Sergeant Rodgers stood for a moment by her bed looking down at her, as if sensing exactly where her mind was.

'It will get better, Miss Norton,' he said gently. 'Your body will heal, the memory of that night will fade. You think now that this is the end of everything, but in fact it's a new beginning. Try to keep that in mind, you'll find it helps.'

He pulled up a chair beside her bed, and instead of launching into questions or insisting she looked at his photographs, he talked just as a friend would. He said he would arrange for someone from National Assistance to come and see her so she could pay her share of the rent at the flat. Camellia almost forgot he was a policeman.

Although later she found herself wondering if he was merely befriending her in the hopes she might be of some use later, that night she found solace by unburdening some of her fears.

Official reasons for calling on her had now all but dried up, but still Mike Rodgers kept coming. Sometimes he pulled a few sweets or an apple from his pocket, at other times he only had jokes to cheer her, but he always made her feel better.

'You are a very beautiful girl,' he said on perhaps his sixth unofficial visit. A nurse had managed to wash her hair for her today and it had lifted her spirits enough for her to put on a little lipstick too.

'Fat lot of use that is,' she joked, but she felt warmed by his flattery. 'I'll need more than a nice face to get a decent job when I get out of here.'

Mike looked at her thoughtfully. During his many visits and from his knowledge of her background, he'd gleaned more about her character than she realised. She was a good person at heart, a little easily led, but intelligent, brave and independent.

'You say you haven't skills, but you just aren't looking at them from far enough away,' he said.

'I'd have to get up close with a magnifying glass to see any,' she giggled, more from shame than amusement. 'I can't type or drive. I left school without any qualifications.'

'You've got a great understanding of people and a good personality,' he said dryly. 'Those are more valuable than exam results. I can think of many fields where those and your looks would be appreciated.'

'Such as?' Camellia raised one eyebrow.

'Personnel, welfare work, receptionist,' he came back with. 'You'd make a good probation officer too.'

As Mike's visits became more frequent, Camellia realised there was more than mere friendship between them. She found herself putting on lipstick and mascara, her ears constantly pricked for the sound of his firm step out in the corridor. She no longer spent time wondering what Bee was doing during the day, it was Mike she thought about. When he walked into the ward, his big face broke into the warmest of smiles, and she knew without him saying anything that she was as much on his mind, as he was on hers.

In her time at the Don Juan she'd become an expert at chatting up men and making them desire her. But she didn't dare try to use any of her old wiles to ensnare him. She just wasn't good enough for a man like Mike Rodgers.

When she asked whether he had a wife he laughingly replied that he was married only to his job. She knew he played rugby, that his favourite comedy show was Monty Python's Flying Circus, that he had a small flat in Acton. But it wasn't enough. She wanted to know everything about him: what he liked to eat, where he grew up, how old he was when he had his first kiss. Who the woman was who had let him down so badly, because somehow she knew he had been hurt.

But she didn't ask these questions. She merely soaked up little things about him to hold onto in the hours when she was alone. The way his lower lip curled petulantly when he disapproved of something, the dimple in his right cheek, the tiny chip in a front tooth and the light in his eyes which she knew was for her.

It was during the long, sleepless nights that Camellia did most of her thinking. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the night-time sounds of the ward. The old lady in the end bed's wheezing breath, the faint scratching of a pen as the night nurse did her paperwork in the centre of the ward.

Influential people from her past paraded through her mind. Each and every character flitting by like a trailer for a film. Her mother in a backless blue dress, blonde hair waving over golden brown shoulders. Bert Simmonds in his uniform, Miss Peet in her shabby tweed skirt and hand knitted jumpers, doling out the evening meal at Archway House. Dougie in his long snakeskin boots, tight velvet trousers and a frilly shirt. Other less important characters came too, Mrs Rowlands, Suzanne, Carol and Miss Puckridge.

Camellia knew now that no one in this cast was responsible for her failings, even if she had thought some of them were at times. Her mother hadn't been the best of examples, Suzanne and Carol had tempted her to steal, Dougie had introduced her to sex and drugs. But it was she, Camellia, who'd chosen to follow their leads and ignore her conscience. She alone conceived the idea of picking pockets and she'd never considered how her victims felt. Then there were all the men she'd slept with since Dougie. She couldn't even remember some of their names. What happened to the girl who once priced love above everything?

