by L. P. Gibbs
“Not your old girlfriend from up North, is it?” Janet thrust the money at him, wanting to be rid of the disgusting little man as quickly as possible.
“No, it's not. Just a friend that I work with, that's all.” With that, she closed the door in his face and leaned with her back against it, her dishevelled hair falling down across her face that still bore the traces of the previous nights make-up that she had neglected to remove.
Arthur's loud, grating voice had woken Alex up. She sat up, swinging her legs round and gingerly put her feet to the floor, yawning.
“Jesus!” she exclaimed. “That must have been some night. I don't remember coming up here.” she said as she stood up and went to the window and looked down into the street. Janet tried her best to smile but found it somewhat difficult as her head was pounding fit to burst.
“Well, we were both quite tipsy,” she said, rummaging inside her bag for some paracetamol.
“What do you mean tipsy?” Alex said with a laugh. “We were absolutely pissed out of our heads.” Both girls started laughing.
An hour or so later they were sitting at the small table eating hot, buttered toast and drinking tea. Janet was curious about her friend's work and asked about it. Alex was forthcoming about what she did and made no secret of it. Earning reasonably good money, she was quite happy to take cash from whoever could afford her price as long as the transaction was carried out in a reputable hotel or somewhere decent. Certainly not down some dank and dingy alleyway behind the shops or in a stranger's car where just about anything could happen.
“I'm getting a bit fed up with walking the streets, though,” she finally stated with a sigh. “I think I'm probably going to see if I can get work as a hostess at one of the clip-joints around Soho. At least it'll be out of the weather. It can get cold on some nights as well as wet if it's raining.”
“What's a clip-joint then?” Janet enquired in total innocence. Alex laughed at her naivety.
“I'll tell you if you make another cup of tea,” she said. Janet got up and started to make the brew while Alex spoke. “Well,” she began, “what happens is that the customer comes into a club and gets shown to a table. The hostess sits next to him and he gets charged five pounds just for the pleasure of her company and that's just for starters.” She paused to take a long, thin, pastel coloured cigarette from a silver case and then light it from a disposable plastic lighter.
“He then asks if she wants a drink and of course she says 'yes' and asks for a Champagne cocktail. The customer orders it but what he doesn't know is that the drink is only Tizer, a soft, fizzy drink with an umbrella stuck in it served in a cocktail glass. That's cost him another fiver and so it goes on until he leaves the club and has run up a hefty bill. The hostess then gets a cut of the money that the club has taken from him, usually ten percent.”
Alex smiled, sat back and sipped at her freshly brewed tea, her hands folded around the steaming mug, her cigarette burning away between her slender fingers with bright red nails on the ends. Janet was amazed at how easily men could be tricked out of their hard earned cash.
“But supposing the man wants to have sex with the girl? What then?”
“Oh, that's easy. She tells him that she has to stay until the club closes so he carries on buying her drinks until then. When the place starts to close up for the night in the early hours the doorman, who has been tipped off by the girl, comes in and says that the girl's husband has turned up to take her home, even though he hasn't. The hostess feigns surprise and says how sorry she is that she can't go with the man but what can she do? The punter may not be happy about it but there's nothing much he can do about the situation, is there? He's probably married anyway, so he can't run to the police, can he? What could he say to them if he did?”
“Do you know, that sounds an absolutely perfect way to earn a living to me,” Janet told her. “I wonder how easy it would be to get a job like that.”
“I know of one place in Great Windmill Street called Silk's Gentleman's Club. I know one of the girls who works there as a hostess. Her name is Pepsi, at least that's what she calls herself. There are no wages as such, only the commission you make on what the punters spend. I'm going to try there first. I'll let you know how I get on.” Janet didn't see Alex again for nearly three weeks when she came into the cafe one lunchtime. She looked fabulous in new clothes and a new hair style.
“Where have you been?” Janet demanded. “I was beginning to get a bit worried about you as I haven't seen you.”
“I've been working six nights a week until gone three in the morning so I don't get up much before mid-day,” she replied with a smile. “I'm earning fantastic money, too. You should try it yourself, Jan,” she continued excitedly. “I'm sure I could have a word and get you some work there.” Janet thought about her friend's offer but was cautious about chancing the move.
“I'll have a think about it,” she said, and they then changed the subject to discussing the possibilities of having another night out on the town as before. They both agreed it would be a great idea, recalling how much they had enjoyed the last one. At two o'clock on the dot, Janet was back at her position in Adrian's women's wear shop once more. She was gradually learning that money could be made anywhere in Soho if you had the right frame of mind.
The following Friday evening, for want of something better to do, she left the cafe half an hour earlier than normal. Changing into her going out clothes, she set off for the West End and Soho, determined to find the club that Alex had mentioned, mainly out of interest.
Janet got off the bus at the end of Regent Street outside the Cafe Royal, and continued walking towards Piccadilly Circus, marvelling at how different it was from during the day. An enormous, flashing neon sign, twice the size of a bus, advertised Coca Cola. Other advertisements for Fuji Film surrounded it above the twenty four hour Boots Chemist store. She couldn't believe how busy and noisy it was at eleven thirty at night.
