The City Trap

by John Dalton

  * * *

  Jerry had the sickness. He sat on the sofa, arms folded, and stared at the bare walls opposite. He saw nothing and rarely did a thought cross his mind. Inertia. Pure, don’t-give-a-toss inertia. He could do it for hours on end. It was the usual story. Cut adrift and feeling too tired to fight it. Few people knew how much hard work there is in being workless, how much energy is needed to stay afloat when there’s no support and the only outlook is down. Jerry had spent days toiling with nothing. He’d had many fitful nights too, slipping in and out of revenge dreams, eyes behind the sights of a sniper gun, killing off all the shits in the world. Jerry was wrecked and hadn’t even managed to call on Mary. But that was about to change. There were noises on the fire escape and he heard the outside door creak open.

  Mary stepped brightly into the living room. She was wearing a thin cotton blouse and a long skirt, and the way the light hit her, Jerry thought she wore nothing else. He squirmed a little with hunger. She slumped down beside him on the sofa and waved a brown envelope, wafting cool air around them.

  ‘Jerry, the day is glorious and you’re looking like a dead rat in a hole.’

  ‘Yeh. F-Feel like one.’

  ‘So what’s the matter, huh?’

  ‘You know . . . nothing, the b-big fucking nothing out there, and the m-malice it holds.’ Jerry tried to smile.

  ‘Boring self-pity. You should’ve come down to see me instead of moping.’

  Jerry felt a little confused by Mary’s sudden breezy appearance, and ashamed too for being so morbid. He tried to rise to the occasion.

  ‘Are you t-trying to cool me d-down, or are you going to show m-me what’s in that envelope?’ he said with his head somewhat averted – he could see Mary’s breasts beneath the purple flowers of her blouse and he wasn’t sure how to react. That was the thing about Mary, she kept coming out with things and you were never sure where she was at.

  ‘I wasn’t going to tell anyone, but, well it’s hard to resist and I reckon it’s safe to tell you.’

  ‘S-So what is this?’

  A slyly smiling Mary gave the envelope to Jerry and suggested he look inside. He pulled out a couple of large black and white photographs. Two people having sex, doggy style, with the man at the back straining his head up in contorted ecstasy. Somewhat amazed, Jerry couldn’t work it out but then noticed the blurred edge of a curtain at the side of the pictures.

  ‘H-Have I got this right? Y-You took these? I mean, you took these through a w-window like a p-peeping tom?’

  ‘Awful, isn’t it?’

  ‘B-But, this isn’t portfolio stuff . . .’

  ‘Sort of. Well, I’m getting paid for them which is more than I can say about most of the other work I’ve done.’

  ‘W-What’s it for, is the b-bloke two-timing or something?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that. This woman I met down the Lime Tree, Claudette, you may have seen her around. We were chatting, I said I was trying to set up as a photographer and she said she’d like to teach this bloke a lesson.’

  ‘Yeh, I think I’ve seen her around.’

  ‘God, it was scary doing it, Jerry, but exciting, you know. I got quite turned on. I was printing a few up the other day and it brought it all back.’

  ‘So, d-did you get paid?’

  ‘Half. I’m expecting the rest but she hasn’t been around the past while.’

  ‘Jesus, M-Mary, you’re certainly full of surprises.’

  She looked at Jerry then, straight in the eyes. There was a glint within them, a glint Jerry hadn’t seen much of recently.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘let’s go out for a walk.’

  ‘Shit, I d-don’t know . . .’

  ‘So how is it with you and that Wanda then?’

  ‘W-Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen her around, that’s all.’

  Jerry and Mary were sitting on the grass down at Sparkhill Park. The sun was out and so were the people, dotted around the acres of green away from the relentless traffic. The benches by the driveway were full of OAPs. A few young men kicked a ball about while a circle of Sikhs played cards by the rose bushes.

  ‘I g-guess it’s m-more or less folded. I haven’t w-wanted to go round and see her. No spark left, I guess, just habit.’

  ‘Yeh, the way they go, relationships.’

  ‘Y-You know I want y-you.’

