by J M Gregson
Jason was behaving oddly. But he couldn’t know anything, surely? She had been very careful and discreet, knowing how violently he would react to even a suspicion of adultery. That’s what he called it when he spoke of these things: others used terms like ‘playing away’, but Jason preferred the old-fashioned term, with its suggestions of religious and legal significance.
She washed up noisily, though he had told her that he would do it. She stayed as long as she could in the kitchen, refusing to think about the things she might at this minute have been doing with Tim, trying to concentrate on what she might do to please the man she had left looking at the television.
He was immediately alert when she went back to him. ‘You’ve been a long time.’
‘I tidied up a little. Listened to a couple of phone messages. Set the table for the morning.’
‘There weren’t any messages when I came home from school.’ He said it quietly, reflectively, as if he did not wish to make it a challenge.
She said, ‘What’s on the box tonight? I’m not usually here on Thursdays.’
‘No. You have more exciting things to do. Well, it’s not usually a good night for telly. In fact, there’s nothing worth watching at all.’ He looked at her challengingly. ‘We could have an early night. Make our own amusement. Like we used to do in the old days.’ There was a touch of strain in what should have been a smile of friendly, intimate lechery.
She had known that this was coming, she told herself. His outlet for tension of any kind was always sex. And why not? He was good at it, and it was good for him; he was usually much more relaxed after it. And he was a good lover: she still felt very tender towards him, whatever she did with Tim. That was something set apart, a compartment quite outside her life here.
Clare stood up and walked across to him, smiling down into his face as he looked at her expectantly. ‘There’s life in the old dog yet.’ She ran her fingers through his unruly hair, then down his arm until she grasped his hand.
‘I’m thirty-nine, not sixty. And you’re thirty-eight. In your sexual prime, I believe.’ He led her unhurriedly up the stairs.
She would enjoy this, she told herself determinedly. She would shut out those images of that other and more spacious room, of that other man who had so much power and wealth and knew so much more about life than Jason. She went into the en-suite bathroom to compose herself and to get into the right frame of mind; she wasn’t finding that easy, with her husband’s eyes so unswervingly upon her.
He was in bed when she got back into the room. She was glad that there was to be no complicated foreplay, no preliminaries which would require an elaborate response from her. She slipped out of her underwear and slid between the sheets beside him, shivering a little at the cold, hoping that he would think that it was the chill which provoked her nervous giggle.
He held her tight against him for a moment, burying his head between her breasts. She was glad to be free of those relentless brown eyes. He stroked her back, running his right hand down to the curve of her bottom and then allowing it to investigate the warm, damp recesses within. She reached her hands around his slim back, felt the big muscles tensing there, felt with relief the stirring of her own response.
Jason kissed her hard, his tongue active and exploring. Then he thrust her legs apart and entered urgently, gasping with the pleasure, pumping as if she would be snatched away from him if he took too long over this. It was rough, but lovingly rough. He shouted his love as he came; held her at his climax for a long, exultant moment as she worked against him and moaned her own moment of ecstasy; remained hard within her long after she would have thought it possible.
She lost all sense of time as they subsided and lay quiet in the big bed. She thought he might have sunk into a post-coital doze, but presently Jason stirred, stroked the back of her neck gently, and whispered, ‘Much better than the telly.’
‘Mmmra.’
‘Was it all right for you?’
‘You know it was.’
‘You were quieter than usual.’
‘You have enough energy for the two of us, when the urge is upon you.’ She felt him reach for her hand and wrap his fingers in hers.
He sat up and looked down at her affectionately. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
On a sudden impulse, she slid her feet to the carpet. ‘I can do better than that. I’m going to get us a different kind of drink.’
She slipped on her dressing gown and went swiftly down the stairs. She found that it was a relief to be on her own for a couple of minutes, but she did not feel the disquiet she had felt earlier when he had fixed her for so long with that intense look. It had been as if he was examining her for something. But that look had gone with the sex, as she had known it would. Whatever it was that had disturbed him, he was relaxed now.
She allowed herself a large glass of white wine and poured a generous measure of the malt whisky he loved, then set the glasses carefully upon the small silver tray and carried them carefully up the stairs. Jason was lying on his back, with his arms behind his head and his ruffled red hair against the headboard. She was beset by a sudden, unexpected tenderness as she stood by the bed: her husband’s thin arms and torso looked very vulnerable as he lay below her.
