It clicked on empty.
His world went grey and the room faded out for a moment before he could recover his mind. Stanga and Budescu bellowed with laughter, like it was the funniest thing in the world. Only the older woman looked grim faced.
"Had to make totally sure you weren't a police nark," Stanga said eventually. "No law-man would've done that. You're sound."
"Fucking hell, don't ever do that to me again," swore Caramarin. His breath started to come back to normal.
"Should've seen your face! No, you've proved yourself," Stanga said. "As you said, you're no stone killer, but you'll do." He took the pistol from Caramarin.
Stanga gestured to his driver who pulled the naked girl up to her feet. The man gripped her arm to stop her collapsing.
"You can have her if you want," said Stanga. "See if you can break her in. She's not bad underneath."
"She's covered in piss and shit. That's not my bag," said Caramarin, running his hand through his hair.
"There's a bathroom at the end of the corridor. Clean her up, then she's yours for a couple of hours. Andreea will show you where. Have fun." Stanga and his driver left leaving Caramarin with the girl.
The older woman, Andreea, showed him the way as he helped the girl to the bathroom. The girl allowed herself to be dragged along, unresisting, her bare feet shuffling along. She was only small and slight, maybe only one metre fifty-five and fifty or so kilos. No way could she put up any resistance to big men like Stanga and Tibor Budescu.
"Bring her some clothes," said Caramarin. "Something warm."
The bathroom matched the rest of the building with its cracked tiles and peeling yellow wallpaper. An ancient electric shower stood over a tub, rust marks streaking the bottom and around the plughole. He turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat up. The girl sat hunched up on the toilet seat and stared at him blankly. She shivered like she had a fever.
Caramarin hung his jacket over a hook then helped the girl over to the shower, giving her a smile and spoke softly and gently to her. She stood motionless under the spray, not even covering her body. She was young, no older than eighteen or nineteen with short hair hacked into a rough bob.
Caramarin found a flannel and half full bottle of gel. Carefully, he washed her down. The water sluiced away the filth. Her poor body was covered with bruises. Some old, fading now, others fresher.
She flinched when he washed between her legs, whether from pain of past assaults or thinking he was going to molest her. But he felt no sexual thrill from her naked body. Fuck, she was young enough to be his daughter.
Caramarin switched off the shower and dried her, wrapping the towel around her before leading her back to the bedroom. She sat down on the end of her bed. He extended her arms and saw a few holes and bruises on the insides of her elbows, but nowhere near as many as he expected.
Then he knelt before her and spread her toes. She did nothing to stop him. There he found the track marks he expected. Many clients didn't want to screw an obvious junkie, that's why they'd injected between her toes.
The metal locker still stood open, so he pushed the door closed against the smell. The older woman had left an oversized sweatshirt and pants on the bed. Caramarin dressed her and helped her step into the pants. Andreea came into the room and leaned against the door post before lighting a smoke and offering Caramarin one. He refused.
"You can fuck her now, you want," she said. Caramarin nodded. "If she won't, you can use this." The woman threw a giant black dildo onto the bed. The girl recoiled.
"That won't be necessary," he said. "And I don't need an audience." The woman slammed the door behind her.
Caramarin sat the girl next to him and held her close for warmth.
"I'm gonna try and get you away from this," he whispered. After he'd got the painting back, that is. The girl still didn't respond.
"Do you hear me? Do you understand? Do you speak Romanian?"
"You tried to kill me," she said in a low voice. The girl had a strong Moldovan accent.
"I knew the gun wasn't loaded. It was just to frighten you," he said.
But that wasn't quite true. Thinking about it, the CZ-75 had felt light but if there had been only one or two bullets in the magazine, he couldn't have told the difference in weight. Being honest, he'd been shit scared himself. If the pistol had been loaded, there would have been brains over the carpet. But at least, the girl's sufferings would have been over.
"Listen," he said, "I'm gonna try and help you. As soon as I can think of a way out. Do yourself a favour, try and do what they want for now. I know it's horrible but anything must be better than being caged up in that locker. And I'll do what I can in the meantime, okay?"
