The Girl In His Eyes: a dark psychological drama

by Jennie Ensor

  After a few minutes he came in, shaking his head.

  ‘She doesn’t believe me. She still thinks Emma’s telling the truth.’

  Suzanne stared at him. Jane doesn’t believe him. The thought meandered along and registered somewhere, far away. A numbness was settling over her. Nothing else could happen now that would make her feel anything.

  ‘We just have to accept it,’ he said. ‘That’s what Jane chooses to believe. Maybe when she’s had a chance to think it over, she’ll see things differently.’

  ‘Would you get me a gin and tonic please, Paul?’

  While he was away, she wondered if it was possible that Jane would ever see things differently. It seemed more likely that she would never speak to either of them again, continuing to believe that Paul had raped Emma. And what would happen if Jane reported him to the police? Would they believe him, or would they believe Emma?

  Her face and back were soaked in sweat. She was chilled to the core, her heart galloping in irregular bursts. She gripped the arms of her chair. She wasn’t strong enough to withstand this; it was going to overwhelm her. The landscape of her world was going to change forever. What had once been solid ground was now giving way beneath her feet. How would she face the devastation that would ensue? Once again in her life, she was utterly lost.

  ‘You sit quietly for a while,’ Paul said, handing her a glass. ‘I’ll fix dinner.’

  They ate in silence. Then Paul said he’d had doubts from the start, about whether he should be helping Emma, and that events had proved him right. She’d struck him as a flaky kid with the potential to be destructive. He thought Jane had always spoiled her daughter, but neglected her real needs, and her instinct now was to defend her.

  Suzanne said little in reply. She couldn’t think clearly. Could all this be a trick to make her believe him? But, she too had seen another side of Emma. As a little girl, she had often been selfish and attention-seeking, and worse. At one birthday tea, the girl had been spiteful towards one of her friends, pulling away her plate and making her cry. And Jane had complained often about Emma stirring up trouble with her brother, breaking one or other of Toby’s toys.

  After they’d eaten, she went to sit in the living room. Paul cleared the plates then put on some Vivaldi. Later he turned on the Ten O’Clock News; Gatwick had been closed for several hours because of the threat of a terrorist attack.

  She couldn’t take any of it in, something vital inside her had shut down. All she could do was stare at the flickering screen.

  16

  Laura

  20 April 2011

  Laura hung her jacket on the corner peg as usual and put her bag on the bench. The changing room was empty. She sat down and opened her purse, took out the slip from the cash machine, and read the balance again: £350.37 CR. It was more than she’d had in her account for ages.

  Not quite three weeks in this place, and she’d earned over a thousand pounds. Her rent was paid in full and the landlord wasn’t going to kick her out. She’d done what she’d come for. She could look for another job now, one that didn’t involve taking off her clothes and being inspected by leering men.

  Then again, she could stay on a bit longer … just in case. To make sure she’d have enough money to live on in case it took a while to find another job.

  She sat on the bench. A thought was tugging at her.

  This place had become a habit. Two, sometimes three nights a week. She was getting used to men ogling her as she shimmied about in next to nothing in front of them. She was learning to put her feelings aside and focus on the money she would take home at the end of the night – two hundred pounds most nights, sometimes more.

  But the money wasn’t the only thing, was it? Wasn’t it a tiny bit exciting, dancing for these men, these strangers who came here to watch and weave their fantasies?

  She unlaced her trainers. Sometimes she did get a buzz out of it, yes, when the men were young and nice to look at. She was being appreciated for what she did and there was a sense of power almost – now she was getting more adept at the job – from being the one in control.

  At other times, showing herself off to whichever guy happened to ask made her feel uneasy, cheapened. Deep down, she knew this place was wrong for her. It was hurting her, bit by bit, taking something vital away. It was as if she’d given up on making things better, so they could only get worse. To make things better would require too much effort – too much hope, for a start. It was easier to just let things carry on as they were.

  ‘Hi, Sarina, how’s it going?’

