Chapter 27: The Pursuit of Happiness

Tamara

2094

The old lady staggered across the floor of Costa Starbucks while also carrying a tray on which unsteadily wobbled a mug of cappuccino and a slice of rich chocolate cake. It was obvious to Tamara that she needed help. There was also the fact that the coffee shop had no free tables available.

"Can I help you?" Tamara asked as she stood up and approached the old lady who looked at Tamara with a startled expression on her face.

"Help me?" she asked.

"Yes," said Tamara. "Can I help you carry your tray?"

"Of course you can, dear," said the old lady as Tamara took the tray from her and guided her towards the other seat on the table where Tamara was sitting. She regarded Tamara's uniform. "Are you a cleaning woman, dear?"

"Cleaning woman?" asked Tamara.

"The way you dress," said the old lady. "It's what cleaning women wear." She squinted through her thick lenses at the name plate on Tamara's bosom. "Empire Cleaning Services? I know them. I didn't think they still existed."

Tamara blushed. What did this old woman know? Ever since the Refugee Centre was burnt down in an anti-immigrant riot, she'd been living on a very slippery slope indeed and her descent towards starvation had been arrested only when she'd reluctantly resorted to work for a company that employed her to provide the kind of services that the now tarred, feathered and deceased Mehmed had hoped Tamara would never need to do.

"How do you know Empire Cleaning Services?"

"They used to do work for my Dad. Years ago. Fifty years ago, I think. When I was a young girl. I use a different cleaning company now. They're a lot cheaper. The girls are all immigrants. Arabs I think. I'm not sure. Once upon a time they all came from the Eastern Europe or Africa. What's your name, dear?"

"Tamara."

"Pretty name. Is that an Arab name?"

"It's Jewish. It can be an Arabic name, but I'm Jewish."

"Jews. Arabs. They're all the same aren't they? Is there much left of Israel now? I saw the news about it on the TV years ago. Tragic, isn't it? My name's Zoe. That's a Jewish name too, isn't it? But I'm not Jewish. I'm English. I'm thousands or millions of generations of English. My family was here before the Romans. Either that or they came over with the Normans. Whatever. Stinking rich my family. For bloody generations."

Tamara was conscious that this woman was rambling. She probably had no idea what Empire Cleaning Services really was. Tamara wondered how much she truly understood about the world around her. But it was curious that for the first time in her life someone expressed the view to her that Jews and Arabs were the same. That certainly wasn't an opinion shared by most people across the world.

Then the old woman spoke to her in a way that Tamara really didn't associate with a person who was clearly well beyond what was still officially a retirement age even if the state so rarely provided old age pensions these days.

"I need some smack, dear," she said confidentially. "Or coke. Even blow or E would be better than nothing. You don't know where I can get some do you?"

"Those are illegal drugs," said Tamara in a low voice. "You shouldn't be taking illegal drugs."

"Don't talk shit," said Zoe. "I've been without a decent dealer for months now. The Arabs and Africans who sell stuff on the street always try to rip me off because I'm old and they think I don't know any better. But that's rubbish. I know good gear from bad. You don't know where I can buy some do you?"

Tamara had no idea of what to say.

"I'll pay," said the old woman. "I'll make it worth your while. I almost don't care what drugs they are. Being high is about the only good thing left for me now."

Tamara reflected on the life she was now forced to lead. The blowjobs, the hand jobs, the fucking and the times when clients were tempted to pay for just a little bit more and Tamara suffered several days of blood-specked stools. Was there anything much worse than that? What escape routes were open to her?

"Yes," said Tamara determinedly. "I know where you can get quality gear."

"That's a good girl," said Zoe, feebly patting her on the wrist. "I could tell from the moment I first saw you that you were a good girl."

In actual fact, Tamara's knowledge of drugs, especially the illegal variety, was very sketchy indeed. She'd only ever smoked cannabis or dropped Ecstasy tablets at parties. She'd never thought to pay for drugs. But it was also true that she knew where to go. The refugees and immigrants with whom Tamara worked had all faced the same employment issues as she and they'd not all taken the route she'd chosen. A trade that involved the purchase, preparation and sale of drugs was a natural choice for those who understood prescription drugs and were otherwise forbidden from taking legitimate employment. The alternatives, such as they were, weren't much better but for many refugees options such as prostitution and burglary were beyond contemplation.

Tamara was entrusted with a substantial sum of money to secure the drugs that Zoe wanted. At first she was tempted to take the money and spend it on other things, but that would be theft. Tamara wasn't a thief. She wouldn't take even from those who were undoubtedly able to afford the loss. Zoe was visibly wealthy. She might be scruffy but she was expensively so.

Zoe was very unspecific about what drugs she wanted beyond the fact that they should be of good quality. Tamara's most obvious contact was Mohammed who'd worked as a nurse at the Refugee Centre but was now more often found on Church Street by the charred remains of where they'd once all lived and worked. Nowadays rather than provide medical aid for the needy he provided those who could afford it a welcome source of distraction and a less welcome route to drug addiction.

"Man!" said Mohammed. "She must really trust you to give you that much dosh."

"I'm a trustworthy kind of girl," said Tamara.

"I guess you must be," said Mohammed. "And she was definitely not specific about what she wants?"