The Collector's Gift

Chapter One
Noelle

My brother is sitting in front of me in our shabby living room, blood trickling from his split lip. His eye is already blackening, and I can see the lump rising on his cheekbone. Beneath his shirt, there are likely more bruises. His ribs, his kidneys. Internal injuries that might heal, or might not.

We can’t go on like this.

Our father is dead. Six months now, dead of liver cancer that swept over him so suddenly that it took him from us in a matter of weeks, and now we’re left to pick up the pieces.

Pieces that, specifically, involve gambling debts and back-alley loan sharks who don’t care that our father is dead. He borrowed money from them, and they want their money, however it comes. If our father is six feet under and unable to hand it over, then as far as they’re concerned, we’ve inherited it—my brother and I. 

No matter that I waitress at the local pub for just enough to scrape by on our rent and cheap groceries or that my brother is barely sixteen, too young to hold down a job. They want their pound of flesh, and since my brother is ostensibly now the man of the house, they’ve come to him for it first.

From the look of him—quite literally.

“Georgie, we can’t keep doing this.” I sit on the arm of the chair he’s sunken down in, trying to reach for his face so I can get a better look at his injuries, but he bats my hand away.

“Stop calling me that.”

“It’s your name.” I reach for his chin, but he slaps my hand harder this time, enough to sting. I yank it back instinctively, cradling it against me, though he didn’t really hurt me. It’s more of a shock—my brother has never been rough with me, even as children. He’s always been the quieter one, the shy one, the one who skipped sports to focus on academics in school. 

“My name is George.” He looks away from me. “I’m not a little boy anymore, Noelle.”

“George was our father. You’ve always been Georgie to me. You think that stops just because he’s dead, and you think you’re almost a man now?” I grab his chin more forcefully this time, turning his face into the light. The bruises and bloodied lip are worse than I thought. His face is already swelling.

“Are there more injuries? Did they beat you up badly?” I lean forward, reaching for his shirt to tug it up so that I can see, but my brother gets up so abruptly that I almost topple over into his emptied seat, glaring angrily at me in the lamplight as he backs up.

“I don’t want to talk about it! It’s not fair—these were father’s debts, not ours. How dare they come after us, as if we were some, some—”

He turns away, and the ache in my chest only intensifies. If our ages were swapped, Georgie might have been George to me, a big brother who watched over me and protected me. But I was four when he was born, a late baby after our parents had given up getting pregnant again, and I’d watched over him all my life, his big sister. Even as he outpaced me in nearly everything—more intelligent, funnier, and even more attractive as he got older—I still loved him devotedly. I hadn’t wanted to go to university—instead, I’d opted to stay home and work. Our mother had died when I was fourteen and Georgie was ten. By the time I finished my exams and could have gone, our father had sunk so deep into his alcoholism that I’d felt obligated to stay and care for him and Georgie, who was fourteen by then.

Now he’s sixteen, and I’m twenty, and he needs me more than ever. I hadn’t seen how deep our father’s grief had gone, that he’d turned to gambling as well as drinking to cope, but what I missed back then, I’m determined not to miss now. I’m determined to protect Georgie and keep him safe.

I don’t want to hate our father. But it’s hard not to feel angry, looking at my sweet brother’s face. He’s never been a fighter. And I can’t let this happen to him again.

“What happened?” I ask quietly. “Where did they find you?”

“Outside school, like bullies.” Georgie still won’t look at me, shifting out of the light. “They said I needed to come up with a way to pay; they didn’t care how. Or they’d find you next.” When he glances at me, I can see his eyes are shimmering, and he looks much younger than his sixteen years.

He looks like my baby brother. And the wave of vicious emotion that sweeps over me is so strong that I know what I have to do.

The thought of facing down these men terrifies me. But I’m his big sister. It’s my job to protect him.

To protect what’s left of this family.

“Let me help you clean it up,” I say gently, standing up and crossing the room to where he’s standing in the shadows. “You don’t need to do it on your own. And then I’ll—I’ll handle this.”

“How?” Some of Georgie’s earlier bravado is slipping, and I hear a slight quaver in his voice, the fear that we’ve lived with on a daily basis since our father died. Will we have enough food this week? Will the lights stay on? Will there be cooking gas? Will the rent be late?