  Sam dumped her bag on the bench, fished out a red corset and held it up for her to admire. It had come from a lingerie shop in Covent Garden, where the day before she’d spent over three hundred pounds. Laura fastened the straps of her platforms and looked in the mirror. A dab of concealer to hide the dark circles forming under her eyes, then a slick of frosted eyeshadow.

  The remaining girls arrived. Heather brought out a new pair of strappy work sandals, leading some of them to discuss where they had bought shoes lately and how much they’d spent. Lucy rushed in, out of breath. She’d got pissed on cocktails the night before and slept through her alarm, she said, frantically pulling off her street clothes.

  Minute by minute, the chatter grew louder. It was a Wednesday evening. Tomorrow evening would be the start of a four-day weekend for many. Some of the girls had plans to go away for the Easter weekend with husbands, boyfriends or lovers. Not her, though. She’d be working Saturday night, earning whatever she could.

  As soon as they were let out onto the floor, Laura headed to the bar. She caught Danny’s eye and nodded as he pointed to the bottle of Jack Daniels. The place was getting busy but no one seemed to be getting any dances.

  The first girl was called up on stage for her pole dance. Laura looked around as she downed her drink. It was her turn next.

  ‘And now, the lovely Sarina!’

  She adjusted her G-string and walked into the glare of the spotlights. She began to move in perfect time to the insistent beat. The pole first, then the floor. Each part of her routine flowed smoothly on to the next. Her body knew what to do. Her legs could stretch further than last time, her back arched higher. She would make every man in here want her to dance for him.

  The music ended. She spread her legs, pinged her G-string and smiled as raunchily as she could. The punters liked you to look as though you couldn’t wait to shag them, Sam said.

  Once the club got going, she was busy for a long stretch with no time to even go to the toilet. A group of men in their twenties began to yell at each girl going up on stage, cheering and heckling as they guzzled bottles of beer and champagne. The security guy did nothing. As long as the customers didn’t make an obvious nuisance of themselves – fighting or spilling their drinks, trying to leave without paying, openly kissing or touching a girl, or trying to get up on stage with them, as had happened the week before – he didn’t seem to mind how they behaved. Lucy was grabbed in the crotch once, and had reported it to Zoe, according to Sam, but Zoe had said that Lucy must have provoked it. Sam said you had to look out for yourself, to always be prepared for the worst.

  After her eighth dance, Laura sat on a stool and swigged from her bottle of water. She hadn’t checked her money yet but it would have to be over two hundred pounds, tips included. She looked across the room to the booths along the wall. A lone, middle-aged man in designer casuals, overweight with thinning hair, was beckoning her over. She drained her glass and slipped down from the stool.

  ‘Hi, honey. My name’s Pete.’ His voice was loud and had a nasal twang. The accent was American, from a part she couldn’t determine.

  ‘I’m Sarina.’ She sat down on the sofa beside him. He had a pudgy face and his breath smelled of cigar smoke.

  ‘How are you, Sarina? You seem to be enjoying yourself.’

  ‘Not bad, thanks.’ She wasn’t in the mood for another inane conversation.

  ‘Going away for Easter?’r />
  ‘No, I’m working Saturday. How about you?’

  ‘I’m in London on business. I fly home tomorrow. Back to the wife and kids.’ She felt his hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re gorgeous, babe,’ he said, close to her ear. ‘I’ve been watching you all evening. I love the way you move. You give me a warm feeling in my dick.’

  She looked at him, repulsed. He was looking her up and down with relish.

  ‘Will you dance for me, Sarina?’

  ‘Naked or G-string?’

  His tongue darted, lizard-like between his lips. ‘As naked as possible, honey.’

  He slipped some rolled notes under her garter. Laura removed her wrap. She didn’t want to dance for this jerk. The guy was a sleazeball. That didn’t make any difference, though – you were supposed to accept every offer of a dance, or risk a fine from Zoe. She’d never seen a girl turn down a request for a dance since she’d started at the club. Everyone seemed to care only about making as much money as they could by the end of the shift.

