Carole Latham reviewed her campaign in Soho without enthusiasm. She had
discovered from the first uneventful moment that the nut she was expected to
crack refused to yield to any pressure applied. The inhabitants of London’s
depraved ‘square mile’ didn’t cotton easily to suggestion. Not unless it
happened to fit with their drug, strip, porno, drinking way of life. She’d
found the area dismal. Lacking the colour some American magazines liked to play
into top features. The people, too, lacked life with a capital ‘L’. They went
about their humdrum tasks with a listlessness and counterfeit-ness that shocked
and amazed. Jaded was her word for them. Beyond hope. Beyond redemption.
Outside understanding. She
remembered most the number of guys who’d tried to seduce her. Creeps for the
most part. Kids still sporting their acne and pimples. Kids sold on ‘grass’ or
the mind-blowing ‘H’. Kids drifting aimlessly through Soho’s narrow streets,
back alleys. Kids used by crime’s overlords. Kids flogging body and soul for
the elusive kick, the great dream.
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