Two weeks after Camellia's discharge from St Stephen's Hospital she went back for a check-up on her leg. Jake used her absence as an opportunity to move in.
Camellia came home in a taxi, excited by the news that her plaster would be off within three or four weeks. But as she hobbled awkwardly down the steps to tell Bee, she caught a glimpse of Jake through the window, assembling his tripods in the lounge.
'You aren't going to move in here,' she shouted angrily, the moment she was in the door. 'Get it all out now!'
Bee wasn't there. Presumably she'd been sent out on an errand. Jake was wearing skintight white jeans, and a white singlet, a gold medallion round his neck and his hair in a ponytail.
'It isn't your flat,' he said grinning triumphantly at her. 'I looked at the lease. It's only in Bee's name. And it's fine by her if I move in, so keep your mouth shut or I'll make her throw you out.'
Camellia shook with rage. He was right of course; legally Camellia was nothing more than a lodger. Alone with Bee later she tried to get her friend to back her up and throw Jake out, but Bee merely cried, insisted it would only be for a few weeks and begged her not to make any more scenes.
'Then I'll have to leave,' Camellia said, bitter that her friend thought more of Jake's feelings than hers after all they'd been to one another. 'I knew we couldn't stay together for ever, but I never thought someone as worthless as him would split us up.'
But however much Camellia wanted to leave, she couldn't. The only money she had was from the national assistance and that wasn't enough to pay advance rent elsewhere. Now that Jake was living with them, she couldn't even consider asking Mike round. A smell of cannabis hung in the air, there were pornographic magazines everywhere and she never knew which of Jake's dubious friends might drop in. Sometimes she was tempted to telephone Mike and confide in him, but he was first and foremost a policeman, and if he chose to get the flat raided, it was just possible that Bee might find herself up on serious charges.
As Jake dug himself into the flat, things grew far worse. The flat was no longer hers and Bee's, but Jake's. The lounge was littered with tripods, cameras and lights, making it impossible to clean up. He slept till lunchtime, then either spent the afternoons smoking dope in front of the television, or making endless phone calls to contacts. By six in the evening he was getting into his stride, objecting when Camellia wanted to cook a meal because it made 'his studio' smell. Total strangers came to be photographed. Scantily dressed women made free with the bathroom as a changing room, using her towels, dropping their cigarettes on the floor.
Music blared out constantly. Beer bottles, overloaded ashtrays and piles of papers spoilt the home which had once meant so much to both girls. Jake had no respect for anyone's belongings or their privacy.
Often when Camellia was in the bath, sitting with her leg up on the side to keep it dry, he would march in to use the toilet, grinning broadly at her embarrassment. He ate the food she'd paid for and rifled through her room for cigarettes.
Each time she saw him brushing his hair, admiring himself in the mirror, she wanted to scream at him. She loathed him for his cutting remarks, his insolence and his violence to Bee. But she could escape to her room and lock the door. Bee had to live with his dominance.
Before Jake moved in, Bee went out a great deal with him, often not returning home until Camellia was asleep. But now she was in all day and night too, it was obvious how Jake had got her total subservience. He fed her drugs till she was in a permanent stupor: barbiturates to get to sleep at night, amphetamines to wake her up the next day. Her diet consisted mainly of yoghurt and oranges and as her weight continued to drop dramatically, she became gaunt and withdrawn. The bath was strewn with loose blonde hairs, her skin was dry and flaky and her eyes permanently dull and vacant.
In the early hours of the morning Camellia would sometimes awake to the sound of vicious sadistic sex–obscenities shouted out, the swish of a cane and screams followed by silence. Occasionally there was another female voice besides Bee's.
One morning she found Bee shivering on the settee wearing only a slip. One look at her tear-stained face was enough to know Jake had kicked her out in favour of another girl. For once she didn't appear to be drugged witless.
'Bee, you've got to pull yourself together,' Camellia implored her, making her tea and forcing her to eat an egg on toast. She ran her hand over a new bruise on her friend's now bony shoulder. 'He's evil, Bee, and you know it. Say the word and I'll round up a couple of Aiden's old mates to get him out.'
