by Ben Elton
A BROTHEL, BIRMINGHAM
Tommy approached the door making full use of his legendary swagger. The man he had robbed had had good taste in clothes and over a hundred pounds in his pocket. There had also been some credit cards with a signature on them that Tommy felt he could copy with ease.
‘All right, babes,’ he said through the intercom at the heavy, barred front door. ‘Gentleman about town in need of a little extracurricular R and R, which I believe this establishment is in a position to supply.’
All Tommy’s life he had known that weakness invites abuse. Confidence, on the other hand, can carry much before it.
The door opened.
‘Evening, darling,’ Tommy said to the madam, and even with the bruises he was able to win a welcoming smile from her. Some people just have charm. Tommy knew that he was such a blessed individual. ‘Lovely to be back, best shop in town, this, beautifully run, clean, tasteful and your young ladies are just that — young ladies.’
‘You’ve visited us before, sir?’
‘Oh yes, but I don’t remember you, my love, and I’m quite sure I would. Must have been your day off, or else perhaps you were upstairs showing some of these young girls how a real beauty handles a punter.’
This was laying it on thick, but the plump and painted madam preened herself nonetheless.
‘So now, my darling,’ Tommy went on to say, ‘I phoned ahead to make sure that the girl whose charms I appreciated so fully on my last visit was still employed at this establishment. I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’d gone and got proposed to by some well-heeled punter and was now out of the game altogether.’
Tommy described Jessie to the madam as he had done previously on the phone. ‘Beautiful girl, Scottish, small-boned but nice big boobs. Large dark wild eyes. Cute legs, good calves, bit short for some but I’ve never been as into tall birds as some blokes. Raven-haired, but with lots of copper in there ‘Jessie,’ said the madam.
‘Yes, that’s it. Nice name, too,’ Tommy remarked, struggling to appear casual, desperate not to show the thrill that had shot through him like a bolt of lightning at the mention of her name. ‘Yes, that’s the girl. That’s who I want.’
‘Well, she’s with a gentleman right now, sir, but I’m sure she won’t be long.’
Just as sharp as the thrill of hearing her name was the pain that this revelation caused to Tommy. They hadn’t been slow in putting her back into harness. Somewhere in that house, literally a few metres and a few sheets of plasterboard away, Jessie, the girl who had changed his life, was being used as a sexual slave. Tommy swallowed hard to contain and control his rising emotions. Desperate not to succumb to the desire to grab the painted crone by the throat and choke her until she told him the room that Jessie occupied so that he might liberate her that instant, Tommy was painfully aware of the two thugs who lounged against the opposite wall. He knew that there would be more downstairs in the basement. Violent men and armed. He would have to wait.
The madam had noted Tommy’s fallen face. ‘Don’t worry, dear, we can’t keep girls for your exclusive use, can we? They have to earn a living, just like anybody else. You can wait, or else we’ve got some absolute peaches on offer this evening, some of them only just arrived from overseas.’ Tommy allowed himself to be shown into the ‘lounge’, where half a dozen girls sat about in various stages of undress.
‘Perhaps you’d like to take one upstairs, sir, and when young Jessie’s finished we could send her up to join you?’ the madam suggested.
‘No thanks, darling,’ Tommy replied casually. ‘Never been a threesome man meself, never know where to put anything. I’ll just ‘ave a beer and wait.’
Shortly thereafter a man whom Tommy would gladly have killed came into the room, took his coat from the madam and shuffled out, avoiding anybody’s eye.
‘Jessie will just be a few minutes,’ the madam assured Tommy. ‘She’s just making herself nice. This is a very clean house. In the meantime it’s seventy-five pounds for half an hour. If you stay longer we charge you on the way out.’
Tommy paid by stolen credit card, which the establishment was happy to accept, and was shown upstairs and into a small cubicle containing a bed, a washbasin, the sort of shower unit to be found in cheap holiday chalets, a box of tissues, a packet of condoms, and Jessie.
She was sitting on the bed wearing white ankle socks, pink shorts and a white Nike sports bra. The pupils of her eyes were like pinpricks.
‘Jessie?’
