp and sleekly handsome in comparison to the seedy, suited patrons of the club around him.

Holy skit, Sannah thought.

It was Dek.