by Jason De'Ath
“I’m really keen t’see this film, actu’lly.” remarked Carol as the couple approached the entrance to the Regal Cinema (Marble Arch). It had not escaped Arthur’s attention that Carol was wearing a very short psychedelic skirt and was ogling her bare legs at that particular moment. “Oi! Are you listenin’?” she complained.
“Yeah, sorry.” Arthur acknowledged a little guiltily.
“I was sayin’: I’m really lookin’ forward to seein’ this film.”
“Oh, yeah – why’s that then?” asked Arthur with a sniff and offered Carol a cigarette.
“Oh ta... Well, I’ve ‘eard it’s pretty good. My mate Jean saw it las’ week.”
“Wha’s the support flick?” queried Arthur looking up at the bill board, “Oh right, Mickey Mouse.”
“Yeah – be a laugh, won’ it?” she noted encouragingly; Arthur lit her cigarette. “Ere, wha’s wiv the fags, you don’t normally smoke?”
“I’m a social smoker.” Arthur explained, “An’ I only like Embassy.”
“Oh, right; that explains why y’u never smoke me dad’s Woodbines.” she inferred with a chuckle.
The queue into the cinema was fairly long; fortunately it was a very mild May evening, despite already being dark.
“The Beatles are number one.” commented Carol, “I like that Barron Knights one – right funny...” she continued, but Arthur seemed somewhat distracted, eyeing up a group of girls further up the queue. “Did y’u see Ready Steady Go?” she persevered, “Arfur! Are y’u gonna talk to me or what?” she complained loudly, which, causing Arthur some embarrassment, finally got his attention.
“I a’n’t seen that f’r weeks.” he replied with a hint of irritation.
“Ere, what ‘appened to that junk ‘eap of a Morris Oxford you were drivin’ the uvver week?” “Crashed it.” responded Arthur casually.
“Tut. You an’ cars.” she remarked jokily, while glancing admiringly at Arthur’s facial profile; she’d always thought he was a nice looking and couldn’t understand why her father was so against her fraternising with him, apart from the constant string of “girlfriends”; he came across as quite charming and likeable, always smartly dressed, nice aftershave and her father treated him like an adopted son.
“Your mate, Jean? Tha’s the one wiv the black bob?”
“Yeah, tha’s right. She said she likes you, actu’lly.”
“Really?” he noted with interest, “Y’u said she’s seen this pic’?”
“Yeah, ‘er boyfriend took ‘er las’ week. She reckons the endin’s really good.”
“‘Ere, I ‘eard the Beatles ‘ave got a film out this year.” recalled Arthur inspirationally: he wasn’t feeling overly chatty and consequently struggling to make conversation.
“The Beatles – yeah, I ‘eard that. Somefin’ to do wiv a new album they’re recordin’.”
“Dunno nufink about it, I jus’ ‘eard they was makin’ a film.”
The queue was moving along quite quickly and they were now one couple from the kiosk.
“You are payin’ aren’t y’u, Arfur? ‘Cause I a’n’t got no money.” she informed him. Arthur gave her a quizzical stare, which was interrupted by the girl on the kiosk calling to them: “Can I ‘elp y’u?” she yelled impatiently. Arthur turned to the girl, winked and grinned cheekily.
“So, shall we go in the back row, then?” Arthur asked Carol, suggestively.
“Arfur: I wanna see this film.” she knowingly insisted.
“Got anyfink in the circle?” Arthur asked, addressing the kiosk girl.
When they emerged from the cinema it was after ten o’clock and though still warm for the time of year, was getting a little chilly. Carol pulled her jacket around her; Arthur, spotting the opportunity, put his arm around her shoulders and slyly cuddled up to her on the premise of giving them both some extra warmth.
“What did y’u fink of the film, then, Arfur?” she asked.
“Yeah, not bad... That Ursula Andress is a tasty tart.” Arthur remarked gleefully.
“Arsula Undress, more like.” sneered Carol whimsically, causing them both to burst out laughing.
“Ere, Carol? Fancy a walk in the park?” suggested Arthur squeezing her a little tighter.