  Jerry thought he could say that then, in the park, in a public place, as though the context took away the import of his words. But Mary was grinning; she leaned over close and looked into Jerry’s eyes.

  ‘Say it again.’

  ‘W-What? I w-want you?’

  ‘God, your stutter drives me wild.’

  And then Mary kissed him, a kiss that was long and searching, almost a tongue fuck as she sat astride him and spread her skirt over him.

  ‘Come on, Jerry, let’s!’

  ‘D-Do y-y-you th-think –’

  ‘Shush! Put your hands under my skirt.’

  All the seediness that had brooded within him for days suddenly went. Jerry began to feel that he was in the sea and about to drown. He looked around and saw the complacent faces of the old folks on the benches and the surly youths thumping leather. A toddler waddling along the drive with her mum was looking straight at Jerry. He wanted to shout, to wave his arms and scream out that he was in trouble, but the waters proved more alluring than fear. He slid his hands down into silky softness and found the wet place of his dreams.

  ‘Oh, Jerry, that is good . . . Now, try to get your jeans down.’

  ‘B-But –’

  ‘No one can see anything, we just look like we’re being playful.’

  But the toddler was staring now and seemed to sense something was going on. And a poker-faced old lady was certainly looking hard at them. But Jerry couldn’t stop the pull of the waves. He carefully eased down his jeans and Mary sank herself down. He closed his eyes and let himself be absorbed by the lapping sea. He was vaguely aware of Mary’s face above the water and, beyond that, a distorted, malignant tree but then the climax came. Jerry writhed and choked and finally opened his eyes to a disconcerting sky.

  * * *

  Several hours later, Des drove Bertha in the direction of Burma Road. His mind was beginning to buzz, and it wasn’t about a certain someone. He’d picked Bertha up at the Fedora and had encountered an almost animated Wayne.

  ‘Bleedin hell, Des, you ought to pack up the job more often. This place nearly came alive.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Another customer besides Dick, Bertha over there, and two phone calls for you. The dreaded M rang, said she was dropping the charges but to expect a bill through the post. Then that posh woman rang. She said she was “going ahead”, whatever that means, and the cheque’s on the way. I mean, Des, we haven’t had such action in months!’

  Des smiled to himself and then caught sight of the milk crates on the corner of Burma Road. No old men sat on them, but placards were hanging on the railings. Des looked over at Bertha.

  ‘Could be another suspect there,’ he said.

  ‘What? The holier-than-thous?’

  ‘One way to get the girls off the street. You know, these religious nutter types, they can be extreme.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Des, I’m reformed. I might even agree with them.’

  ‘Yeh, well it’s like dope, they’re shit scared to legalize it.’

  Des went down Burma Road, took a few more turns in the backstreets and finally pulled up outside an Edwardian terraced house, last known home of Claudette Turton.

  ‘You’re sure Vin won’t be around?’

  ‘He’s frightened, Bertha, gone to ground.’

  ‘I guess he wouldn’t want to see me anyway.’

  Bertha took out her key to the house and they went inside. Darkness was beginning to fall and so they switched on the lights as they went in each room. It all seemed very neat and tidy.

  ‘S’pose the police have had a
good poke round.’

  ‘And you can bet that as soon as he heard, Vin flushed the place over.’

  Downstairs consisted of a front room, living room and kitchen. Des and Bertha went snooping round all the furniture, cushions and kitchenware but found nothing of interest.

  ‘Strange,’ Des muttered, ‘going through someone else’s house.’

  ‘Bit of a waste of time.’

  ‘You don’t get much sense of what the two of them were like.’

  ‘Mmmm, guess some of this stuff should come to me.’

  ‘Would you want it?’

  ‘Nah, I got the things I . . .’

  Bertha briefly took hold of Des’s hand and squeezed, but Des found that her face gave little away.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘God, let’s get it over with.’