The girl didn't respond in any way, just sat curled up next to him. What could he do? He held her close, not speaking, just letting her know there was someone who cared. Eventually, he let himself out and back downstairs.
The auditions had finished. Stanga was talking to Tibor Budescu and Daniel Perianu, jabbing with his cigarette to make a point. Caramarin waited for the boss to finish.
"I've sorted the bitch. No guarantees of course, but I've made a few things clear to her. Treat her with a bit of kindness and she's the sort who'll respond," said Caramarin. "But I'd give her a few days rest first."
He hoped that was true for her sake but somehow he doubted if they would give her a break.
The other two men laughed.
"I know the 'kindness' you mean," said Budescu, the driver, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger and ramming his other forefinger through the hole.
"So far she's been a complete waste of my money," complained Stanga. "She'll have to earn her keep soon."
There was nothing more Caramarin could do to help the girl at the moment.
"You're all right, Caramarin," said Stanga. "You've got balls. Like I said, I've got a job for you. Do that and I'll make sure you get your painting back."
Caramarin nodded, shook hands all round, then let himself out of the nightclub and started walking. Suddenly, he ducked down an alley and was violently sick. Leaning against the wall he supported his heaving body with one arm. Stopped only when there was nothing left to bring up.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Fucking hell, he'd nearly killed an innocent girl. And what was she going through? She seemed traumatised and no surprise there. Maybe he'd bought her a few days to recover or maybe she was already back in that freezing locker crouching in her own piss and shit waiting to be beaten or even killed by someone else.
Too much. Just way too fucking much. Flashbacks filled his mind of that snowy barn back in Bosnia all those years ago. That grinning blond bearded giant. Those terrified girls and women treated as animals in that Hell-hole. Caramarin thought he'd got over all of that. But he hadn't. He'd done his best for those women in Bosnia and ultimately it hadn't been good enough. Now he had another chance to offset some of the bad in his life.
A couple of elderly women in green sweat pants walked past, tutting loudly as he leaned over his vomit. They must have thought he was one of the local alkies, drunk at this time of the morning. If only they knew. Caramarin was deep in thought as he walked back to Cheetham Hill, the cold, damp air restoring him a little. But no obvious solution came to him. Once again, he would have to see what happened and seize his chance when it came.
He swung by the betting shop and slid a note into the Betting Terminal. He pressed the buttons on screen and watched the wheel spin. For a few seconds, Caramarin forgot the girl, forgot his problems, losing himself in the hypnotic swirl of colours as the wheel spun, willing the ball to land on the high numbers. A few seconds later, Caramarin was back to reality as the wheel stopped. He lost. He pressed the play button and once again he sought and found a temporary release. It didn't really matter whether he won or lost; whether his winnings increased or dropped to almost zero.
Caramarin was almost like an automaton feeding in notes, making a choice of bet, pressing the on-screen buttons, watching the bright lights flicker before him and then feeding in still more money. He was lost in his own world, just glad to escape from the pressures of his life. Eventually, he had no idea when, the betting terminal beeped requesting more money. Caramarin thrust his hand into his pockets. They were empty. Caramarin shook his head and was forced to return to the real world. He walked past the men watching the horse racing on the televisions and out into the dull, grey drizzle. Back to reality.
An overwhelming urge for some human contact came over Caramarin. He wanted, no needed, to see Narcisa. The only person he'd connected with in this hellish city. As soon as he opened the door of the pawnbrokers, he saw a customer arguing with Narcisa. A huge, bald, fat man wearing last season's Manchester United top, beer fumes leaking from his pores, cheap aftershave stinking out the shop. He was gesturing wildly. Narcisa was shaking her head, trying to be calm and reasonable.
Although he had no idea what the man was saying, Caramarin heard the word 'fuck' one time too many. He stepped up behind the man, twisted his meaty arm up behind his back and forced his body over ninety degrees. Caramarin quickly spun the man around and gave him the bum's rush out of the shop. The angry man looked like he wanted to take it further but one glance at Caramarin's face and fists put him off the idea. He swore and stumbled off.