“A’n’t it shut at this time o’ night?” she shrewdly observed, perfectly aware that this was no obstacle to entry.
“Yeah. We can climb over the fence, though.” contended Arthur persuasively. Carol smiled acquiescently; being no innocent, she knew precisely what Arthur had in mind and was in a mood to accede to his affections, having not overly objected to his amorous advances in the cinema, and only then primarily out of public decency.
Hyde Park was but a stone’s throw from the Regal Cinema, on the other side of the road, just a short distance along. Not too surprisingly, Carol had some trouble getting over the chest-high railings in her mini-skirt; Arthur was, of course, more than happy to assist her, managing to get his hands just about everywhere. Once past that obstacle they both ran hand in hand, laughing mischievously, across the open grassed area and into the dark seclusion of a wooded section of the park, where Arthur pinned Carol up against a tree.
“We’ll miss the bleedin’ bus.” she half-heartedly complained in a last feigned act of resistance.
“Don’ worry, there’s a late bus.” countered Arthur kissing her red-rouged lips.
Carol contentedly submitted to Arthur’s passionate overtures and they were soon engrossed in a heated snogging session, Arthur taking the opportunity to caress Carol’s pliant body from top to bottom, as far as his hands could reach. This sensual embrace had continued for about twenty minutes, with Carol thoroughly engrossed in the experience, when she became aware that Arthur had become physically aroused, but she was enjoying herself far too much to want to spoil the moment with modest propriety and therefore allowed the situation to develop quickly out of her control. She was not prone to screaming and did not have the strength to easily counteract Arthur’s intense groping, such that as some forceful fumbling in her underwear began, all she could muster was a breathless “No”, which was no deterrent to the determined will of a sexually inflamed man; before she knew what was happening, he was inside her and she didn’t know whether to scratch his eyes out or accede to the inevitable, it seeming strangely impolite to attack this man that she had been so fond of and who had treated her to a lovely night out; in that few seconds of indecision, the whole act was over and Arthur immediately released her, apparently fully satiated. Carol was momentarily stunned, before coming to her senses and slapping Arthur’s face venomously.
“I don’t fink I fuckin’ agreed to that, did I?” she screamed determinedly. Arthur appeared shocked by her reaction and reeled from the slap, stepping rapidly backward, before tripping up to fall onto his backside in the undergrowth. “Carol?” he implored, to which she marched past him, kicking him in the side as she went and calling him a “bastard”.
“Carol? I’m sorry... I thought...” he started, chasing after her.
“Yeah, well y’u thought wrong!” she hollered, shaking away his grasp on her arm, “Just take me ‘ome.” she ordered, then begun walking briskly toward the park railings; Arthur scuttled rather feebly after her. When she reached the railings she managed to hurl herself over them in a single athletic motion, such was her sheer indignation.
At the bus stop, Carol stood with her arms folded and pulled a face that would scare small children. Arthur attempted to remonstrate with her, but she was not remotely interested in Arthur’s pathetic excuses. Thankfully, there was only a short wait for the bus, where she expeditiously took refuge. Arthur took the seat parallel to hers, as she refused to let him sit next to her. She stared fixedly out the window and when the conductor prompted her for the fare, she just pointed at Arthur without even looking. On the bus, Arthur felt somewhat restrained from continuing his supplicating onslaught, only occasionally glancing at Carol and sighing heavily.
It was still a fair walk from t
he bus stop to the Paris’ flat, which was on the edge of the Soho area. Each time Arthur caught her up, Carol would break into a trot to get away from him, and so this continued all the way to corner of the road providing access to the large complex of flats – a 1930’s development intended to provide housing for the working classes. At the corner, Carol turned and put up her hand up in a halting motion.
“Y’u don’ want me dad to see y’u wiv me, do y’u?” she warned him sternly, meaning that he should not follow her any further. A totally dejected and bewildered Arthur trudged on, eventually hailing a taxi to take him to Denise Deneo’s, where he would be assured of a sofa to sleep on for the night.
