'Mr Tanner wants to speak with you,' the big doorman/bouncer told Charity in a gravelly voice.

Charity Lamb blinked at him, her plastic collecting box freezing in mid shake so that people out for an evening's pleasure passed her by momentarily untroubled by the guilt-inducing chinking of coins and her sober Redemption Army uniform. 'Sorry, who?' she asked.

'Mr Tanner's the owner of the Lucky 69 and he wants a word with you,' the man explained. He held up a fifty pound note in his thick fingers. 'He says you get this if come inside and talk to him right now.'

Charity had not met the owner of the Lucky 69 Club (Private Gaming Club - Members Only, as a small plaque by its entrance proclaimed) during her short-lived attempt to enter it a few months ago, when her presence had quickly been taken to be distracting to its customers and she had been politely but firmly ejected. After that every week she had taken up her regular position on the pavement a few paces from its doors collecting from its members as they entered and handing out inspirational leaflets to those who would take them. The doormen didn't like it but she was on public ground and they could not stop her. Most of the club's clientele ignored her but she got a few donations from those with a guilty conscience and the odd bonus from a celebrating winner. Now it seemed her persistence had finally registered at the managerial level.

Charity took a deep breath and said: 'I'd be very pleased to talk to Mr Tanner.'

Feeling a little like Daniel entering the Lion's Den, Charity followed the man through the front doors of the club, holding her plastic collecting box before her almost as she might her crucifix.

They passed the reception desk, her uniform drawing surprised looks from a smartly dressed couple just signing in, and went through a door marked Private. Within was an office with one wall taken up by four large TV screens subdivided into dozens of live camera images of gaming tables and a couple of views of the street in front of the club, including her now empty pitch. A few black and white photographic nudes hung on the walls which were no doubt intended to be artistic. Seated behind a large desk observing them was a stout greying man in his mid-forties dressed in a tailored black jacket, wine-red waistcoat and bowtie and dark blue shirt. As she was shown in he turned to her and smiled.

'Come in and sit down, Miss Lamb,' he said amiably, indicating the chair in front of his desk. 'You are a "Miss", right? I don't see a ring.'

'That's correct, Mr Tanner,' Charity said, sitting down stiffly.

He grinned. 'Don't worry I'm not going to bite.' To the doorman he said: 'Alright, Harry, pay the lady...'

Harry stuffed the fifty pound note into Charity's collecting box and then he left the room.

'Thank you for your donation,' Charity said. 'Perhaps you would be interested in one of these leaflets about our work...'

Tanner waved it away. 'I didn't have you come in here to get a lecture on religion or why my line of business is so evil. The other day a member of my staff noticed your name on your charity ID tag and then I knew I had to talk to you. A pretty woman in an RA uniform collecting for charity who's actually called "Charity"! What are the odds, eh?'

Charity stirred uncomfortably. 'My looks are not important, Mr Tanner.'

'But they are. You're blonde and blue eyed and hot even without makeup, and you've got a neat figure and you're, what, 24, 25? Looks and youth are your best assets. Probably boosts your take by thirty percent. But I suppose you'd say they were God given.'

'We are all made in his image, Mr Tanner.'

'So you believe the universe is made and run by this God of yours and obeys his rules.'

'Yes, Mr Tanner.'

'Well I say there's no God and it simply obeys the laws of probability. And tonight we're going to put that to the test.' He opened up a drawer of his desk and took out a dozen crisp bundles of money and laid them out in front of her. 'Each of those is a thousand pounds. And I'm ready to bet them in a game of chance with you to test if this God of yours is really running things or not.'

'It's sinful to gamble, Mr Tanner,' she admonished. 'And we do not put God to the test.'

'Not even when you're asking for money in his name? I mean that's what the Reddy Army's all about, isn't it? Think what you could do with, say, ten thousand pounds. Or maybe you're not sure you'd win? Maybe your faith isn't as strong as you say...'

Charity hesitated, staring at the bundles of money. She had accepted gamblers' winnings before, thereby putting tainted money to good use. Would this be any different?

'What kind of bet, Mr Tanner?' she asked cautiously.

He studied her closely for a moment. 'How many pieces of clothing are you wearing? I'd guess ten: cap, jacket, tie, shirt, skirt, pantyhose, a pair of shoes, bra and panties, right?'

Charity could not believe her ears. 'What are you talking about?'

He took a fifty pence piece from his pocket and held it up in front of her, twisting it round to show her both sides. 'I'm talking about ten throws of a coin. If I throw a tail, you win a thousand pounds. But if I throw a head... you have to take off a piece of clothing. You're a pretty woman and I'd like to see you naked: that's simple enough to understand, isn't it? And I'm ready to risk ten thousand for the privilege!'