"You shouldn't have done that," said Narcisa. "If he complains to the manager, I'll get in trouble."
"Why? You've done nothing wrong. Anyway, what manager? He's never here."
"We're supposed to negotiate and keep the customers happy; anyway management always take the customer's side," sighed Narcisa.
"What was he saying? I heard him swearing..."
"Just the usual. Effing foreign bitch, eff off back to your own country. I've heard it all before."
Caramarin felt like running back out and beating the fat man to a pulp. Breaking some bones would work off some tension if nothing else.
"And you like it here in this dump? I dunno," said Caramarin.
"Sometimes I get fed up with it all," admitted Narcisa. "It's not my fault he'd let his pledge run out of time."
The shop was empty at the moment; the few other customers had also vanished after Caramarin threw out the drunk. Narcisa spoke to the other assistant, a young woman who gave Caramarin the eye; and let Caramarin into the back of the brokers, into the staff room. She filled a glass of water and swallowed a couple of aspirins. She absently rubbed her lower belly as she did so.
She kissed him on the lips. "Thanks anyway. I wish you worked here. Then we wouldn't have so much trouble with our clients."
Caramarin hesitated, and then took the plunge. He hated to ask but his pockets were empty. "I don't suppose you could lend me a bit of money, just to tide me over until I get this painting thing sorted?"
"How much do you want?" Narcisa asked, her brow frowning.
"Well, a few hundred. If you can?"
"On my salary? After I've paid my rent?" She opened her handbag and took out two twenties. "I can let you have forty. But that's all I've got."
"That's great," said Caramarin, disappointment leaking into his voice. "I'll pay you back."
The other assistant pushed open the staff room door. They heard voices from the store front.
"It's getting busy again out there. You'd better go. I'll see you tonight?" Narcisa said.
Caramarin nodded. "Thanks again."
That day, he checked out of his bed and breakfast, slung his rucksack over his shoulder and carried it over to Narcisa's. On the way he swung by the local mini-market and picked up a couple of bottles of wine and the makings for a risotto. Knowing he needed to be in the girls' good books if they were going to let him stay on their couch for another few nights.
That evening, he threw the risotto together while Narcisa spoke to the other girls. He kept his ears open and knew he was okay when Ewelina took over the cooking.
"Sure you can stay, Nicu," she said. "But stick to buying take aways." On impulse, Caramarin threw his arms around her and kissed her pretty face.
"Thanks," he said simply.
Fifteen minutes after Narcisa went up, Caramarin followed. He heard Ewelina and Marta barely suppress their giggles as he yawned and climbed the stairs.
Narcisa lay in bed and dropped a magazine to the floor. She watched Caramarin undress and held up the duvet for him. He slipped into the warmth next to her. She kissed him passionately.
"Thanks for earlier. I told the manager about that man when he showed up. He checked the CCTV cameras but he wasn't very happy with me. Shouted at me. I get fed up with that job sometimes."
He was about to say something but forgot as he stiffened to her touch. She slipped a rubber onto him and then guided him deep into herself. He took his weight on his elbows and took her gently. Narcisa lay underneath and kissed his face. His release came then he collapsed onto her. As he lay there, he suddenly thought about the poor girl at Stanga's nightclub. As he did so, he gripped Narcisa tightly, like he could protect her from all harm.
"You're hurting me. What's the matter, Nicu?"
Caramarin relaxed. "Sorry. Just stuff on my mind, you know."
"If it helps, I got some more money for you."
Caramarin leaned back and looked deep into Narcisa's dark brown eyes.
"You did? How much? I mean, thanks, comrade," he was confused.
"I rolled over a customer's loan debt. Made out he's repaying it later. But I'm trusting you to pay it back, Nicu, or I'll be in deep trouble."
He kissed her again. "Thank you. You're too good to me."