One more trick then a fix. She hoped the punter would not be too revolting. Of course, they were all revolting if not in form, then in function. It seldom lasted long. The worst ones were always the quickest to finish. A small consolation worth its weight in sin.

They were always sorry. None of them said so, but relief morphed into self-loathing like damp sprouting mould. She could smell the fungal scent of despair as they dressed and checked their pockets for car keys and mobiles and anything that might link them to her. Cravings discharged; the imperative became escape.

They all left her looking even shiftier than when they arrived. Those with a conscience mumbled their embarrassed thanks, those without let verminous eyes full of contempt express their thoughts. The body that had satiated silent cravings moments before, now repulsed them like incontrovertible evidence of their own squalid needs. Money paid, just another consumerist trade. Supply and demand.

Two furtive knocks on the door. Right on time. She’d texted five minutes ago to say come on up. She reckoned he’d be another contractor bunked up in a B&B and wanting more than another night in front of a porn channel with his hand on his cock. The contractors kept her pimp happy, and her habit paid for. They were all the same. Bored blokes looking for a temporary fix. She recognised the irony, and the shared desperation.

She sent a text to her pimp. Knew he’d be waiting for the next call to say it was OK to come up and take his share of the cash. He’d bring her relief in a bag, a thought which caused her to remember to check her supplies before opening the door. The crumpled towel on the dirty mattress acted as a makeshift sheet and she straightened it, only to reveal a still wet stain.

She folded the soiled material under the brittle body of the large bath towel and picked the greasy pillow up off the floor, setting it against the sloping plywood headboard. Noticing the overflowing tin bin by the side of the bed, she tipped its soiled contents into a black binbag and tossed it into the rancid kitchen. Setting the empty bin next to the bed in anticipation of another load, she kicked the half full vodka bottle under the bed. The room stank, its putrid scent a faithful echo of its vile purpose.

He waited impatiently, considering sending another text to confirm the flat’s address. Kev had given him this one’s number and rated her as “well worth a go, even if her place was a hovel”. Kev had described his visit in graphic detail, including the girl’s tears when Kev had taken more than was on offer. Kev’s lurid description had given both men a laugh as they sipped their beers.

He’d not spoken to her, just made an appointment and said he wanted an hour. She’d be the fifth one he’d used this month. He hated them. Wanted them like a drunk needs the next drink, each glass drained, no more than a greedily consumed prelude to the next.

This latest electrical contract would be over in a week. New town, new sluts to quench his thirst. He’d even go see his wife en route to the next job, though his son and daughter had left the nest the moment they could. The titular head of a family without a family to head.

His freelance contracting career rendered him a nomadic being, rooted in nothing but daylight tasks and night-time depravity. He had become no more than the vessel for the binary forces of cash generation and cheap, sordid pleasure. Between these two poles, a vast void had leeched his being of meaning, emotion and all traces of the man he had once been. Swim in a sewer long enough and the stench becomes unnoticeable, polluting senses and flesh alike. Off season seaside resorts were full of untreated sewage and he enjoyed their filth ridden waters.

He'd rewired the local arcade’s circuit board and would need to bring the rest of the loop up to recently altered safety standards. The owner had told him to make it legal, not necessarily safe. Cut corners, but get him the certificate. Minimum expense to be incurred.

Finishing for the day, he’d stayed on site and played a few of the machines. Killing mutant zombies amused him until the call of a cold beer beckoned. He’d gone back to his digs and sent the text to tonight’s distraction. Salacious synaesthesia had prompted him to swap an arcade joystick for his own as he warmed up with the porn channel.

The game he wanted to play tonight relied upon exploited women rather than mindless machines, however narcotics blurred the distinction. Money in, pleasure out. He used both as conscience free amusements, using both metal and flesh to feed his craving for instant gratification. Game Over, until the urge to play became an ineluctable compulsion. Money and opportunity the twin enablers of his passionless passions. Afterwards, he’d order a curry, open another vodka bottle and see if he had anything left to be drained by the adult channels.

He knocked again, this time with three aggressive raps on the thin wooden door. It was feeding time and his beast was hungry. This one would get it rough, the price for keeping him waiting. She obviously thought his time was something she could waste. He’d make her sorry for that assumption. Girls like her were filth and his presence outside the door confirmed the prejudice.

The door opened, and he stepped into the dimly lit flat as she remained shielded behind the grimy, neglect-scarred door. Point of no return unless she wanted more bruises. The prospect of an imminent fix quelled her disgust. Closing it, she fastened the heavy bolts and turned to face the punter. “Dad !”