  Upstairs, too, seemed totally unpromising. A front bedroom where the couple had slept and another where Claudette plied her trade. Both tidied up and clean along with the bathroom. Not any kind of personal scent. Not a sniff of dramas that once went on. Too unreal. Claudette already seems a memory kept alive in her mother’s mind. Des watched Bertha looking through her daughter’s clothes. Her looks may have waned with time, her body lost its symmetry, but he could see attractiveness there. He liked it. Beauty with character, not glamour; subtle pleasures maybe, post-menopause. Des pulled himself up abruptly. Business, his mind asserted, strictly business!

  ‘I’ll just do another check around.’

  Des again went round the too-tidy house. Two things came to his attention. In the front room, behind the door, Des noticed a clown print. Not exactly the same as the other one that had witnessed a small humiliation of his own. It was similar enough, though, to send a ripple of unease through him and a desire to thump its inane face. Des moved quickly away. He’d failed to check the back yard. On opening the rear door, there seemed little to be bothered about. In the fading light he could see paving stones swamped by weeds. A rotary drier collapsed and rusting by the back fence. There were, however, two bulging black plastic bags by the gate. Rats had gnawed their way into both. Refraining from breathing in, Des got down on his haunches and prodded around at the spewing mess with a pen. Potato peels and eggshells, unidentifiable slime and fag ash, but also scraps of paper. Gingerly, he tried to ease a few out of the filth. A shopping list, a few columns of figures, till receipts . . . Bertha appeared at the back door.

  ‘I reckon I might have found something, Des.’

  He looked up.

  ‘In one of Claudette’s jackets, stuffed right down in the pocket.’

  * * *

  It was completely dark when Des began to drive Bertha back to her home. He was feeling pleased with himself and certain things in his life were beginning to seem long gone. He put on an Abdullah Ibrahim tape and allowed his fingers to play a tune on the steering wheel.

  ‘So read the note again, Bertha.’

  ‘My special friends call me Bee.’

  ‘B is for boss don’t forget.’

  ‘Huh. OK – “Sorry about this. I tried to ring but couldn’t get you. I’m out of town for a few days so you won’t be able to reach me. Let me know as soon as you can about the VIP . . .” and it’s signed “G”.’

  ‘What you reckon then?’

  ‘Well, she was playing around, the naughty girl, as Vin suspected, whoever G is.’

  ‘Sounds possible. Then again, it could be just an innocuous arrangement. What about VIP?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I suppose that could be just a personal joke, you know, like people have names for their genitalia. Or it could be pointing to a scam.’

  ‘Find out, Des. What am I paying you for?’

  Bertha lived on the third floor of a ten-storey block of flats some half a mile to the east of Argent Street. Des pulled into the car park and waited for Bertha to get out.

  ‘You coming up for a coffee, Des?’

  ‘Nah, I think I’ll give it a miss if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I won’t bite, you know.’

  ‘I dunno about that, and that worries me, you being my client and all.’

  ‘So what if I did bite, Des? I’m pretty good at knowing where and how to do it. I mean, we’re both well grown-up now and, if I’m not mistaken, you, like me, are pretty hungry.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘I know what it’s like. I’ve been caught out too, hooked on a drug and suffered withdrawal.’

  ‘Bertha, this doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Oh, I dunno . . .’

  Bertha smiled. It was a warm smile and appealingly accentuated by many lines.

  ‘By the way, Des, do you have a name for yours?’

  8

  Flat 34 was a celebration of the pink frill. Everywhere you looked in the various pink-painted rooms, the scalloped adornments were there. On valanced curtains, cushions, drapes and mirror frames. As mock flowers standing tall on green canes. But for a full realization of Bertha’s taste, the bedroom was the place to see. Pillowcase and counterpane, pink frilly canopy above the bed and a huge foaming lampshade. All this amid deep magenta walls, pink carpet and bed. Des McGinlay lay on this bed, lit up a fag and tried to think about the mess he was getting in to. He’d let himself be seduced. The implications were scary, the complications too awful to consider. So Des gave up thinking and sank back down to his feelings. To his surprise, they were good. The first time he’d writhed with uncertainty in Bertha’s arms and felt guilty over Miranda, but the second time that night, that time he’d really made love, and he’d felt great because of it. Bertha was true to her word. She knew where and how to do the things that made Des feel almost himself again. She entered the bedroom with a tray of coffee and scrambled eggs on toast.