  She steeled herself and began. Her nipples skimmed his shirt. She stepped back and moved her hands lightly over her breasts.

  Pete leaned back in his chair, his lips parted.

  ‘Come on, baby,’ he said. ‘Let’s see the rest of you.’

  She removed her G-string and finished the dance as quickly as she could.

  When it was over, she put her things back on. The sooner she was away from him, the better.

  ‘Do you do any extras?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Could we go somewhere private?’ He leaned closer, so she could smell the booze on his breath, and whispered. ‘I’d make it worth your while.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, we don’t have a private room anymore.’

  He shrugged, making a disappointed face.

  It was what she’d been told to say if anyone asked. Some undercover police had been nosing around, making trouble, someone had said, so the private room had been closed. But she was pretty sure it was still in use. She’d seen Noelle leave the main area once, with an evening bag on her shoulder, and return forty minutes later.

  Near the end of the evening, Zoe told her to go and speak to Ken in reception. She found him arguing with an unhappy customer and waited until the man had reluctantly backed down and left.

  ‘Sarina. A word, please.’

  Ken was wearing his usual well-cut suit and shiny black shoes. He gave her a cool smile.

  ‘That punter you were with earlier – Pete – the American. He’s asked if he can go to the private room with you.’ Ken waited for her to speak then went on. ‘It’s a room we only use for special customers. Those we decide to offer an extra service, if you like.’ His narrow lips stretched into a leery curve. ‘Come with me, I’ll show you where it is.’

  She followed him along the corridor. She wanted to go home now. She was tired, she wasn’t interested in the private room. But she couldn’t tell him that. He stopped at the door next to the office, took out a key and unlocked it.

  Two low, black leather sofas faced each other across a shiny parquet floor, which was lit by spotlights in the walls and ceiling. There was a hi-fi cabinet against one wall. A large mirror and framed café scenes hung on the others. The glass table beside the sofa was empty except for a box of Kleenex.

  She looked at Ken.

  ‘You won’t be disturbed, darling. The security guards don’t come over here. You can do a dance for him, as usual, then ask if he wants you to do anything else.’ Ken had spoken casually, as if he was talking about offering a cup of tea.

  ‘Sex, you mean?’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.’ He moved closer, so she could smell the scent on him. The pockmarks in his cheeks looked uglier than ever. ‘What you do is up to you.’

  She nodded, trying not to show her alarm.

  ‘It’s not prostitution, just consenting adults in private. You don’t ask for any money up-front.’ A hint of eagerness entered his voice. ‘They’ll pay you afterwards, before they leave the room. You’ll earn good money from it.’ He waited for her to speak and when she didn’t, glanced at his watch. ‘Pete is waiting out there, shall I bring him over? There’s a bathroom through that door where you can freshen up.’

  ‘No, please don’t,’ she said, a little too quickly.

  Ken’s eyes widened in surprise. He hunched a shoulder.

  ‘It’s up to you, darling. I thought you might appreciate the chance to top up your earnings. But no worries, there’s plenty of others who’ll do it.’

  The changing room was empty except for Sam and Heather. Both seemed to work practically every night.

  Laura stood in front of the mirror and began to wipe off her make-up. Ken had expected her to say yes. But she earned enough from dancing. She wasn’t one of those girls who’d do anything.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Sam bit off a chunk of her fruit bar.

  ‘Ken asked if I wanted to go in the private room with someone. The American guy I danced for.’

  ‘Pete, you mean? He’s a mate of Ken’s – they have a business thing together. We’ve both done him a few times. He likes new girls better though.’

  ‘You told Ken you didn’t want to?’ Heather spoke sharply. Her face looked thinner and older without make-up.

  ‘I said I’d think about it.’ Embarrassed, she looked from Heather to Sam. ‘You both go there, then? To the private room?’

