I imagine them singing: We know where you’re going, we know where you’re going!’ I get a grip of myself. I get closer to my dirty destination. M... excitement… and anxiety increase. What if I suffer a heart attack? I visualise the headlines in the local paper: Respectable local man dies in brothel – partner never knew. Witty whispers: ‘He went before he came!’ I alight at Pokesdown Station – aptly named – and I’m reminded of a rough suburb of London. I stroll down Boscombe High Street trying not. She gathered herself up and shakily stood onher two feet, her arm wrapped around her aching sides. She stumbled andslipped towards the door at the end of the hall, groaning tearfully.The pain died down slightly as she opened the door and stepped insidethe cold breezy tower. She looked up, thankful she didn't have far toclimb. She turned to the stone steps and placed her foot on the first,beginning the ascension to towards death. She walked up each step,feeling her body becoming more. More

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