“I’ll find a way,” I promise him, my hand on his back as I guide him towards the small bathroom, the only one in our three-bedroom flat. One of those bedrooms I can’t bear to go into any longer. It still smells like our father to me, but not the father I remember from our childhood, who smelled like cigar smoke and exhaust and petrol. It smells like him at the end, a sick, wasting smell.

The smell of death.

It makes me sick just thinking about it.

“You can’t, Noelle,” he protests as he sits down on the edge of the toilet, giving in and letting me pull the half-empty first aid kit out from under the sink. “We don’t have anything left. We barely had enough for food for the week—if you can call what we got from the grocery food.”

Chipped beef, bread for toast, half a dozen eggs, some noodles, and sauce. It certainly wasn’t much, and my stomach aches just thinking about it. I give Georgie as much of the food as I can manage without completely starving myself. There are nights now when I dream about a full English fry-up, a roast dinner, and a takeaway curry. The kebabs from the street vendor we used to eat at when we were children.

Before our mother died. Before our father gave up living.

“I’ll fix it,” I promise him again, and I mean it. 

But as I get out the things to patch him up, the gnawing dread in the pit of my stomach reminds me that I don’t know how I will, either.

---

I might not have been a genius in school—more out of a lack of ability to focus on the boring subjects we were taught rather than any real lack of intellect—but it doesn’t take much for me to figure out where I might find my father’s debtors. I force myself to go into his sick room, holding my breath until I finally let it out, all in a rush, a little lightheaded.

It’s actually relatively clean. The bed is just a mattress now, stripped of the sheets and pillows it was made up with while he was alive. They’ve been binned now, the empty bed looking all the more bare and stark for the fact that it’s surrounded by the detritus of my father’s life, all of it still untouched because I haven’t been able to bear to go through it.

The liquor bottles are long gone, the pills thrown out, and all traces of the sickness that ravaged him disappeared. But his books and papers and all the rest are still scattered about, and I dig through them until I find the notes from his debtors, telling him long before he died that he needed to pay up.

He didn’t, of course. And now those chickens have come home to roost.

I take the IOUs, all of them, and retreat back to the other side of the flat. Georgie is in his own room now, sleeping. I check in on him before leaving the IOUs in my bedroom and going to the bathroom to take a quick shower, conscious as ever of the length of time I’m in there using the hot water.

Tonight, though, I make sure to wash my hair and use what’s left of my good soap, the kind I got from a farmer’s market that’s made with goat’s milk and smells like lavender. I wash my hair with it, too, after my usual cheap shampoo, just to give it some extra fragrance, and examine myself critically in the mirror as I towel off, going over in my head what I came up with to say when I saw the evidence in my father’s room, the amount that he’d amassed. More than I’d thought at first, for sure.

I’m Noelle Giles. My father was George Giles. I know he’s left a great many debts, and I’m here to pay them. How, you ask? Well, I don’t have money. What do I have?

I’m twenty years old, and I’m a virgin. You can have someone check, if you like. But that’s the only currency I have, and I’m here to use it to pay off those debts, so that my family can be left alone.

I have no idea if it will work. Just the thought makes me shudder—I don’t want to imagine what’s ahead of me—a night, or nights, spent working off my father’s debts by letting the sharks have their way with me. I don’t know how, exactly, I can make sure they stick to their word and write off those debts once I’ve “paid.” But I’ll figure that all out when I get there. All I can think is that when tomorrow comes, they’ll go after Georgie again and again, until those debts are paid. And we have no money.

Even if Georgie got whatever after-school jobs were available to a fourteen-year-old boy, it wouldn’t be enough to pay off those debts. Definitely not in the time frame the sharks are bound to want them paid off by—probably not ever, if I take into account the kind of interest they probably charge.

I have one thing of value, and I’m prepared to surrender it in whatever ways I have to if I can fix this. If I can keep my little brother from coming home bruised and bloody—or worse, beaten to death in the street.

Just the thought is enough to make me furious.

