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you could never escape

And her tummy. She just felt — horrible, why did she feel so horrible? and suddenly too. She hadnt been feeling it before. Because of him, it was him, dirty ogling thing that he was. He shifted on his chair, swivelling to speak directly into the ear of his mate who stood a little to the rear and was craning his head forwards to listen. They laughed quietly, heads bowed.

What else but her? Their little snidey comments. What did it matter? horrible comments, it didnt matter. Because she didnt care. She so didnt care, like if they were who they were and she was who she was, really she just did not care, she really didnt, she so so didnt, if she lost the damn job she would just lose it, putting up with this, she would slap his bloody face, in a minute she would, what did they think she couldnt fight? she was from bloody Glasgow, she would just bloody

dirty ogling thing.

So if the Inspector was watching, so what? she would still slap him. Helen knew exactly what he was up to because men like him made sure of that. She was only a poor wilting female under the power of these so truly dominating powerful men like they were so so very powerful, they just reduced her to a shrinking violet, my God, if it was not so pathetic; she would have, she would have laughed in their face, it made you so angry; sometimes it did. Because it was always there, that was girls, having to put up with it, having to cope with it, how do they cope with it? however do they cope with it?

She gathered in the discards from the last round, raising her head for a moment; the ogler was in her line of vision. Know thine enemy.

‘Louts’ was a good word. Thinking of this pair as opposed to somebody like the mad doctor, as a for-instance. He ‘looked’. Of course he did. Jill was wrong about that. Perhaps he didnt look at her but he did look at Helen and it was not boasting to say it. What did she care if he looked or not? Not if it was like normal man and woman. He was a gentleman and it was only a natural thing. Men did look, of course they did. And that was nice, it was nice they did, if it was only that. Who is going to worry about that? Never. Men look. So do women. Women look too. So ha ha there. If men dont think they do, they do, women look at men.

Helen had shuffled the cards. The ogler grasped the marker. Helen had given him it. She had had to look at him directly. That was fine, that was easy. He tried to hold her gaze while inserting it into the deck of cards, thrusting it in. As unsubtle as a horse. He even resembled a horse. An ugly one, some are nice; horses.

She split the deck, returned it to the shoe, ruffling and smoothing down the cards; even individually cards could stick, they didnt always slide; why was that? dirt or grit, sweat; sweaty palms; or just bending the cards. Helen didnt like to see that. Although it was nervous, punters got nervous and fiddled. A dealer she knew in Glasgow gave them a row: Dont fiddle, you’re bending the damn cards! Management gave the dealer into trouble. The money they lose they could buy the whole damn card factory.

The ogler was still watching her. Cool, he said.

So he was only admiring her expertise. Helen turned her head from him in a move, almost as though she hadnt heard him. His mate had the decency to look away. It would have been nice to laugh in his face. But it wouldnt stop him staring. ‘Leering’ was a good word. He had bought the right because he was at her table. He was a ‘leerer’. No, ‘ogler’ was better.

He even had sweaty lips! Imagine! Helen couldnt, thank God. Why would she want to? Sweaty lips. It made her groo, the very idea. How ridiculous they were, some of them anyway, just so ridiculous; gross. Helen smiled. She would have called it a smile. She thought of it as one, like smiling without smiling, without moving a muscle. It was her own smile, it was only for herself she was doing it. Her actual face was expressionless. She wouldnt have allowed them the satisfaction, that was how little the oglers of this world meant to her. Although it could irritate. Of course it could. She concealed the irritation but not herself feeling it because she did feel it and she did think about it; so it did get to her

oh God, she was tired.

Although it was true, these people tried to hurt you. And they succeeded. They did. With her they did. Nowadays they did. All they had was money and they spent it gambling. Okay, a surgeon, he was different. But other ones? They werent scientists or faith healers or whoever, great actors, statesmen, they hadnt done anything, yet expected to act however they wanted, just like how they felt, like they had the right, going into a casino and treating everybody who worked there as though they were nothing. So so arrogant. They looked down on you. Some did. In their eyes you were funny; even they mimicked your voice. Oh it is just fun. Yes for them, nobody else. Mo didnt like her talking about it and he was right. It should have been water off a duck’s back but it wasnt. It used to be. Not now. Now it was everything, she felt everything. That was the problem. Helen’s problem. Too sensitive. She was. She should have been more of a tortoise. Was it the tortoise had the big shell? Something anyway, like with tough skins. That was what she needed, a leather skin, a hide. That was good, a ‘hide’, so you were hiding underneath it. It was an attitude people adopted in casinos. They thought they were something, and what were they really? Not anything. Only they acted like they were. The women were as bad, if not worse. Some of them. They had that hardness about them, they were tough. Helen had forgotten how tough. Perhaps it was worse in London. They would eat you up then crunch your bones, just like whatever, they would crunch them. It was like

what?

What was it like?

Her brains were scattered. This happened dealing cards, you were in your own wee world till something dragged you back. It could be a simple matter like a man looking at his watch. Or the way he was looking at you — not ogling, looking — choo choo, where was your head and where your brains? scrambled, the train of thought. ‘Real’ gamblers are not supposed to ‘look’: not at dealers. All they see is the cards. Nothing else interests them. People say that. But it isnt true, not in Helen’s experience. They sip at their drink and above the rim of the glass their eyes glint, watching. Not dirty old men either like if they happen to be old at all, and a lot arent. The ogler wasnt. He was early thirties, at the most.

Women watched too, and it wasnt freaky. They saw how you reacted to males. If it was a guy like the ogler, how did Helen handle him? There was a woman from Eastern Europe or someplace and she had that interest. Helen imagined her a spy or an undercover detective; she had quite a sharp demeanour and like her eyes too, seeing everything, they did, you felt that, and she never smiled. Even if Helen smiled she didnt smile back, and it wasnt a ‘professional’ smile like if she thought it was, perhaps she did think that. People have strange ideas. She acted as though she had never sat down at Helen’s table before. Some were like that. They didnt want you thinking they were regular gamblers.

A young man came with her. He never smiled either. So their relationship, you wondered about that. Although they hadnt been in for a while. That was so like typical. People disappeared. Sometimes you didnt notice. They were regulars and then stopped coming. The only way you realised this is because there came a time you looked up and there they were, sitting right in front of you. Then you were surprised because it was the first you had seen them in ages. Weeks and weeks. You hadnt seen them. You didnt even know they were not there until now you saw them. Where had they been? You hadnt noticed they were gone till now they were back. Imagine not noticing. People’s lives; they have them and dont have them. They live and die, we dont even notice. Had they gone to another casino or what? were they taking a rest? had they lost too much money? But this couldnt apply to the East European woman. She hardly gambled at all, too busy noting people’s behaviour, and the young guy with her, like a male escort. You said hullo and they didnt even smile. Was that peculiar? Perhaps not. Perhaps it was Helen who was peculiar. Of course, yes, little Miss Peculiar. She sounded like a packet of sweeties, boiled ones, the kind old ladies like to sook.