'You don't understand.' Bee's big, now dull blue eyes filled up with new tears. 'This is a mind game. A kind of test. He does love me.'
'Mind game!' Camellia shook her friend angrily. 'This is no game! He's all but destroyed your mind. Where's your pride, Bee? He's in there screwing another girl in your bed, on your sheets. He doesn't love anyone but himself, you poor fool.'
Four weeks to the day since she'd left hospital, Camellia went to stay the night with Denise in Notting Hill Gate, just for a brief respite from Jake. When she came home the next day it was raining hard, but Camellia was feeling more cheerful and optimistic. Denise had told her that a friend of hers who owned a pub out in Chiswick wanted a live-in barmaid. As soon as her plaster came off she could go and see the landlord.
The curtains were closed in the lounge, and at first Camellia assumed Bee and Jake were still in bed. She let herself in, but then stopped short at the brilliant light flooding from the lounge into the small hall.
She could hear nothing. Thinking Jake had left his photographic lights on by mistake, she went on into the kitchen, glancing through the half-open lounge door as she went.
To her horror, the room wasn't empty. Bee was lying on the settee in only a black suspender belt and stockings, and by her head a naked, very hairy man was holding his penis to her mouth.
Camellia was so shocked she stood rooted to the spot.
'For Christ's sake, Bee,' Jake's voice boomed out suddenly, so close to Camellia that he had to be just the other side of the door. 'Don't just look at it. Suck it!'
The naked man turned slightly at Jake's command, but she barely looked at his face, for even semi-flaccid the man's penis was enormous.
Bee's open mouth was less than an inch from it, her eyes screwed up in disgust.
'Suck the fucking thing!' Jake shouted again and moved forward. All at once his back view was in Camellia's line of vision.
He was wearing nothing but a pair of white shorts, his muscular back bronzed from the sun. Holding the heavy cine camera on one shoulder, he shot his spare hand forward to probe at Bee's vagina.
'Come on,' he said huskily. 'You're keen enough to suck mine. Do it good and I'll reward you later.'
Camellia was trapped. If she went on out again now Jake would hear her. Stuck, she waited for an opportune moment to make her escape.
The dark man had rammed the end of his cock into Bee's mouth. Jake was practically on top of them with the camera.
'Come on, Bee,' he ordered. 'Play with yourself at the same time, stick your fingers in it. Hussein, start wanking.'
The man obliged willingly, his head thrown back, ramming the tip of his helmet into the wide mouth in front of him.
'It's good,' he shouted in a strange guttural accent. 'Hold my balls you bitch. Lick me!'
'Pull back,' Jake yelled. 'Let's see the spunk on her lips!'
As the Arab came, shooting it all over Bee's face, Camellia retched, lunging for the sink and dropping one of her crutches.
'Spying eh?' Jake was suddenly behind her. 'If you want to watch you only have to ask!'
She stood up again, holding the sink for support, her nausea replaced by fury. 'How could you?' she shouted. 'You bloody pervert.'
He caught hold of her arm and dragged her forward. She clung desperately to the one crutch and tried to prevent him, but he was too strong for her.
'Come and meet Hussein,' he said, smirking and putting his arm right round her, grabbing one of her breasts. '
I'm sure he's got another lot in there for you.'
Bee was hastily trying to cover herself, still with all that muck on her face. Hussein clearly thought he had been brought a new partner, and his low brow furrowed with frown lines as he studied the plaster cast on her leg. 'Who is these?' he asked, rubbing his cock half-heartedly, sitting down on a chair, great balls hanging over the edge like a bull.
But overriding her fear and disgust was anxiety for Bee. She was completely out of her head, her pupils dilated so much her irises had all but disappeared. She couldn't even sit up.
'Leave her alone,' she kept mumbling, absent-mindedly wiping her face with the back of her hand. 'Let her go, Jake.'
On 1 August, nearly three months since Hank Beckwith attacked her, Camellia finally had the plaster taken off her leg. It felt strange without it. Her leg was oddly light, and the warm sun and breeze seemed to tickle the pallid flesh.