Chapter Twenty-One
(5 May 1965)
Arthur awoke with a surge of muscular discomfort from having slept on Denise Deneo’s sofa all night; his left arm had gone dead from having laid on it for some time. From the carriage clock on the mantel, Arthur could discern that it was a quarter past ten; Denise had been up since eight o’clock and serving in her shop since nine – she was accustomed to Arthur using her flat as a sort of halfway house when he’d run out of money for hotels, or when he didn’t feel sufficiently welcome to be able to impose himself on anyone else. Arthur had struck up a friendship with Denise some years ago, when she was suggested to him by a criminal acquaintance as a fence for disposing of antique objet d’art, which was otherwise difficult to sell on. Denise had adopted him as a surrogate nephew, not being quite old enough to be his mother. Denise was generally a fairly solitary character, but had developed something of an endearment toward Arthur – though there was never any hint of any romantic attachment from either side: Denise was inherently asexual and too old for Arthur’s taste, irrespective.
The decor in Denise’s flat was somewhat ornate – much as one might expect for an antique collector, with no children or animals: a bit fussy and delicate. Her telephone, therefore, was a wooden candlestick style, which somewhat confused Arthur, who had not previously used the phone in her flat and was only familiar with the modern combined receiver/transmitter handset. After some difficulty, he managed to get through to his partner in crime, Dickie Paris, who unusually for the social enclave in which his residence was located, had a home telephone – something of a must for a criminal entrepreneur.
“‘Ello? Dickie?”
“Oo’s ‘at? Is it Arfur?”
“Yeah. ‘Bout later, Dickie...”
“Wha’s up mate – I expected you ‘ere by now?”
“Nufin’; jus’ wondered if y’u could pick us up from Shepherd’s Bush?”
“Yeah, s’pose. Where exactly?”
“I’m at Denise’s; the antique shop. Y’u know Shepherd Bush Common, right? It’s opposite that, off a side road – on the corner.”
“Wha’s it called?”
“Er, La Mattress, or somefink. It’s some French bollocks.”
“Okay. I’ll find it. About one, okay – I got some other stuff t’do now?”
“Yeah, that’ll be good.”
“See y’u later.” ended Dickie, immediately putting down the phone.
Arthur had hoped to gain some reassurance of Dickie’s mood from the call, (as well as a free ride,) but the short conversation hadn’t told him anything meaningful in relation to whether he might be in trouble with Dickie over Carol, and so he had to assume that he was probably safe based on Dickie’s general tone.
For the remainder of the morning Arthur aimlessly lolled around Denise’s flat, listening to the radio, until at 12.30 PM,
Denise shut-up shop for lunch and returned; she was slightly surprised to find he was still there. Although she did trust him (for the most part), she wasn’t too keen on his hanging around on his own for long periods, just in case he did get itchy fingers.
“Still here, then?” she commented in mock surprise, “Nothing on today?” she continued in an attempt to gently ascertain what his intentions were.
“Yeaah: I’m gettin’ picked up at one.” he informed her.
“What ar’y’u up to?” asked Denise entering the kitchen area, which was adjoined to the living room by a bead partition.
“Dickie’s pickin’ me up…Y’u know Dickie?”
“Yes. You have mentioned him once or twice.” she acknowledged with an ironic chuckle.
“Yeah, ‘e’s me oppo.”
“What’s his surname?” she enquired, not for the first time.
“Paris, y’know: like in France?”
“Yes, I had heard of a Paris in France.” said Denise with a fond smile – in many ways, Arthur was like a child to her, especially intellectually; “So, where you off to? Naughty business?” she proffered, referring to criminal activities.
“Yes an’ no... We go an’ play snooker an’ billiards down the billiard ‘all in Rom’ly Road on a Wednesday – do a bit o’ business, as well.”
“Where’s that, Soho?”
“Yeah... ‘Ear, talking of naughty business: I ‘ad a bit o’ naughty business meself las’ night.” announced Arthur with a smirk.
“Pardon?” choked Denise a little taken aback: she was not one for sex-talk and Arthur didn’t normally make sexual references in conversation with her.