  Sam rolled her eyes. ‘We’re the biggest tarts in this place, darling.’ She sighed and inspected the side of her nose in the mirror. ‘Damn, my skin is always full of blackheads! Ken knows we’ll do extras – and he trusts us. Anyhow, I need the money.’ Sam met Laura’s eyes in the mirror. ‘I have expenses, you know.’

  ‘Drugs, you mean?’

  ‘Only booze and fags. I wish I could get off them.’

  Heather gave a caustic laugh. ‘Come on, Sam, admit it. You like a good shag, don’t you?’

  Sam smiled. Her eyes were serious, though. ‘Yeah, that’s right, Heather. Insatiable, that’s me.’

  Laura kept looking at Sam, curious. The girl was about her age.

  ‘How long have you been working here?’

  ‘Three years, nearly four.’

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’

  A look of horror. ‘God, no. I don’t know why I’m still here, I should be doing something else with my life. But I can’t just walk into a decent job, not with three GCSEs. I’ve got to get money somehow – I’ve got a mortgage to pay and a five-year-old kid to look after.’

  She couldn’t hide her shock at the idea of Sam being a mother. She looked so young. What did she tell her child? But, of course, these days, with the recession and everything …

  Sam shrugged. ‘A lot of the girls here are supporting their kids or working their way through uni. Or they have money problems—’

  ‘Not Lucy,’ Heather interrupted.

  ‘No, Lucy likes it here. She doesn’t do it for the money, she gets off on guys lusting after her. She told me her mum’s boyfriend started screwing her when she was fourteen, and her mum was too off her face to do anything about it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t repeat things like that, Sam.’

  ‘Oh, Lucy wouldn’t mind. She tells everybody everything, doesn’t she?’

  Laura finished dressing and picked up her bag. Suddenly, she was fed up with this place and everyone in it. The private room, the sordid stories – everything. On the surface, it was as glitzy and alluring as a Paris boulevard at night, decked with glittering cafés and scented women in their finery. But something nasty hung around underneath, occasionally rising like a foul smell from a drain.

  ‘See ya Saturday,’ Sam said.

  On impulse, Laura leaned forward and called out to the cab driver. She couldn’t go home yet, despite the fact she was wearing her grungy jeans and flat shoes, and tiredness dragged on her eyelids.

  ‘Excuse me, would you mind pulling up along here?’

  It was
a nightclub. She had never been inside it, or even thought about going inside. It wasn’t exactly inviting – a windowless brick wall with a heavy steel door barred by two surly bouncers. Inside was equally unappealing – a large room, with black painted walls, that was noisy, crowded and dark. But there was plenty to drink, and she wouldn’t have to be on her own. The solitude and silence of her flat always made everything worse. Sometimes, without warning, she would experience the wrongness of what she was doing – the shame and the stupidity of it – magnified over and over. Then the only way to escape was to fall asleep, exhausted, or drink something strong, until the alcohol smoothed away all her troublesome thoughts.

  She squeezed alongside the counter at the bar and ordered a double Jack Daniels and Coke. The guy standing beside her watched as she moved away from the bar and stood against a shaded pillar in a darker part of the room. He was thin and tall with black hair. When she looked back at him, he looked away. She turned her attention to her drink.

  Time passing. Sounds coming, going. People coming, going. She drifted away, trying to forget what she had done that evening – all the things that had earned her a little more than last time, and the ease with which she’d done them. Tonight, at the club, she’d again had a strange sense that she was losing her grip on who she was, as if another girl was waking up inside her, one who’d lain dormant for years. A character in a play that had been written and put away in a dusty cupboard, biding her time until she had the chance to come alive in a theatre. And now she had her chance, this girl who didn’t care what happened to her, who didn’t mind that she earned a living by arousing desire in strangers.

  Laura took another gulp of her drink. Suddenly, she was afraid. It was only three weeks since she’d started at the club, how would she be in another three weeks? But she ought to keep on going, just a little longer, to be sure she didn’t end up in the same perilous situation all over again.