It ought to work. I’m pretty enough—a bit on the thin side, my breasts a little smaller than they used to be from the lost weight, but my stomach is flat, and my hips still have a slight curve to them. The thinness of my face makes my blue-grey eyes look that much wider, huge like a doll’s, and with thick feathery lashes inherited from my father, and my black hair just down to my shoulder blades. I’d cut it all off a couple of years ago, when I graduated, into a razor-sharp bob that I thought was stylish at the time, but now I’m glad it’s grown out. The length and slight wave it has makes me look softer, younger, more innocent—all things that I’m sure will help plead my case when I go to trade on my body to pay the debt. 

I fish my nicest dress out of the closet, a blue collared party dress made out of a rich taffeta that matches my eyes. It has a sweetheart neckline that makes my breasts look fuller than they are right now, a fitted waist, and a slightly flared skirt that comes down to just above my knees. It’s a relic from a birthday years past, and I’d thought about selling it on consignment a number of times for a little extra money, but I’d held onto it. It’s not designer, just a high street dress, so it wouldn’t have been worth much—not as much as it was worth in nostalgia to me. I’d worn it to the last birthday before my mother died, and she’d helped me pick it out. Now more than ever, I’m glad I hung onto it, even if I know deep down she’d be ashamed of the reason I’m wearing it.

She wouldn’t be ashamed of me, though, I don’t think. She’d be ashamed of my father, if anything, for putting me in this position. For leaving Georgie and me this desperate.

I leave my hair down, slipping on the nude patent heels I bought to go with the dress, and tap a little blush onto my pale cheeks. A swipe of drugstore mascara and a little rosy lipstick, and I’m ready to go.

My stomach is in knots as I check in on Georgie, who is still sleeping. I leave a note on the table, Gone to speak with debtors, be back soon, and close the door carefully behind me, stepping out into the cold chill of the London evening.

Somewhere in the city, it’s bright with holiday décor, lights strung up and streetlamps wrapped with garlands, and bright buttery light glowing in decorated shop windows, but not in our part of the city. The neighborhood where we live is run down and shabby. I step around dubious puddles and am careful not to look at the men who pass by as I pull my worn black wool coat tighter around me, my old leather gloves not doing much to keep my hands warm.

We haven’t even had a snowfall yet. Even though it would make it harder for Georgie to get to school and me to work, I still would have been glad for it, if only because it would make the streets seem a little prettier, bringing a little holiday spirit into our rundown part of town. As it is, my heart aches every time I think of Christmas. It hasn’t been much of a holiday since our mother died. Still, I tried to do something every year for Georgie—a few decorations, a small tree, and a gift underneath it for him and our father.

There won’t be anything this year, though. No tree, no presents, because there’s no money. At this point, the greatest gift I can think of would be for our father’s debtors to leave us alone, so we can try to figure out how to start fresh. 

I don’t even know what my life is going to look like now. But I’d like a chance to figure it out.

I look down at the address on the slip of paper. Market Street. I turn down street after street, only to find myself in a nicer neighborhood than I’d imagined. It’s no ritzy part of London, but at least the houses and flats don’t look as if they’re falling in on themselves, and the sidewalks are less cracked. The address leads me to a street with a handful of exotic restaurants—L’Orange, Bistro Italia, The Genie’s Lamp, and a few bars, all the way to a dark building that, when I glance into the windows, looks like a speakeasy. When I step inside, the smell of cigars and alcohol hits me in a warm wave, and I look around, taking in the Art Deco décor and the long mahogany bar. It’s all meant to look luxurious and high-end, but a closer glance reveals that the velvet seats are a little threadbare, the tables scuffed in places, and the bartop not quite as shiny as it could be. 

The bartender looks at me. It’s a Tuesday night, so it’s a bit dead—there’s a handful of patrons but nothing too busy. He’s shining glasses, and I notice that he looks like he’s in his late twenties and handsome. He doesn’t look like the kind of ruffian that would have beaten my brother up earlier. It makes me wonder if I’m in the right place. “You lost, little lady?” he asks, not unkindly. “You look lost.”