Taking the back streets, she crossed over King's Road, then went on to Cheyne Walk by the river. It was a hot, sunny day, and she was reluctant to go straight home, even though she'd been warned that it would take some time to adjust to walking normally again.
By the time Camellia reached the embankment, her knee was aching. She sat down on a bench and looked at the view appreciatively. The Thames looked almost clean today, silver and sparkly, the houseboats adding a gay, Mediterranean quality to the scene. A girl, little older than herself, was watering some flowers in tubs on a house boat. A fat brown baby sat by her in a pushchair, naked apart from a nappy, gurgling happily. Apart from the heavy traffic roaring away behind her, it was an idyllic place to waste a couple of hours.
Flicking back her Indian cotton wraparound skirt, Camellia stretched out her legs in front of her and compared them. One was lightly tanned, the other corpse white and a little thinner, the scar on the inside of her knee still bright red. She had joked when the nurse took off the plaster, about hanging one leg out of the window until it turned the same colour as the other. But her light-heartedness was gone now, replaced by dread of what was to come.
She had stayed with Denise for the past two nights, but today she had to return home and do what she should have done long ago. Bee would thank her for it one day. Perhaps as Denise suggested, she was hoping deep down that someone would rescue her.
A week ago Camellia had done some snooping while Jake was out. She discovered that he was setting up some sort of deal in Amsterdam, and found a bank book in which he had over three thousand pounds. This suggested he might be leaving soon, but she wasn't going to wait and hope for that now. Today she intended to hasten his departure.
Bee was in a very bad way. Aiden's predictions about devils on horseback seemed less absurd now, but Camellia was sure they could rebuild their lives once Jake was finally gone.
Mike Rodgers was the ace card she intended to use. She had met him for lunch a few days ago and she knew now that what she'd thought she'd felt for him in hospital was real and worth striving for. Her plan was to tell Jake quite casually that a policeman could be dropping in at any time to see her, and that he'd better remove all his filthy books and pictures from the flat if he didn't want to end up being busted. If she had his number correctly he would panic and make a run for it immediately.
It was only a short walk back to Oakley Street, but by the time Camellia reached the house her knee was throbbing and she was very hot. The curtains were still closed in the lounge, but the front door was wide open.
For a moment or two Camellia thought they'd been burgled. All Jake's equipment, cameras, tripods and lighting were gone from the lounge. But as she opened the curtains to take a look in daylight, panic turned to relief. It was no burglar; Jake had packed up and gone. His strewn clothes and his files of pictures had all been removed.
Camellia let out a whoop of absolute joy. The mucky, untidy room had never looked so attractive. 'Thank you God,' she whispered. Bee would be distraught for a day or two, but she'd get over it.
Camellia went along the passage, and peeped into Bee's room. The curtains were closed so it was too dark to see her clearly, but she was face down, entirely naked and fast asleep. For a moment Camellia was tempted to wake her, but she resisted the impulse. Better to let her sleep on, at least until she got the place straight, maybe they could go out to one of the parks later in the afternoon and lie in the sun together, the way they used to.
After changing into an old pair of shorts and a tee shirt, Camellia opened the lounge windows wide to let out the fetid smell of cigarettes and stale beer. Even though her leg was aching she could move easily, and as she vacuumed, dusted and polished away all traces of Jake, she was making long-term plans. Tomorrow she would go to an agency and get some temporary clerical work, maybe an evening waitressing job too. They'd repaint the lounge. Perhaps once Bee was feeling better again they could have a cheap holiday somewhere.
The kitchen was grisly. Dishes were piled in the sink, and there were beer cans, glasses and dirty cups everywhere. Flies hovered around the remains of a chicken curry, unrinsed milk bottles turning green.
While Camellia waited for the kettle to boil she got rid of the rubbish and washed the dishes. The whole kitchen needed spring cleaning, but that could wait until later. For now she would take some tea to Bee and have a real chat at last.
'Wake up, Bee! I've brought you some tea,' she said, pushing the door open wider with one foot.
There was no response, Bee hadn't moved since she last looked in.
