Two of the ‘working ladies’ approached me on separate occasions. I suspect they hoped I was a soft touch. Zenia (yes, she spelt it with a Z rather...than an X) would not have been confused with the fictional character in most respects. Tall and painfully thin, her hair bleached blonde, but the roots showing almost an inch of brown, tattooed, well endowed, alas with needle track marks in both arms. She claimed to be twenty, but looked ten years older at least. I listened, sympathetically, but. Stark gazed defeatedly down at the three dark red spiderlike lines tracing down Dante’s left cheek from the bottom of his eye like extended eyelashes. Or cat scratches.“He cut me with a knife and rubbed in a red dye so the colour wouldn’t fade. He said it was make me see that I was only his. He said he could… do more.” Dante was choking on his own words, shaking. His eye was red and irritated where the knife had nicked his lashline. Or was that the start of tears? Stark drew away and helped. More

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