Untouchable Read Online Free PDF Page A

two men glance over, then lean in to confer. The taller one stares back at Anna.
    I give a discreet nod towards them. ‘I think you’ve pulled.’
    Anna turns and smirks openly. He looks away, embarrassed. ‘Come on,’ she says, grabbing her coat. ‘Let’s sit outside. I need a fag.’
    I leave our food order at the bar and follow her out to the small beer garden, deserted except for a couple huddling in the corner under an outdoor gas heater. Anna sits at the nearest bench, fishes in her bag for her cigarettes.
    ‘Here, treat yourself. You deserve one, today of all days.’ She holds up a neat honeycomb of filter tips. I shake my head.
    Anna removes one and lights it. ‘Good girl,’ she exhales, twisting her head to avoid blowing smoke in my face. ‘Hang on in there.’
    We sit in silence for a minute, stunned by the fierce sunlight and frosty air. I stare up at the contrails high above our heads, the latticework of white lines against the blue winter sky. It makes me think of that man Alex, his urgent flight to Paris, and I wonder again about that encounter in the lobby. How did he know who I was? I’m certain I haven’t met him before, not in any walk of life. I may not be great with names, but faces generally stick. And his was definitely not one I’d forget.
    And the gun. I can’t fathom how I feel about that either. Freaked? Not really. It’s hardly as if I’ve never come across one before – or rather the aftermath.
    Maybe it was legal. But who, these days, is allowed to carry firearms outside the forces? Spies? Somebody in the security services? Undercover police?
    Anna’s voice cuts through my thoughts. ‘You seen that guy again recently, the scriptwriter?’ she asks, face raised as she exhales another pale cloud of smoke.
    I shake my head again. ‘Last time we met he asked what I thought of his show. So I told him. It didn’t go down too well.’
    ‘He can’t have taken it that badly,’ she grins. ‘He was quite complimentary on PunterWeb. Gave you 8.5.’
    I hold up my hand to stop her. ‘Don’t tell me any more. You know I don’t look at those things.’
    It’s true. I never read anything clients write on the net. Escort reviews are one of the least pleasant sides of the business – piss someone off and there’s half a dozen places where he can dress you down. Literally and figuratively.
    And if that’s not bad enough, some sites even have a ranking system, marking each escort on looks and performance. A great deal of cheating goes on – fake reviews from girls, fake reviews from pet clients, paid off with service in kind. A constant jostling for position that leads to a lot of bitchiness, bruised egos and lost business.
    ‘Don’t take it so seriously,’ says Anna. ‘You know it’s all just so much wank-fodder.’
    She’s right, at least on one level. Reviews invariably include a blow-by-blow account of the ‘date’. Less an accurate appraisal of the encounter than a piece of erotic fiction, the client casting himself in a starring role in his own little fantasy.
    She downs the rest of her beer and snorts. ‘I did have one guy last week … you won’t believe this.’
    ‘What happened?’
    She colours slightly, hesitating.
    I look at her. ‘Jesus, Anna, how bad was it?’
    She finishes her cigarette. Stubs it out on the underside of the table and tosses the butt into a nearby bin. ‘He got me one of those burqa things to dress up in – you know, the big black tent with a slit for the eyes. Wanted me to wear it out with him – just the burqa, I mean. Took me to Greenwich Park. We walked round for half an hour till it was dusk, then he screwed me up against a tree.’
    ‘Jesus, Anna.’ I’m not sure whether to laugh or commiserate.
    She sighs. ‘I keep worrying I’ll burn in hell for all eternity. Or someone will issue a fatwah.’
    ‘Don’t be daft.’
    ‘He wants to do it again next week. Offered me twice my usual rate. Says he’ll take me shopping on Bond