Bearing slightly left, she walked through some arches opposite the statue of Eros in the centre of the circus. Beneath these arches were a group of decidedly effeminate young men hanging listlessly around, their eyes furtively darting from side to side. As she watched, one of them walked away with a smart, suited, middle-aged man in a bowler hat and carrying a leather briefcase. They both climbed in to a waiting taxicab. It was only weeks later that she learned that this area was called 'The Meat Rack' where young men known as rent-boys plied their trade.
From her daytime visits to the Soho cafe and Berwick Street Market, she knew exactly where Great Windmill Street was located and she turned left opposite the brightly lit Golden Nugget Casino into the street. It didn't take her long to find Silk's a hundred yards along on the left, the double fronted window festooned with red, yellow and blue flashing neon strip lights. She watched cautiously from the other side of the road as the tall, black-suited doorman sporting a bow-tie ushered several different groups of men in through the door over the course of half an hour.
Satisfied that she had found the correct place, Janet wandered off further along Great Windmill Street and noticed a bistro type cafe halfway along on the left with the name of The Pink Panther along the blind that was pulled down over the entrance. The windows were tinted so she could not really see inside from the pavement. Deciding that a nice cup of coffee would go down well before venturing further, she went in. The interior was a little dark and gloomy with the lighting just that tiny bit too low. She sat in one of the booths close to the counter and an ageing waitress in a much too tight, black uniform with an off-white pinafore ambled across, staring silently down at her with a questioning look, a note-pad in her hand.
“Just a coffee, please,” Janet said with a smile. It wasn't returned and the waitress gave no sign that she had heard the order but simply turned and walked back to the counter with the same disinterested manner that she had approached with. Janet watched as the woman operated the ancient coffee machine that spluttered and hissed, sending out clouds of s
team. There were some sounds from one corner far behind her and she turned to see what it was. A small television screen was bolted to the wall at the far end of the room with a video recorder bracketed beneath it, and she watched the screen in astonishment as the two men on the flickering screen had sex in a number of different positions with the huge-breasted girl who accompanied them. So engrossed was she at this spectacle that she had not noticed the man who brought her drink across to her and placed it quietly on the table at her elbow. It wasn't until he slid on to the seat beside her that she registered his presence and she turned to glare at him, surprised at his impudent intrusion. He was small and wiry with an ugly, hooked Roman nose, his face wrinkled, gaunt with hollow cheeks and his thinning hair slicked greasily back from his receding hairline. Janet picked up the pungent odour of garlic on his breath as he spoke.
“The coffee, it is ona the house,” he told her with a crooked, oily smile as he nudged against her thigh. “It makes a nice change to have a pretty girl come into my place,” he continued with a distinct Italian accent. “Don'ta you worry, my dear, there is nothing to be concerned about. I just like to talk to all of my new customers, especially very attractive ones like you.” The man talked so quickly, hardly drawing breath so that she had no opportunity to interject. He carried on, talking rapidly. “I don't think we have seen you in here before, have we? Are you new to Soho? Are you working around here or just sight-seeing?”
She became aware of his eyes searching her face before drifting downwards to her pert breasts that were straining against the material of her white blouse. It was then that she became aware of a slight, almost imperceptible movement beneath the table. It took her a few moments to realise what was happening and then, with horrifying clarity, she understood.
This atrocious, abhorrent little man was staring into her face, one hand on her thigh and masturbating with the other.
As his movements very quickly became faster and more jerky, she tried to stand up but was blocked in behind the table by him on one side and the side wall on the other and could not move. After a very short time indeed, his eyes closed tightly shut and he gripped her leg hard as he orgasmed. He sat back in a relaxed manner and turned back to her, a half smile playing on his thin lips as he made use of the thin, paper serviette that had come with her coffee.
“Come and see us again, won't you?” he said, adjusting his trousers before standing and walking back behind the counter to disappear through a doorway behind it. The old waitress who had taken her order just looked across, her face expressionless. It appeared from her look that this might be a regular occurrence for the Italian. Janet stood up hurriedly, spilling coffee from the cup into the saucer, barged her way out of the booth and fled from the horrid place. So this was what Soho was really like at night? If so, she didn't want to know about working anywhere near here. It seemed that only the dregs of the earth would want to be in this place.
Hurrying from the place, almost at a run and without stopping, she managed to reach Regent Street and her bus stop. She stood there, fiddling with the strap of her handbag and struggling to make sense of what had just happened. It seemed an age before her bus arrived to take her home.
Three weeks after this, Janet was in her usual Soho cafe at lunchtime and having just finished her meal, had sat back in her chair when a young man flopped down on the opposite side of the Formica-topped table. He leaned back in his chair as he placed his coffee mug down and smiled at her.
“Hello, my name's Steven,” he said. “I've seen you in here a lot this week. Do you work around here?” Janet studied the man carefully. He appeared to be in his mid to late twenties. Before he sat down, she could see that he was quite tall and slim. His fair, fashionably long hair was swept to one side across his forehead and she found him not handsome as such, but somewhat attractive.