‘Hello, handsome,’ Jessie slurred. ‘Is it full sex yez after?’
‘Jessie, it’s me…Tommy…the boy who tried to steal your coat this morning.’ He could see that Jessie was as high as a kite. The pupils suggested a big hit of heroin, but God only knew what else she had in her.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Jessie said. ‘Hello…Ah remember…Is it full sex yez after?’
‘No!’
‘It’s the same price as oral, no refunds, all takes much the same time.’
‘Jessie, I’ve come to get you out.’
‘I’m never gettin’ out, pal. Now do you want sex or no’?’
Jessie was not really there at all. Just her body and her name; the rest was gone. The eyes had lost their sparkle, the voice came from a different person, a different soul.
‘Jessie, please…’
But Tommy knew enough about drugs to be able to see that Jessie was doped up good, no longer a person of free will. Besides which, it was pointless to ask Jessie to run. She couldn’t do that even if she wanted to. She was the bonded property of the house. He sat down on the bed and tried to think. What had he been hoping would happen? A convenient window that he and Jessie might leap through? A balcony to jump from, hand in hand? Tommy realized that in his haste to find Jessie he had not really considered what he might do when he did.
‘Come on, baby,’ said Jessie. ‘Don’t ye want me?’ Even in her raddled state Jessie knew that her livelihood depended on customer satisfaction.
Tommy looked at her. He knew that he did want her, one day, one glorious day, floating on a cloud, lost in love somewhere. For now, though, all he wanted was a plan. They sat together for a further twenty minutes, Jessie lost in her dreams, Tommy’s mind working furiously. Eventually, when a suitable time had passed, he got up and went to the door.
‘Goodbye, Tommy,’ Jessie said.
FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER
That were the last thing Jessie ever said to me. Because I fooked up her rescue like the stupid bastard that I am. If only I’d just left it there and then. If only I’d said, ‘See you tomorrow, Jess,’ and fooked off out of it. If only I could’ve had the courage t’leave her in that house for one night, leave her to half a dozen more blokes.
What difference would it have made after all she’d been through? If I’d done that, then the next morning I could’ve gone back with the fookin’ SAS! The fookin’ Wehrmacht! I could’ve got every security bloke, every lawyer, every off-duty copper, every mercenary soldier, every gun for hire in the British Isles an’ banged on that fookin’ door an’ said Oi! Hand over the birds! Not just Jessie, but all of them. Every one of ‘em could ‘a been in a safe house or a hospital or whatever by lunchtime with a civil rights team workin’ on their cases, wi’ me an Jessie on a private jet to the most humungously luxurious detox clinic on the planet! That’s what could ‘ave ‘appened if I was not such a stupid, stupid cont!
A BROTHEL, BIRMINGHAM
Tommy swaggered down the stairs, a look of studied but casual arrogance on his face. ‘Lovely girl. Lovely, lovely girl, that Jessie.’
‘Glad you enjoyed her,’ the madam replied. ‘Do call again soon.’
‘Well, do you know what, love? I’m that taken with the dishes on offer here I was thinkin’ of seem’ if I could arrange a little carry-out. Y’know what I’m sayin’? That Jessie’s a top shag, but to be quite honest I don’t reckon much to ‘avin’ to gi’ ‘er one in that little room, not that it in’t lovely an’ all t
hat, but you know what I’m sayin’? It in’t exactly romantic, right? I’m in that cubicle getting one leg caught under the basin and one bangin’ against the wall an’ I’m thinkin’ ‘ang on, I’ve got a top hotel suite up at the Halcyon wi’ a fookin’ Jacuzzi bath an’ I could be bangin’ in that. So what I’m sayin’ is, What do you charge to rent ‘em out, eh? What will it cost me to take Jessie back to my hotel for a few hours?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t do home or hotel visits, sir. This is a brothel. What you want is an escort agency.’
‘Ah, but you see Jessie works for you and it’s her I want.’
‘I’ve told you, it’s not a service we provide.’
Just then Goldie appeared at the doorway. Tommy knew him from the stories that Jessie had told him in KFC.