I swallow hard, taking a step up to the bar. Behind him, a row of glass bottles wink and shimmer in the light, with names I’ve never seen before. I’ve never tasted a drop of hard liquor in my life, just the wine I’d be allowed a glass of at holidays—once again, before my mother died. Now, after my father’s descent into alcoholism, I wonder if I ever will.

They all look like the enemy to me, culprits pointing directly to the reason I’m here, the reason I’m about to offer myself up like a lamb to the slaughter just so my brother and I can have a chance at a fresh start. 

“I don’t think I’m lost.” I clear my throat, taking a step closer. “I’m Noelle Giles. My father was George Giles—I’m here about his debt.”

The bartender’s eyes narrow. “You are lost then. I don’t know about any debt. But all the same, I don’t think this is the place for a pretty little thing like you. You should get going.”   

It’s tempting. I could turn tail and run. I could go home and tell Georgie I tried. Maybe get our things together and leave town for good. Surely they won’t chase us outside of London. I wouldn’t have to offer up my body to pay off a debt that isn’t even mine, give my virginity to god knows how many men before they’re done with me. We could leave and start over somewhere else. Make new memories, a new life.

With what money? Georgie was right earlier when he said we’d spent our last bit leftover from rent on food. I don’t even have the money for a train ticket out of London for us, let alone lodging or food wherever we end up. And outside of London, it will be harder for me to find a job. Without a permanent address, it’ll be difficult to get Georgie enrolled again. People would come asking questions. 

In time, I might save up enough to solve the money problem—in a week, or two, if I picked up extra shifts. But these men aren’t going to wait that long. 

In a week or two, they might kill Georgie. They might come and see me anyway, and then what little power I have won’t be in my hands anymore.

This is the only way.

I take a deep breath and hold up one of the IOUs. “I’m not lost,” I say with as much bravery as I can muster. “This is the address, right? Whoever here my father owed money to, they beat up my little brother today. I’m here to set things right. So just go and get—”

“Miss, you need to leave.” The bartender’s voice is harder now, more urgent. “You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t—”

“Now, now, no need to be hasty.” There’s a deep, Cockney-accented voice behind me, and I freeze in place, afraid to turn around. “George Giles’ girl, hmm? Turn around, so I can take a look at you.”

My heart is pounding in my chest. The bartender gives me a look, as if to say I told you to leave, and I force myself to stay calm as I turn to face the man behind me, feeling myself pale a little as I look up at him.

He’s tall, over six feet, dressed in grey trousers that have seen better days, a moth-eaten sweater, and a plaid vest, with a newsboy cap. His eyes rake over me in a way that I’m familiar with from the pub, but there’s something different about it this time. This is a man who knows he could have me in his pocket, and will, before the night is over.

It’s just a matter of whether or not I can negotiate the terms I want.

“That’s me,” I say with as much bravado as I can muster. “I wasn’t aware of the debts my father incurred while he was alive, sir. But I’m here to discuss how they might be paid. If you’re the man I need to talk to—”

“I’m not,” he says, a smirk curling one side of his mouth. “But I can take you to him. I daresay he’ll be interested to hear what you have in mind.” His eyes drift over me again, and I have to fight the urge to clutch my coat tighter around me.

A moment passes, and then he shrugs, motioning for me to follow him. “Come on, luv,” he says, his accent thickening as he turns away, heading towards a doorway at the far end of the bar. “I’ll take you to the man himself.”

I don’t want to go with this man, through that door, into whatever unknown lies beyond. But I think of my brother, bruised and bloody and sleeping in our flat that we’re clinging to by our fingertips, and everything we stand to lose if I don’t.

Stiff upper lip, I think to myself. The man is holding the door open for me in a parody of chivalry, and all I have to do is walk through it, down the stairs, and into the darkness below. I do that, and we have a chance. I don’t—and we might lose much, much more than we already have.

I glance at the man and see not a single speck of emotion on his face. There’s no help for me here, not that I won’t have to buy. But I knew that already. The bartender might have been the last one who had my best interests in mind.

The choice is made—as if I ever really had one to start with. The stairs stretch out in front of me, the black mouth at the end of it opening up into an unknown room, with unknown men, and an unknown night ahead of me.

I take a deep breath, and walk through the door, into the darkness beyond.