“Yes,” she replied at last. “I work in a shop in Regent Street.” The young man continued to gaze at her face, still smiling.
“I've got a small flat just round the corner in Moore Street. I come in here every day,” he told her. “It's handy for me because I don't get up much before eleven.”
“Don't you go to work, then?” she asked, inquisitively. He threw his head back and laughed aloud.
“Sort of,” he answered. “I'm the drummer in a group. We play different places in the evenings so I don't usually get to bed until late.” The idea of meeting someone who played in a group fascinated Janet and she leaned forward, her arms resting on the table as she talked to him.
“Is your group famous?” she asked. “Have you made any records? What sort of music do you play?”
“You want to know a lot,” Steven said with a wink. “No, we're not famous yet, but we will be one day. We haven't made a record yet and we play mostly music from the sixties and a bit of rock and roll. What about you? What's your name?” She felt herself blushing and tried to hide it.
“My name's Janet,” she told him.
“Well, Janet, perhaps we could have a drink sometime one evening. What do you think?” She told him that she would think about it and that she had to be getting back to work. Steven told her that he would see her again in the cafe and she left with a wide grin on her face feeling rather flattered.
As the next day was the start of the weekend, she didn't go back to the cafe until Monday. When her lunch break started at one o'clock, she all but ran to Old Compton Street and sat at the same table as before. It was gone two when she left and he had not shown up. The same thing happened for the following two days as well. Then on the Thursday just as she was about to give up, Steven breezed into the cafe with a smile and a wink, slumping down into the chair opposite her.
“I was starting to think you had given up on me,” she said.
“What? Give up on a gorgeous girl like you?” he responded, leaning forwards. “That's something I could never do.” They chatted some more and she found herself more drawn to him as the time went by. Before she realised it, the old clock on the wall showed ten past two and after telling him that she would be there the next day, she had to run all the way back to Regent Street, barging her way through the mass of people on the streets. Miss Eileen frowned and looked pointedly at her jewel encrusted wristwatch as she entered the shop.
“That's the second time this week, young lady,” she said sternly, holding her watch out in front of her. “Any more of that and you'll find yourself getting your cards and out of a job.” Janet assured her that it would not happen again.
The next day, Steven invited her to come along that evening to a pub that his group was playing at in South London. She readily agreed and he told her that he would pick her up outside the cafe at seven o'clock and not to be late. She was there a few minutes early and, at the appointed time, an old Transit van pulled into the kerb beside her. Steven tooted the horn and waved to her. Janet climbed into the front passenger seat and they moved off, arriving at The Red Lion in Brixton some twenty minutes later.
Sitting at a tiny, round table next to the small stage, she had a good view and Steven bought her a large measure of Baccardi and coke. It was the first time she had tasted spirits, her only previous experience of alcohol being half pints of lager when out with Alex or swigging cider from a bottle in the park with a couple of school friends. As the group played through the evening, she had quite a few more drinks put in front of her and by the time they had packed all their instruments away in the van, she felt more than a little squiffy. Her head was beginning to spin as she dropped into the front seat to head home and she instantly fell asleep. Awakening when the van's engine was switched off, she leaned forward, not knowing where she was. Steven was on the pavement and opened the door for her, helping her to her feet.
“Come on,” he said warmly, putting his arm around her waist to steady her. “You look as if you've had a few too many drinks. Let's get you inside.” She obediently held on to him, allowing him to lead her up some stairs. In her drunken state, she at first imagined them to be the stairs
to her room but everything seemed a little different. None of this really registered on her semi-inebriated mind as the door closed behind her and she was lowered gently on to a large bed. Janet became aware of her blouse being unbuttoned and felt her panties sliding away from her. She recalled nothing more except a vague memory of a pain low down and opening her eyes to find Steven on top of her, his hair hanging down, almost touching her face as he sweated and grunted above her. Then nothing apart from the rhythmic moving of the bed.
When she awoke, her brain was confused and her head pounded like a jack-hammer. The room was unfamiliar, larger than her own. The beige wallpaper was hanging away from the wall at the ceiling and a stained, cream sheet hung across the window instead of curtains. With a sudden movement beside her, she turned her head to find Steven in the bed next to her. Seeing his bare chest, she suddenly realised that she too was naked, her clothes draped over the back of a chair alongside the bed and her knickers discarded upon the floor beside it. Janet sat up abruptly, pulling the crumpled sheet and blanket up to her throat, her heart throbbing so hard in her chest that she thought it would burst through her skin. Twisting her body, she slid out of the bed and reached for her clothes. It was at this point that Steven woke up, turned and smiled at her. He yawned loudly, levered himself up and leaned back on his elbow while reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. With one hand, he lit a cigarette and, blowing smoke into rings above him, turned back and looked at the embarrassed girl as she struggled to dress one-handed and keep herself covered at the same time.
“You weren't this shy last night,” he told her with a leering grin.
“Wh …... what do you mean?” she stammered. “I don't remember anything after leaving the pub last night.”
“You were all over me like a rash when we got into bed,” Steven declared. “You couldn't get enough of me. I had to persuade you to let me go to sleep at three o'clock. I was worn out.”
