Chapter 1

I don't pick up hitch-hikers usually, for very good reasons. In particular, I don't pick up young women ... I can't go into the reasons, or, well, I wouldn't have to kill you, but I would be out of a job. You see, I'm a sort of sales rep. My customers come under MoD. The firm I work for ... I suppose it doesn't matter really. It's not relevant to the story. What is relevant is I travel, I'm rarely at home and can't take chances with being compromised. At least ... I shouldn't take a chance on being compromised. Girlfriends don't last long given the amount I'm away, so mostly I rely on professionals. Hey – no one loses, do they? I know some of the girls aren't exactly willing, but if they don't bring in the money, they get hurt, right? I get relief, they get some money ... how is there a problem? That's what I told myself, anyway.

So, there I was, on my way north on the M1 one morning in February; pulled off to use the facilities and get some coffee. Suitably refreshed, I set off again. Exiting some service areas can be a bit of a mission, as they say. I was on the exit road when I saw a large, black Mercedes stop at the top of the exit slip and a figure get out. The car moved off, burning rubber and the figure just stood.

Getting closer, I saw what looked like a twelve-year-old girl, really thin, but dressed as no twelve-year-old should be; she was wearing what I call a pelmet, a micro-skirt that barely concealed her crotch, a bolero jacket over a thin blouse, and high heels.

I suppose there were a number of things I could have done. If I listed them, the one thing I did do wouldn't have appeared. I stopped, wound the window down and snapped;

"Get in!"

She jerked as if I'd slapped her, but opened the door, got in and strapped herself in as I moved off. She was shivering; unsurprising considering the way she was dressed and the miserable day. Accelerating down towards the motorway I wound the window up and turned up the heating.

Traffic was light and at seventy in the middle lane the Beamer was rock steady. I was about to ask her what was going on when she spoke.

"Thank you, Master," she said in a very small voice.

"Well, here's a how-de-do," I muttered, "what the hell do I do now?"

"Master?"

"What's your name?" I asked; that seemed like a logical starting point.

"They call me Candy," she said, "when it's not 'Bitch' or 'Slut'."

The situation was getting to me. Different things cause different people stress; I do not cope well with ... well, young women who are not of voting age and not professional. As far as I could see this one was jail-bait. Physical threats I can deal with; I can handle medical emergencies and such like as well as any layman, but I was pretty tense, so I was very short with her.

"I didn't ask what people called you, I asked your name," I growled.

She stiffened. Is it possible to sit to attention? "My name..." she fumbled for a moment, "my name is Zoe Elizabeth Trafford."

"And how old are you, Zoe?"

"I'm nineteen," she said.

I glanced at her; she met my eyes steadily.

"You look to be about twelve," I commented.

"I know. Some men like it that way."

"Do you want to tell me about it?" I was a little – not much, but a little – calmer.

"I suppose," she said. "My father's military," she began, "and very strict, so I never had a boyfriend; no-one wanted to face him. Besides, look at me; as you say, I look like a pre-teen, hips like a boy and no tits." She sounded bitter.

I nodded.

"Anyway I was with my mother in town, shopping and she was out of sight for once; this guy started talking to me. He offered me coffee or something. I thought, 'what's the problem'. I thought I could sneak off, find my mother later..." She was silent for a bit, staring ahead through the windscreen. "He was very charming; talked me into going with him." She fell silent for several minutes before asking, "Where are you going?"

I thought for a moment. I'd been intending to overnight near Leeds and make a call near there the next day but perhaps that wasn't the best idea. It didn't matter; I hadn't booked anything.

"What were you wanting to do?" I responded with another question.

She shrugged. "I hadn't planned to be picked up. He told me to stand where you saw me. He's going to be pissed when I'm not there. I don't know what to do. I don't suppose you're interested in some business?"

It was as blunt as that.

"Is that how you want to play it?"

There was a very long pause then.

"No." Another even longer pause. "Will ... would ... you take me with you?"

"What's in it for me?"

"You aren't like that."

I glanced at her; she was looking steadily at me. "No," I said, "you're right. But I'm not in the habit of picking up stray girls, either." I didn't explain about the prostitutes.

I didn't particularly want to be seen with her dressed as she was, so chewed over my options, eventually deciding to take junction twenty-seven for Chesterfield, though I intended to drive through and enter Sheffield along the A61.

"Where are you going, Master?"

I'd just turned off, driving uphill to the roundabout at the end of the slip-road.

"My name is Alex."

"Yes, Master."

I was too focussed on what I was doing to look at her, but asked while looking for a gap in the traffic, "Are we going to have a problem?"

"No, Master."

I sighed and shook my head.

There's a big Tesco next to the by-pass and I realised that was probably the best bet for buying Zoe some more respectable clothes, and so it proved; jeans, t-shirt, sweater and trainers and a couple of changes of undies didn't break the bank and I sent her off to the Ladies' toilet to change.

She emerged looking like a young lady, having scrubbed her face. She didn't look nineteen, still. She did look good, though.

Before we moved off, I rang the Novotel in Sheffield to book a twin room. It's close to the city centre with their own parking. That'd do.

It's only in romantic comedies they make a mistake in the bookings and end up with a double bed, right? Wrong. We got to the room, walked in ... double bed. I began to storm over to the phone to call reception, but Zoe got to it first, and held her hand over the handset. I could have taken it away from her, of course, but I'm not into man-handling women.

"I don't mind sharing that bed with you. I'd rather share that bed with you than sleep on my own."

I slumped. Not that I minded the idea; it just seemed wrong, somehow.

"What do you want to eat?" It was a surrender, and I knew it.

Her eyes lit up. "PIZZA?"

It was too late to lay down the law...

It was still afternoon, but I hadn't eaten anything since my snack in the morning and from the look of her it'd been longer for her, so we set off. I was pretty sure there was a Pizza Hut in the High Street, which there was. I was also pretty sure the next nearest was rather further away. Zoe put away a quite astonishing amount of food. I did insist she eat salad as well. It wasn't bad, I admit, if not what I would have been eating if I'd been on my own.

She eventually stopped eating and we walked slowly up the High Street, Super-trams rumbling past, jostled a little by people trying to get home after their day's work. High Street becomes Church Street and I was all set to turn up Fargate, but Zoe pulled on my arm;

"Can we go in the Cathedral, please?"

I shrugged and allowed her to pull me past the tram-station and into the church. A sidesman intercepted us.

"Evensong is about to begin," he said, "we discourage visitors during services unless they wish to participate in the worship." He was holding out booklets.