redRobe

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‘That one,’ said Father Sylvester, pointing to a Japanese whore with tiny breasts and soft legs, her legs wrapped in crepe bandages so fine as to be almost transparent, ‘she’s perfect. . .’

She was, too. Young enough to pass for his daughter if needs be, not so young that she’d cry at being forced to do things she didn’t want to do. Spit at him maybe from that down-turned bee sting of a mouth or lash out with black-lacquered nails, but not cry. This one was long since cried-out. That was, if the emptiness in her dark brown eyes was anything to go by.

No expectations.

Nothing left that resembled hope.

Hollow.

Father Sylvester realised that probably made them equal. The bearded, black-robed priest nodded at Madame Sotto who smiled as if she expected no less, and levered her vast bulk from an ornate and over-gilded chair. Fake Louis Napoleon from the look of it, and not a good fake either.

At Madame Sotto’s shoulder stood a Megrib bodyguard dressed in a silver posing pouch, silver body paint and heavy brass bracelets. Behind her, red velvet rose to the ceiling, swathes of it covering all four walls. The whole brothel was one giant fire risk.

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