How could she even hope for romance with Mike? Setting aside her notoriety, which would harm his career and make him a joke in the force, there were all the dark shadows in the past of which he was unaware. She had breathed corrupt air for so long. She had no right to taint him with it.

Late in June, after six weeks at St Stephen's, the doctors told Camellia she could go home. Her knee had healed enough for her to have been taken out of traction the week before, and as she'd proved to be quite confident for short spells on crutches, there was no further need for her to be hospitalised.

Mike came in at seven that evening and found her practising hobbling along.

Camellia told him her news.

'I'm so excited,' she said breathlessly. 'I thought I was never going to get out of here. The summer's arrived and I hardly noticed.'

'Can I come and see you sometimes?' he asked. He looked faintly embarrassed.

'Let me try and get myself together first,' she said. 'There's more to mend than just my leg.'

Bee hovered in the doorway looking apprehensively at Camellia as she sat in an armchair, her plastered leg up on a stool. She had been home for two days and Bee had fussed round her constantly like a mother hen. She had arranged to do some modelling for a photographer this afternoon, but now she was nervous about it.

'Are you sure I look gorgeous?' she asked, fluffing out her blonde curls with one hand.

'Definitely,' Camellia reassured her for the third time, though in fact she thought the red minidress Bee was wearing made her look brassy. 'Go on, clear off.'

'Will you be all right?' Bee asked again. 'I'll go straight to the club I expect, so I won't be home till late,' she added with a blush.

'I'm not your keeper or your mum,' Camellia reminded her. 'Give the girls my love and get some gossip will you?'

'I'll do my best.' Bee picked up her handbag and made for the door. 'Mind you don't fall over!'

As Bee reached the top of the steps to the street, Camellia could see her bottom half as she waited for a taxi. Her eyes might be deceiving her, but it looked as if Bee had lost some weight.

Camellia sighed. Bee had seemed different the moment she got home: attentive, caring, but oddly secretive. There were stains on the carpet and scratches on the furniture as if Bee had held a party here in her absence, yet she hadn't mentioned one. She hadn't mentioned the girls at the club once either.

After eighteen months of sharing everything, Bee's secrecy was sad. Had she realised too that their relationship had come to a crossroads? To the left lay the clubs, easy money and excitement. To the right, real jobs, less money and hard work. Camellia knew which way she intended to go. Was Bee afraid to admit she couldn't join her?

Within an hour of Bee going out Camellia was bored. The days had passed slowly in the hospital too, but at least they were broken up by meals, visiting hours and doctors doing their rounds. Mike had telephoned her this morning to ask how she was coping and she sensed he was hoping she'd ask him to call round. She wanted to see him so badly, but not here, not amongst all the memories of her old life.

The flat felt like a prison. Camellia could see tantalising glimpses of people walking past the railings on street level, but it would be some time before she'd mastered the art of getting up the steps on crutches, and until then she had to stay put.

'Well, practise a bit,' she said aloud, reaching for the crutches and hoisting herself out of the chair. A few times up and down the passage to the bedrooms would make a good start.

As she got to the end of the passage and saw Bee's bedroom, she smiled. It was an absolute pigsty. Bee had cleaned everything else for Camellia's arrival home, but she must have run out of steam.

Pushing open the door Camellia went in. It wasn't just untidy, but very dirty. Clothes were strewn everywhere, drawers hanging open, the wardrobe almost empty. The dressing table had an inch of grey dust.

Sitting on the bed, Camellia started with the clothes, hooking them up with her crutch, then separating clean and dirty in two piles. She put the dirty ones in the pillowslip and added filthy stained sheets from the bed which clearly hadn't been changed for weeks.

It became a challenge to put everything right. She found a small shopping basket to carry unwashed china to the kitchen, then returned with it filled with cleaning materials. Camellia was surprised by just how much she could do. She pushed the dressing table stool with one of her crutches to where she wanted to tidy and clean, then sat on it.

The same method worked with the vacuum cleaner too, and bit by bit the room began to look nice again.