‘Two grand,’ Goldie said, ‘till seven a.m., then one of the boys’ll pick her up.’
Tommy did not want to appear suspiciously eager. ‘Two fookin’ grand? Fook off! She can’t turn more’n seven fifty in a night. I’ll gi’ you eight hundred.’
Two grand, mate. Take it or fuck off.’
Tommy shrugged. ‘All right, I don’t care. I wipe me arse wi’ two grand.’
‘Then you’re a very stupid bastard,’ Goldie replied. ‘Two grand’s the price and not any two grand you’ve wiped your arse with.’
Casually Tommy produced his stolen credit cards and handed over a gold Amex. Gold? Did they have a spending limit? If they did it had to be more than two thousand, didn’t it? Everything depended on the card being good for the money.
The seconds ticked by after the madam had swiped the card. Tommy tried to appear unconcerned, but every atom of his being was focused on that little telephone credit card machine. Goldie seemed almost as focused on Tommy. ‘The line’s busy,’ the madam remarked.
Just then Jessie came into the room. No further clients having been sent up to her, she knew automatically that her job was to come down and sit in the lounge until another punter was attracted to her. Tommy smiled at her, the smile that an owner might give to a favourite dog. Inside, his nerves were quaking, but he was determined to play the part of the casual, rich dilettante for all it was worth.
‘Card refused,’ the madam said.
Tommy’s world collapsed.
‘Fook. No way! That’s outrageous.’
‘Not really, considering the card’s been reported stolen.’ Took.’
The thugs who lounged casually by the walls stirred a little at this.
‘Well, well,’ said Goldie. ‘Who’s a naughty boy, then? Trying to buy birds with a nicked credit card.’
‘No, you don’t understand!’ Tommy bleated.
‘I understand very well, mate, and now it’s for you to understand that you have ten seconds in which to fuck off.’
Tommy continued to gape, his mind racing, the penny dropping swiftly that his best and only move was to leave immediately. Leave her there. Leave Jessie sitting waiting for her next client.
FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER
I would have gone too, I think. At that point I would ‘a left, but then the bastard did it, didn’t he? That shit turns to Jessie an’ says, ‘Come on, girl, you’ve got a living to earn here, get your tits out.’ Well, he done it just to ‘ave a go at me, obviously. All bullies ‘ave a cunning. They know how to really twist the knife, an’ this bloke was just ‘having a laugh at my expense. He knew I wanted her and couldn’t afford her. Punters are fallin’ in love with prossies all the time, any pimp knows that, an’ this cont wanted to make me squirm. So just as I’m about to leave he makes Jessie get ‘er tits out. An’ she did. She just takes off her sports bra and sits there in her socks and shorts wi’ her tits hangin’ down in front of her, her eyes a thousand miles away.
‘Well, that were it. I just ran forward and grabbed her by the hand. I turns and starts to pull her to the door. Of course I didn’t get two steps. I hardly got one. I don’t think Jessie even raised her arse off the chair she were sittin’ on. I saw the butt of a gun comin’ towards me an’ that was it. Nothing more.
‘Not for a week, as it ‘appens. That’s how long it took for me to wake up from the coma they left me in. An’ do you know what? When I did come round, the first thing that happens is I get arrested for the muggin’ I done.’
THE EDITOR’S OFFICE, A NATIONAL NEWSPAPER
Sometimes, not often but sometimes, there can be just too much news. This was just such an occasion. The editor and his team had now remade Monday’s front page four times.
The first version had concerned Tommy Hanson; a rival paper’s Sunday-morning scoop had put all Fleet Street on alert, and every single paper from red top to broadsheet carried follow-up stories commenting on the extraordinary mix of drugs, homosexuality and vote-rigging that currently swirled around Britain’s biggest star, a star who seemed, not surprisingly, to have gone completely to ground.
Then, around midnight, the page had had to be made for a second time as news came in of the murder of not one but two senior Drug Squad officers. The first had been found shot in a stolen car in central London, the other in a prostitute’s room in Soho. Yardie gangs were suspected of both shootings, and Scotland Yard was already hailing two new police martyrs in the war against drugs. The drugs debate had never raged so spectacularly, and never had the chances of Paget’s bill getting through looked better.
