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Da, so escort, huh? Cold game, calculated moves. Like in “Memento” – memory’s a bitch. You don’t know who’s who. Escort’s the same – trust’s a luxury. Met this chick once, high-class escort. Swore she was ex-KGB, ha! Prolly bullshit, but sounded cool. “I don’t have a past,” she says. Straight outta Nolan’s script, right? “You don’t remember me?” – nah, I don’t. Made me laugh, tho. These girls, they hustle hard. Cash up front, no names. Reminds me of Lenny’s tattoos – rules to live by.

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So, I wake up in this tiny hotel on Bedford Road. The bed was comfy, but the coffee? Ugh, tasted like burnt rubber. Seriously, who brews that stuff? Anyway, I chugged it down and hit the streets. First stop? The Kempston Market. It’s this cute little spot, full of stalls and local goodies. I’m thinking, “Yeah, I’ll grab some breakfast.”

Police appeal for witnesses following Kempston sexual assault