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The night’s cold. November cold. Strange for June. That’s okay. The cold helps me think.

I light a cigarette. I inhale deep, holding the bitter smoke of the Marlboro Red at the back of my throat for as long as I can bear. It burns, but it burns so good. I find it comforting, like a lover’s embrace.

It’s time to report.

I’m at my usual payphone, the one on the corner of George St. and Croft. Call me old fashioned, but a payphone is as crucial in my line of work as a wrench to a mechanic. I’m no conspiracy nut, but phones can be traced, messages are saved to a cloud, and your emails will outlive you. If that makes me dated, then so be it. Old fashioned business requires an old fashioned touch.

I approach the payphone. There’s a crack in the side glass. It’s been there forever, and will probably be there forever more. There are flyers around the place: penis extension; call for a good time; suicide hotline. Why bother? Nobody uses the damn phone but me.

They’re watching me. I feel it. They’re tucked away at the edge of the square of light cast by the one functional streetlamp. Nosy bastards.

I punch the number and wait. The dial tone is deep and tinny. It’s soothing, familiar.

“Hello?”

“Hilary?” I ask.

It’s a stupid question. I could pick out her voice in a crowd of thousands. It’s that perfect blend between smooth and smoky. It’s a Marlboro Red voice.

“Yes?”

She’s playing dumb too. No problem, I’ve got time for her.

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“You were right,” I say.

She exhales heavily into the mouthpiece. It sounds like someone’s crushing a ball of tin foil in my ear, but I’m used to it. It’s what they always do.

“That son of a bitch,” she says.

“Your husband entered the Premier Inn by the Smithfield turn-off at around 1900 this evening. He was accompanied by a young lady – brunette, five-two, early twenties. They’re still there now.”

“He always did like them young.”

She laughed, but there was no humour to it. It was bitter. Cold.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

They seem to like it when I say I’m sorry.

“Did you see them yourself?”

“My eyes did.”

It’s a simple reply. Honest.

“Well, do you think you could have your eyes look into who this girl is?”

She pauses. She wants me to think that she’s making a decision. Theatrics. It’s a decision she made long before she picked up the phone.

“I’d like to send this girl a message,” she says, “How much to turn those eyes her way?”

I can already feel those same eyes widening, burning. They’re excited, although they’ll never admit it.

“Same as before,” I say.

“Same as before,” she confirms, “Good luck.”

There’s a soft click, like someone pulling back the hammer on a gun, and then the line goes dead. It would have been nice to talk to Ms. Hilary a little longer, but there’s work to do. Dreams of romance can wait.

I walk away from the phone booth, back to the edge of the light. I light another cigarette and pull hard. Damn, it burns so good.

It’s a few degrees colder now. That’s their doing. They’re crowding in. They’re keen. They always bring the damn cold.

Hilary thinks that I pay for the eyes. That makes me laugh. The eyes are always open, always watching. That’s not what costs me so damn much. It’s the mouths that are so fucking expensive.

I pull my pocket knife out. It’s an old Leatherman, given to me by my dad when he still thought I might learn a trade, make something of my life. I open up the pliers.

I take another pull on my cigarette.

I clamp the pliers down on my right thumb nail.

I pull.

Fuck me, it hurts so bad. Those twisted little fuckers. I know it’s the pain they want.

It never gets any easier.

I look at my hands. They’re shaking. My cigarette slips from between my fingers. It bounces off the pavement. I crush it to dust. It’s a stupid thing to do - childish, petty. I breathe deep. I need to get a grip. Only three fingernails left. What then? Toenails? And after that? Will I be cut off then, or will the price just keep going up? At what point will I say it’s too much? When I can’t type? When I can’t taste? When I can’t see?

Questions for another time.

I toss the bloodied nail into the darkness. I lose sight of it instantly.

“Okay, Ixarith,” I say, “Let’s talk.”