Lady Bag by Liza Cody Page A

wouldn’t tell me my personal security numbers. It was a matter of trust.
    Usually when someone like me is at a cash point, it’s when I’m sitting on the pavement, begging. Or it was before a young banker-wanker said, ‘Are you out of your tiny mind? These machines only dispense tens and twenties. Do you really think I’m going to give you one of those?’
    I said, ‘But while you’ve got your wallet open you might spare a little… ’
    ‘Change? The reason I’m here is because I’m out of money. Are you mentally challenged as well as socially deficient? This is the worst place to beg. How much have people given you in the last hour?’
    I had to admit no one had given me anything.
    ‘Except me.’ He looked smug enough to slap. ‘I’m giving you advice: take your mangy dog and fuck off elsewhere.’
    I associate cash points with humiliation.
    This time I had a card but no confidence. I didn’t know what would happen. But I stuck the card in and covered the slot with my hand in case Smister tried to pinch it when—or if—the machine gave it back.
    Smister hipped me out of his way and covered the keypad so I couldn’t read the numbers. I noticed that he tilted the cerise umbrella to shield us, not from the rain, but from CCTV.
    ‘You’ve done this before,’ I said.
    ‘So have you.’
    I was about to contradict him hotly when I remembered I was supposed to be Natalie. So I said, ‘Of course,’ in what I hoped was a lofty manner. ‘It is my card, after all.’
    ‘Uh-huh,’ he said, ‘and it’s your PIN number you can’t remember, stored in your fancy phone which you don’t know how to use. So you won’t mind if I give this camera a good look at your beautiful face, will you?’
    ‘I don’t think you understand head injuries,’ I said, trying to disguise my quaking voice.
    ‘I’ve been a rent boy,’ he said simply. ‘Now I’m a trannie. Of course I understand head injuries.’
    I felt queasy, but, unbelievably, the machine gave me back the card and a few seconds later it whirred and spat five hundred quid at us. I was really glad I hadn’t broken down and confessed everything. I’d been tempted after what he said about being a rent boy. But having a tragic life does not necessarily make you a trustworthy person. I know about that all too well.
    When the money came out and he had it in his hand he gave me a very queer look indeed. Well, it was a queer situation—he didn’t believe me, but the machine did.
    I said, ‘If you ever want to do that again you’ll give me my half; right now.’
    ‘Wait.’ He turned us round without showing our faces to the camera and we tottered off like two skunked old women. In the back streets where there were no shops, cash points, or anything else that needed the protection of Mammon’s eye, we divvied up the cash and Smister mumbled, ‘Thanks.’
    I said nothing because I was still trembly. I would never have thought of the umbrella so I’d probably have funked it at the last moment if I’d been on my own. I needed a drink. Electra looked up at me and I ran my thumb over her wet forehead. ‘It’s alright,’ I whispered, ‘Don’t be scared.’
    Smister said, ‘What’s to be scared of? You’re legit, aren’t you?’
    ‘I was talking to Electra—she’s gone all trembly.’
    ‘If you say so,’ he said, with the indifference of youth. ‘You don’t happen to have one of those big white tabs on you?’ I rummaged in the bag and gave him one. I was tempted to take one myself but there was a pleading look in Electra’s eyes that said, ‘Please take me home and dry me off or I’ll be paralysed by arthritis before morning.’
    So Smister swanned off to club-land and Electra and I trudged back to South Dock High Rise while I could still remember the way. I was shaken and banjaxxed about how the cash point had coughed out money. Did it mean that no one had identified the mews house body as Natalie’s and they thought she’d gone missing