Then had come the third piece of news. Peter Paget, the nation’s new hero, had been finally cleared of all infection following his terrifying needle prick accident. That news surely had to share the front page with the story of the murdered Drug Squad officers, along with a front-page editorial supporting the Paget Bill.
But then had come the fourth bit of news and quite suddenly all bets were off. Every editor in London had become simultaneously aware that they had all been scooped in a quite comprehensive fashion. Paula Wooldridge, the disgraced columnist who had maintained all along that Paget was a dangerous hypocrite, had somehow produced a gorgeous young woman who was prepared to swear that she had taken drugs with him — Peter Paget, the Minister for Drugs! The family man! The man who had insisted from the beginning that he himself never touched drugs. This was truly momentous news, because if it were true then surely it was evidence that those who sought to legalize drugs were doing so in order to make their own addictions easier to maintain. While remaking the front page for the fourth time, the editor discreetly removed his editorial supporting the Paget Bill. If Paula Wooldridge had got her facts right, positions would have to shift.
THE PAGET HOUSEHOLD, DALSTON
Once more Peter Paget stood with his family on their now familiar front doorstep. This time his daughter Cathy stood beside him.
‘As I have already made clear to the Prime Minister, the outrageous allegations that have been published about me are a wicked fabrication. Not only did I not attend a dinner party with Ms Spencer and her two friends in which cocaine was taken, but I was nowhere near Islington that night, having taken my daughter to the pictures.’
Cathy butted in holding up her diary. ‘Mission Impossible 3,’ she said. ‘Not bad, not great, I gave it two and a half stars at the time out of a possible five…’
Cathy had indeed stuck two and a half silver stars into her diary. A brilliant little detail which she knew instinctively would play well.
‘Although to be quite frank one and a half of those stars is for Tom Cruise, who is, let us face it, a babe, and Nicole was mad to let him go.’
‘Yes, well, as I was saying, my daughter and I were here in Dalston on the night in question, and we have both made statements to the police confirming that. As far as they are concerned, there are no grounds for an investigation. Therefore all that remains is the transparent attempt to blacken my name and destroy my work. I intend to answer these slurs in court.
‘I should like to add that I wish Ms Spencer no ill will. She is a vulnerable and emotionally damaged girl whom I have always tried to support. She lost her father as a yo
ung child and I have long been aware that this tragedy was a seminal incident in her life. During the time I worked with Ms Spencer she developed a strong affection for me, I believe coming to see me in some ways as a father replacement figure. I’m deeply saddened that Ms Spencer’s obvious psychological disturbance has led to these accusations and only hope that she comes to her senses before any further damage is done.’
Behind Peter, Angela Paget clenched her fists so hard her nails began to pierce the skin on the palms of her hands.
‘I believe,’ Peter continued, ‘that Ms Spencer is the highly vulnerable victim of a vicious and predatory group within the media who are determined to destroy my drug legalization bill and with it the current government. This is clearly what lies behind the preposterous claims that I am a drug user. That the nation’s attention should be diverted from the main issue by such trivia on the very morning after we learn that two Drug Squad officers have been murdered, two more heroes sacrificed in this ludicrous war on crime, is a tragedy indeed. The journalist responsible for this and her editor should be ashamed.’
The assembled press could hold back no longer. They didn’t mind prepared statements, but this looked like it might go on a bit.
‘Do you feel these allegations have damaged you at all?’
‘Are the attacks political?’
‘Do you intend to sue?’
Peter raised his voice above the clamour. ‘I do not believe that Ms Spencer’s motives are political, but those of the newspaper that is exploiting her clearly are. That is why I most definitely do intend to sue. Indeed, the proprietors are already in receipt of my lawyer’s letter. Thank you. That will be all.’
Peter Paget turned and attempted to usher his family back into the house, but Cathy Paget was having none of it. She had expected Winston Churchill to appear on the doorstep and instead had got John Major. Her father’s performance had been dignified, certainly, but where was the fire? Where was the passion of his parliamentary debut?