“Took out this girl, Carol. She was gaggin’ for it; couldn’ take ‘er ‘ands off us.” Arthur continued, while Denise looked on somewhat embarrassed; “Yeah, she didn’ ‘old back, if y’u know what I mean?” he added to labour the point. This revelation, was in its’ mendacious distortion, Arthur’s desperate way of convincing himself that he had done nothing wrong and thereby justify his own actions to himself. Meanwhile, Denise was mortified, equally desperate to circumvent this (in her mind, sordid) subject matter.
“I’ve never played snooker.” she casually remarked in an effort to gloss over Arthur’s boasting.
“What...? Oh, right, snooker.” mumbled Arthur, somewhat disorientated by Denise’s misdirection.
“Do you want a sandwich – I’m having one?” she enquired, confounding Arthur even further.
“Eh...? Yeah... What sort?”
“Cheese...? Or I have some jam? Strawberry.”
“Yeah, okay.” Arthur replied, still slightly perturbed, but not one to refuse a free meal.
“Which do you want?”
“Um, cheese...please.”
“Tea?” Denise added, having now completely distracted him away from the unsavoury element of the conversation.
“Yeah, ta.” agreed the mollified Arthur.
Denise prepared their lunch in a somewhat vacant conversational atmosphere, much to her relief. However, Arthur seemed to be in a mood to unnerve his host, as she was soon to discover. As they began eating their sandwiches, a mischievous glint blaze-up in Arthur’s piercing eyes.
“Did I tell y’u I got a gun?” he blurted.
“Pardon?” replied Denise, yet again dumbfounded.
“A Berretta.” he nonchalantly explained while chomping on a sandwich. “A gun? Really? What for?” she asked searchingly. “Yeah, well, it’s gettin’ a bit dangerous out there.” “Out where?” she asked uneasily.
“When I go out on the stick... I keep runnin’ in t’trouble.”
“What do y’u mean?”
“Well, the uvver week, I was in this ‘ouse in Roe’ampton and, well I fought it was empty, y’u know, but this bloke jus’ came out ‘o nowhere; we ‘ad a bit of a scrap an’ all.”
“Right. Well, you need to be more careful. You don’t want to be using a gun, though – someone might get killed.” “Yeah, rather them than me, though, eh?” Arthur rationalized.
“Well, what I mean is, just be more careful where you break in.” she clarified, now becoming dismayed.
“It’s alright – I a’n’t got no bullets.” Arthur reassured, sensing her disquiet.
“Where do you keep this gun?”
“I got it hidden, at Dickie’s. I put it in a bag an’ ‘id it be’ind some pink towels. They never use them pink towels at the back of the airin’ cu
pboard – they’re brand new; been there ages, though.”
“A bit risky: they could find it.”
“May be. But I gotta put it somewhere, in case I get stopped.”
Denise was now beginning to doubt whether this latest revelation was in fact true after all, as it didn’t entirely make sense: she was aware that Arthur was prone to telling the odd tall story, just for effect, so she wasn’t sure whether to take this one seriously or not. Denise decided to change the conversation yet again.
“So, you any good at snooker? You’ve never mentioned it before?”
“Not really. Dickie jus’ likes the billiard club f’r talkin’ business – away from the family like...an’ big ears.” “Oh, right – den of thieves, is it?” asked Denise light-heartedly, albeit somewhat rhetorically.
“Den o’ fieves, yeah – good one.” laughed Arthur.
The conversation lapsed for a minute, while Denise searched her mind for a new subject; in desperation, she resorted to recalling the news stories she had heard on the radio: “I hear the Americans have sent troops into Dominica. You’d think they had enough on their plate with Vietnam, wouldn’t you?”
“Dunno – don’ take much notice o’ the news. I’m only int’rested in the pop’ music.”
“Right, yeah; probably best – the news is depressing.” she concluded defeatedly. “Sandwich okay?” she eventually asked in a bid to break the silence.
“Yeah – ta... ‘Ear, did y’u sell that little ballerina ornament I left wiv y’u a few weeks ago?” Arthur enquired in a recollective flash, hoping to get some money.