'It stinks in here,' Camellia held her nose and stepped over the usual piles of clothes to get to the window, drew back the heavy curtains to let the light in. 'How you can sleep in it, beats me.'
But as Camellia turned to put the mug of tea down, she gasped in horror.
Bee was lying face down in a pool of stinking vomit, an angry red weal right across her bare buttocks.
'Oh shit, Bee.' Camellia put the tea down, and touched her friend's shoulder. 'Come on wake up and help me get you out of this.'
Bee didn't move. Camellia caught hold of her friend more firmly to roll her away from the vomit. As Bee's head lolled over and her hair fell back to expose her face, Camellia screamed.
Her eyes were wide open, cold and glassy, like a fish on a marble slab. The flesh beneath Camellia's fingers was icy cold.
'No, Bee!' she screamed. 'You can't be!'
While she waited for the police to arrive Camellia stood in Bee's bedroom doorway, too shattered even to cry.
'If only I'd come home last night,' she kept repeating aloud.
Flies buzzed round the room, hovering, then swooping down to gorge on the sickly mess on the sheets.
Bee's body had lost all its curves. Her hip bones, once padded with pink soft flesh, now stood out gaunt and sharp. Even her magnificent breasts had withered and shrunk, like two old chamois-leather bags.
'Death caused by inhalation of vomit.' The police doctor's deep clear voice wafted up the passage to where Camellia sat hunched in a chair crying.
'I can't say for certain until we've examined the contents of her stomach and run some blood tests, but I'd guess she'd taken a cocktail of barbiturates and alcohol. That cane mark on her buttocks is recent, as are the bruises on her upper arms, but much earlier than the ingestion of the pills. I'd put her time of death at somewhere around two or three this morning.'
Camellia felt as if she was paralysed in both body and mind. She was aware of the police marching in and out, searching everything, but she heard their voices as if from a great distance. All she could see were Bee's glassy blue sightless eyes.
'Miss Norton.' A commanding voice, coupled with a hand shaking her shoulder brought her back to reality. 'Are you all right? Can I get you a glass of water?'
Camellia shook her head.
'You say you came in about twelve. Why did you wait until one thirty before you rang us?'
'I was cleaning up. I looked in at Bee when I first got home, but I thought she was just asleep.'
'But last night, wh
at was she like? Did you hear anything unusual?'
Camellia lifted her eyes to the policeman. His face was just a blur, yet beyond his shoulder she could see people up in the street, peering down over the railings. 'I wasn't here. I've been at a friend's for two days.' She covered her face with her hands, rocking to and fro in grief. 'If only I'd come back she'd be alive now.'
A middle-aged plain-clothes policeman with a face like raw liver took over the questioning. 'What did Beatrice do for a living? Did she have someone else with her last night?'
'Yes, Jake. It was Jake,' she sobbed. 'You've got to find him.'
When one of the men came out of the bedroom with a pile of pornographic photographs in his hands, she became hysterical.
'Jake forced Bee to pose for them,' she yelled out. 'He drugged her and made her do it. Bee was a sweet loving girl, but he was evil and he controlled her.'
An hour or so later Camellia knew she might very well be arrested, but she wasn't concerned with that. They could poke into every corner, take samples of anything they liked, charge her with possession of the drugs they'd found, even blame her for killing Bee. She felt responsible. She should have been there.
Bee's body was taken out in a bag, yet still the police carried on searching. In and out they tramped, turning out drawers, cupboards, digging down the sides of chairs. It was like reliving that morning in Nottingham Court, only this time her dearest friend was on the way to the morgue.
A younger, fresh-faced officer took pity on her later. He made her a cup of tea and questioned her more gently about both Jake's and Bee's background.
Camellia told him everything she knew, including all she remembered about Jake's friends," contacts and his letters from Amsterdam. She felt she'd kill him with her own bare hands if he was to walk back in here now.
'Is there someone I could call to be with you?' the policeman asked. 'Your mother perhaps?'
'My mother's dead too,' she sobbed. 'I haven't got anyone.'
'You can't stay here,' he pointed out. 'We won't be finished with our investigations for some time. Now there must be someone who could help you?'
Camellia Page 22