But as she pushed the machine under the bed a clonking noise alerted her something was there. Shuffling closer on the stool, she put one hand on the bed to steady herself, then lowered herself to the floor. She reached out for her crutch again, slid it under and nudged everything out. Two ashtrays, a gold earring Bee had lost months ago, a bracelet, some magazines and a handful of change came out with the first scoop. With the second came an old handbag and a large brown envelope. She put the china in her shopping basket and the rest on Bee's bedside cabinet, then hauled herself back onto the stool feeling very pleased with herself.

It was hard to make the bed again with clean sheets while sitting on it. By the time she finally managed to replace the bedspread, she was tired and lay back for a breather.

Idle curiosity made her look in the brown envelope. She wasn't in the habit of opening Bee's things. To her surprise it was a batch of glossy, professional photographs.

The first one was of Bee in a black lace negligee. It was a good picture, capturing the essence of her character, the naughtiness and the sweetness all at once. She was pinning up a black stocking, showing cleavage and thigh.

Camellia smiled. Bee was clearly serious about modelling. She studied it for awhile, then turned to the next.

Her smile vanished as coy girlie pictures turned to pornography: one picture of Bee holding up her naked breasts, a lewd expression on her face, another of her astride a chair showing everything. By the time Camellia got to the last of the twelve, in which a man's hand was examining her intimately, she felt sick.

Closer inspection showed the photographs were taken here in the flat. The couch Bee lay on was theirs, draped with a leopard skin rug. The upright chair she sat astride was one from the kitchen. But worst of all were Bee's eyes. A stranger might assume the glassy vacant look, the dilated pupils were the throes of ecstasy, but Camellia knew better. Bee was drugged.

Camellia left the pictures on the bed and hobbled painfully back to the lounge. It was no good telling herself that she'd seen far worse than those pictures in magazines on sale at every newsagents. This was her dearest friend, her family.

Now she understood Bee's secrecy, the unexplained stains on the carpet, that tarty red dress. Someone was using her. While Camellia lay in hospital planning to start a new life, Bee had met someone whose influence was stronger, and she'd taken a couple of steps even further down the ladder.

When Bee finally came home it was after one in the morning. Camellia was wide awake, still with her bedside light on. She heard the click of the front door, the sound of shoes being kicked off in the lounge, then soft padding as Bee came down the corridor.

'Can't you sleep?' Bee asked, putting her head round Camellia's bedroom door. Her hair was tousled, and her make-up smeared. She looked as if she'd just got out of bed with someone.

'No,' Camellia replied. She had been crying for most of the evening and she turned her face away from Bee's so she wouldn't see her puffy eyes. 'My leg hurts.'

'I'll just get out of these clothes,' Bee said. "Then I'll bring you some hot milk and a couple of aspirin.'

Camellia sighed. She had left the photographs out on Bee's bed. Would she be angry? Or would she try and convince Camellia that porno-modelling was an even better number than being a nightclub hostess?

She didn't have to wait long. Bee came back just a few moments later. She'd taken off her dress and replaced it with her pink dressing gown.

'You've been poking around,' she said accusingly.

'I didn't poke,' Camellia said stiffly. 'I just went in your room to clean it. I found them under the bed.'

'Is that what you've been crying about?' Bee asked. She folded her arms and looked defiant. 'I can't see why. There's no harm in it.'

'No harm in it?' Camellia hauled herself up to a sitting position. 'It's disgusting.'

'It's easy for you to say that, you didn't have to find a way to pay the telephone bill, the electric and gas.'

'But the club?' Camellia asked. 'You didn't need -' She faltered as she saw Bee's face crumple.

'I got the sack,' Bee said in a small voice. 'I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry. Don't be angry with me.'

'Who put you up to it, Bee?' Camellia said more gently, holding out her arms. Bee instantly flung herself into them and began to cry. 'Tell me everything.'

Bee was sacked because police and journalists kept coming into the club to ask questions after Camellia's attack. Denise felt that if Bee was no longer working there, they'd have no excuse for calling in. This seemed callous to Camellia but perhaps Denise was ordered to.

After a couple of weeks with no money coming in, Bee was getting desperate. She saw a small advertisement in a newspaper asking for models which said 'no experience necessary' and made an appointment to see a businessman called Jake.

As Camellia listened to Bee's explanation her heart went out to her friend. Jake had clearly flattered her, spun a story that she could earn a fortune and offered to take the initial pictures himself.

