For Natasha

“She’s perfect,” the man says, his thick rubbery lips smacking together while his soulless eyes rake over my body.

I bow my head in mock-bashfulness and complete the look by nervously curling a lock of my dark hair around my ear, as if I needed something to occupy my hands.

You’re a disgusting worm and I don’t care what you think of my body, I think.

“I am glad I am to your satisfaction,” I say instead.

He nods his approval and lifts an arm for me to shelter under, like a baby bird in need of protection. I oblige, of course I do, and have to actively force myself not to recoil at the sweat stain on his shirt under the armpit.

His one-armed hug is a possessive gesture. His arm lies heavily, a literal weight on my shoulders but the grip of his hand on my far shoulder is tight. It is a clear sign that I am not to move from my position at his side throughout this gala. That I am his for tonight and I am being paid to laugh at his jokes and compliment him as required.

Such an insecure man, needing to pay someone to constantly reassure you and give you validation in front of your rivals, I think.

“Excellent choice of tie,” I compliment him and finally look up into his eyes.

The eyes turn ice cold and the hand on my shoulder digs in painfully.

“Speak only when spoken to,” he hisses into my ear, then his features relax back into a smile.

I should have realised he wouldn’t appreciate my deviating from his plans but it had been an interesting overreaction to what was really a minor transgression. Though I supposed for the amount I was being paid to escort him this evening he would tolerate nothing less than total obedience.

Like a sheep I am led around the room. Like a trophy I am paraded and spoken about as if I wasn’t standing within the group. My patron mispronounces my name every time he introduces me to another old man and his stunningly beautiful hand luggage.

Where possible I try to meet the women’s eyes. Many don’t even bother looking up anymore. Those are usually the older ones (in their thirties at least) who know their role is coming to an end. Those younger know they still have years of this ahead and will actively try to catch my own eye, searching for a comrade who knows how she is feeling.

Empty. Dead inside. Tainted.

To each one I try to offer a smile of reassurance but my patron doesn’t like me reacting to something other than himself and the hand at my shoulder tightens whenever I have gone noticeably off-script.

As I am paraded around I notice that all the other men wear jackets. My patron does not. I wonder why; this is his gala after all. Perhaps that conundrum is also the answer? That he can afford to be casual because he is top of the hierarchy here.

Something I have observed is that he wears a vest underneath his white shirt. At first I thought it was a simple cotton vest but having been glued to his side for over an hour of circling the room, the material under the shirt is thick and stiff.

He is wearing a white bullet proof vest.

My gaze is never still as we complete our round of mingling. It has been over an hour and the auctions are about to begin.

It should happen soon, I would have liked it before the auctions if possible, when everyone is out of their seats and there is a chaotic energy that would mask everything. People deep in conversation talking about their favourite subjects (themselves) rarely notice something so obvious playing out beside them.

The band stops, the gentle jazz that had serenaded these selfish conversations fade to the last note and the band rise as one to take a well-deserved break.

These were players that had previously been unavailable to me, so I scrutinise each one. Some leave their instruments on the seats they vacate and hurry off in search of refreshment. Others linger to converse or carefully pack away their instruments in cases.

A violin player is taking time to apply a layer of rosin to his bow, with long, slow strokes that feel almost intimate. His attention is solely on his instrument and I conclude he is not what I have been waiting for.

My patron pulls me aside so I am no longer able to view the band. He has found an old business acquaintance who had been trying to sneak past unnoticed. The two greet one another with a hearty fake handshake and equally fraudulent smiles.

I crane my neck to glimpse the band again. The man continues to work with his violin bow and by now more of them have left for their break. Nobody catches my eye so I turn back and smile politely while the two men compare the size of their yachts.

I am seated at the top table for the auction, next to my patron. We have a spotlight on our table, which is filled with bottles of wine and champagne and flutes that are filled by waiters who move silently between us, pointing to bottles rather than asking our preference.

Each one is a potential sign, I realise, so I make a point to catch the eye of each one. But nobody speaks to me or acknowledges my existence other than to pour me a glass of red.

My patron gives a speech that is supposed to be humorous. It is easy to tell when to laugh as he pauses long enough for the audience to roar with laughter. He sits down to thunderous applause and the auctioneer begins to sell off “trinkets” that each cost more than my house.

While I don’t usually drink on the job my patron is insistent. I nurse the glass along for the whole auction, taking dainty sips that he finds adorable. The wine is acidic and burns my throat as it goes down. Wealth doesn’t always equate to taste.

With all eyes on the auction I am able to sweep the room more thoroughly. The guests would have all been invited but any other escorts like myself could be what I am looking for. More likely, however, it will be a member of staff that would tip me off. They knew who I was, they knew who I would be with. I was a proverbial neon sign in a sea of darkness. They would come to me only once it was time, not before. I had to be patient.

The auction concludes and my patron gives a mercifully shorter speech thanking everyone for their fabulous generosity and reiterating the good causes that the money would be helping.

After it’s been top sliced by my patron, I think.

My patron pauses as he descends the stage to speak to the auctioneer and the band starts up again, a soft lullaby in the background. Non-obtrusive and gentle. Conversation levels rise to a buzz as people are now far more inebriated than at the beginning. Jackets are discarded, chairs dragged to other tables as the party atmosphere ignites.

I sit with the dregs of my wine alone at the top table when the man in the dark suit comes to me. He simply places a single candy on the table in front of me and without a word melts back into the crowd.

A quick sweep of the room confirms nobody has seen this and that my patron is still engaged in conversation.

The candy is a chalky consistency, like a love heart, and in keeping with the similarity has a message printed on it: “NOW”.

With a quick motion I gather the sweet and pop it in my mouth. It fizzes and dissolves quickly, leaving a powdery sweet taste lingering on my tongue.

With practiced ease my hand reaches for the hem of my skirt, where a wire has been threaded through the circumference. I pull it out and wrap it partly around one hand. As I rise, I am careful to conceal the hand with the wire.

My patron has finished speaking to the auctioneer and is running a thick finger over the handwritten ledger of items sold. I can see the dollar signs in his eyes as he rakes over the figures and knows that a healthy percentage will be deposited directly into his bank account as “administration fees”.

I break protocol once again and step up to him, my wire-free hand gently rubbing his back.

“An excellent evening. I believe the fireworks will be starting soon, shall we go out onto the balcony to be ready?” I ask.

He is clearly annoyed at my forthrightness but as there is nobody close enough to hear he simply nods and it doesn’t take much more to entice him outside to a private balcony. He clearly expects a level of intimacy.

He will not be disappointed.

I kick the glass door closed behind me. By the time he hears the click of it shutting I have already leaped forward and wrapped the wire around his neck. With my other hand I grab the other end and then I place a foot at the small of his back and lean away from him, using my weight to add pressure to the wire and cut into his flesh.

He gasps like a fish out of water, making choking spluttering sounds as his air is cut off. His face will be turning purple any second and I wished that I could see it. Wished I could see his eyes wide in surprise. Wished I would be the last thing he ever saw.

His hands try to work their way underneath the wire but it is too tight, cutting into the folds of skin at his neck. He knows it is a useless endeavour but the human will to survive is strong and he struggles to the last moment.

He falls inelegantly, like a sack of rocks and I am left cradling him in my arms as I remove the wire from his neck and marvel at the thick red welt it has left.

His once ruddy face is now a map of tiny purple capillaries. His eyes bulge, his tongue protrudes. He is dead.

“For Natasha,” I say to him.

And then I am gone, vanished into the night, away from the crime scene, away from this country, away from the man who had killed my sister.