  ‘You shouldn’t still be in bed, Des, there’s work to be done.’

  ‘I hate eggs for breakfast.’

  ‘Don’t expect me to know everything about you yet.’

  Bertha set the tray down on the bedside table. She wore a see-through shift, pink of course, and she let it slip off her shoulders as she lay next to Des. But Des, though appreciative of her body, didn’t really notice. He was still wincing over the word ‘yet’. It sounded so menacing, a threat that he might be swallowed up. But it was a titillating threat. Despite the flouncy cheapness of all the trimmings, there was an allure to Bertha’s view of home, a sense of snuggling, an oblivious passion that Des could submit to as an escape from the hard-edged world. Des saw then that the frilliness was indicative of a womb, Bertha’s womb, beginning to open as she rubbed herself against his thigh.

  ‘Bleeding hell, Bertha, I have got to work, you know.’

  ‘What difference will half an hour make now?’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘And so won’t miss . . .’

  Bertha’s tongue went down to his ribs and onwards like a trickle of warm honey. Des became lost once more in pinkness, moist and alive . . .

  It was midday before he was out on the road, though he wasn’t too sure what he was doing there. He had the names and addresses of two prostitutes who were friendly with Claudette, but he was still woozy with Bertha and couldn’t think straight. First it was, Well that’s got one back on Miranda, and then, But Bertha, she’s like a bad drug. Too good to refuse; too dangerous to know. He was elated and pissed off at the same time. Des decided a snifter was needed before he followed any leads. So, it was down to the real world where the ghosts of murder victims and ex-lovers mingled with the everyday punters. Des propped up the bar and smiled at Eileen.

  ‘Here’s to foot and mouth and mad, mad cows!’

  ‘Scrapie with pork scratchings!’

  ‘Love it – here’s a battery chicken in your eye!’

  ‘And a crate of veal to go with it!’

  ‘The way it goes, eh Eileen, down the tubes.’

  ‘Yep, and all you can try to do is go happy. Speaking of which, you almost seem hap
py yourself.’

  ‘Don’t be conned; a temporary aberration I’m sure.’

  ‘But that Miranda’s finally gone where all the mad cows go?’

  ‘Well, I dunno. Can you believe what the authorities say?’

  ‘That sandwich you’re eating is not mad, Des!’

  He grinned at Eileen. He’d forgotten how well they got on. But then that was the nature of her job and nothing special.

  ‘So tell me, what’s your view on Claudette’s death?’

  ‘Jesus, Des, I don’t know.’

  ‘What did you make of her, though? She was in here quite a bit.’

  ‘Well, she spread herself around, you know, liked chatting. She’d rub shoulders with anyone at the bar.’

  ‘What, for any purposes?’

  ‘Oh yes, she was always on the lookout, you could tell. Who’s who and what they’ve got to offer.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have noticed. It gets too busy in here, but it makes you think.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, the creep who killed her. He could be a customer. I could be serving the bastard beer!’

  The first name on Des’s list was Sharon Mason. He found her at her home in the red-light district and she was happy to talk. With Bertha’s recommendation behind him, Des walked into a kitchen with shopping on the table and toys on the floor. Sharon was a slim young woman with mousy hair. She had cute, youthful looks that Des guessed might help with her work. But Sharon was clocked off and determined to be her normal self.

  ‘Yeh, I was pretty friendly with her. You know, we hung around the same pitch at night, had a laugh, looked out for each other.’

  ‘You got any idea about her death? See anything funny?’

  ‘Nothing really. We’d come across some weird johns and piss-taking kids and stuff, but that’s kind of normal. There was nothing scary that I remember, nothing we had really bad feelings about.’

  ‘You don’t think it was a lone nutcase?’

  ‘I doubt it, she wasn’t even on the game that night.’

  ‘So what do you think?

  ‘I dunno. You know, you think about it because it could’ve been me, but . . .’