'I didn't really want to do it,' Bee sobbed. 'I knew you wouldn't like it. But Jake said I could tell you they were pictures for catalogues. He said the photographs of me would only be in magazines in Germany and Holland, not here.'

'But I don't understand how you could bear it,' Camellia said. 'He gave you drugs, didn't he?'

'Just a bit of coke,' Bee whispered against her shoulder. 'But it didn't seem so bad. By the time he took the pictures I'd slept with him a couple of times. I love him and he loves me.'

'But he can't love you if he makes you do things like that!' Camellia stroked her friend's hair. This man sounded frightening.

'He's an artisthe's different from the kind of men we usually meet.' Bee sat up, wiping her tears away with the sleeve of her dressing gown. 'He said my body is beautiful and I should be proud to show it off. It's not like I was letting a total stranger leer at me.'

Camellia sighed. 'You must stop it now,' she said gently. 'Look what happened to me through working at the club? You're in even worse danger doing something like this. I'm going to try and go straight, no more drugs, men or anything. If you can't go straight with me, then I'll have to go and live somewhere else.'

'Please don't leave me,' Bee began to cry again. 'I was so lonely while you were in hospital, I wouldn't have done it if you were here.'

Chapter Ten.

Three days after Camellia found the photographs of Bee, she met Jake for the first time.

She was sitting in the lounge, reading, while Bee went shopping. It was hot and Bee had left the front door open to let in a breeze.

Camellia neither heard Jake come down the steps to the basement nor saw him walk in. He just appeared in front of her, making her almost jump out of her skin.

'Hi, I'm Jake,' he said, dropping into a chair as if it was his own flat. 'You must be Mel.'

He was every bit as handsome as Bee claimed: perhaps five feet eleven, with shoulder-length blond hair and a beaded Red Indian band round his forehead. A deep golden tan enhanced bright blue eyes and perfect white teeth. He looked around twenty-five, broad shouldered and slim hipped. His white voile shirt and washed-out pale jeans were spotlessly clean and neatly pressed. But despite his unexpectedly attractive appearance Camellia felt uneasy.

'How's the leg?' he asked. 'Tried having a screw yet?'

Camellia might've laughed if an old friend had asked her that. But given the circumstances of her injuries, and the fact that she'd never met this man before, she bristled. "The break's healing,' she said curtly. 'Screwing, as you put it, is the last thing on my mind.'

She realised now he was older than she'd thought, possibly even in his thirties. As she looked close she saw too that the hippie image was contrived. His hair was too well cut, his jeans and shirt too expensive.

'Bee said you'd be snotty with me,' he said in pique. 'Could we be jealous she's doing some modelling?'

'I'd be snotty with any stranger who walked in uninvited and asked crude personal questions,' she snapped. 'But just for the record I'd hardly call the photographs I saw modelling.'

'So, you're a prude as well as stuck up,' he sneered, pulling a tobacco tin from his back pocket. 'Odd, considering you don't mind selling your fanny, that you don't approve of pictures of it?'

Her worst fears about this man were realised. 'I've never sold my body,' she retorted angrily. 'And I think men that get off on leering at dirty pictures are sick.'

Jake smirked and began to roll a joint. 'Well, you're more of a fool than I took you for. Porn's a growth industry. Bee can make enough to retire in a couple of years. Big knockers like hers are just what the punters want.'

'Bee thinks you love her,' Camellia flung at him. 'What sort of a louse exploits someone like that?'

'A businessman,' he shot back, rolling up the joint and licking the paper to stick it down. 'It's not so different to the way you led on those suckers in the club. Don't get snotty with me, you silly bitch. Bee gets a real kick out of it.'

Camellia smarted, not only at being called a silly bitch, but because she saw there was some truth in what he said. She couldn't retort that Bee was like an enthusiastic puppy, only too ready to lick the hand of anyone who appeared to love her. To admit that might give him even more ideas of ways to use her friend.

Her forebodings grew as she watched Jake lie back on the couch to smoke his joint. She had an awful feeling that he was going to become a permanent fixture around here unless she put her foot down firmly.

Bee arrived back from the shops minutes later, looking like a school girl in a pink gingham sundress. Her hair was tied up in two bunches and she was hot and sweaty.

'Jake!' she exclaimed, her face lighting up. 'What a lovely surprise.' She rushed over where he lay and went to kiss him.