He turned the whisky tumbler thoughtfully in his hand. ‘Cut glass.’ He took a sip, ran it round his mouth appreciatively. ‘And single malt. This must be a special occasion which has escaped me.’
‘No special occasion - we don’t need one. Unless it is to celebrate your continuing and undiminished virility.’ She slipped back beside him, felt the comfortable warmth of his body against hers, enjoyed the familiar marital intimacy which comes with the years, the closeness which makes no demands that you should conceal your wrinkles and always look your best.
He slipped his arm beneath her head and they lay and looked at the ceiling. There was a faint and intermittent hum of traffic from the road outside, reminding them that the world went on out there, accentuating rather than diminishing their feeling of comfortable isolation. It was then that Jason said very casually, ‘Your badminton kit doesn’t get dirty.’
She wondered if he felt her body stiffen against his. He must surely have done so. ‘No?’
‘I took it out to wash it before you came home today. It was completely clean.’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have worn it to badminton for the last eight weeks, by my reckoning.’
In her panic, she had not known what to say, but his words came to her like a prompt to a failing actress. ‘Not eight weeks, Jason. You must think I’m a real slut! I wash it every two or three weeks. I did it on Saturday, whilst you were out at the football.’
‘It looked brand new. Almost as if it hadn’t been worn.’
‘It is quite new, you know. I replaced my gear for the new season, when I got my bonus from work. And the new washing machine you got is much kinder to fabrics than the old one.’
‘I see.’ He seemed to relax very gradually beside her, as if he had weighed her words and decided to accept them.
Something told her she must consolidate this. She turned towards him, put her arms round his neck, kissed him lightly on the forehead. ‘You’re a funny old thing. Fancy thinking me such a slut. Anyway, at least if I’m a slut, I’m your slut!’ She kissed him on the lips, more passionately this time, and felt desire stirring anew within his slim, sinewy frame.
She rolled on top of him and he made love to her again, more slowly this time, with more consideration for her pleasure and less for his own fierce drive. She muttered words of love into his ear, then the more urgent, basic four-letter words he loved when he was excited, as she rode him expertly to his climax. He hissed urgently into her ear. ‘My slut! My beautiful, beautiful, beautiful slut!’
Jason Thompson slept the sound sleep of happy exhaustion through the night. His wife’s rest was more disturbed. At three in the morning, her head ached and her dry eyes stared sightlessly into the darkness.
There was no getting away from it. She really was a slut. And Jason’s discovery of her unworn badminton clothes had nearly exposed her. She would need to be even more careful in future.
Chapter Six
Matthew Ballack had been wondering for a few days what he was going to do. His first reaction had been that he couldn’t take this latest humiliation from Tim Hayes. Being left in charge of the man’s developing income from brothels was surely the last straw. You took the risks of breaking the law without the lucrative returns that might accrue. He would be paid a pittance for his unofficial management of the prostitutes, whilst the profits went to Hayes. The man had gone too far this time: Matthew had taken quite enough lying down. He’d get himself another job and make a completely fresh start.
And then reality took over. A man of forty-nine without much in the way of formal qualifications and no real skills to market wasn’t going to find it easy to find new work. The downward spiral of his career from part-owner of a prosperous firm to general lower-executive dogsbody would be obvious to any prospective employer, however imaginatively he compiled his application letter. Moreover, any worthwhile concern was sure to contact his present employer, and he could rely upon Timothy Hayes to scupper any application he might make.
Matthew decided that he would bide his time and keep his eyes and ears open. He knew a lot of people around the town and even further afield. Someone in Lancashire, someone who needed experience and reliability, was sure to want an able man like him. When that time came, he would delight in telling Tim Hayes exactly what he could do with his stinking job.
Like many men of his age who come upon hard times, Matthew Ballack did not choose to confront the harsh realities of his situation.
He did realize, however, that for the moment he would have to do the job, stinking or not. If he neglected it, Tim Hayes would be only too ready to note his shortcomings and diminish him still further; he had no doubt of that. Matthew decided that he would get to know some of the workers he had never seen before. Every manual of management dictated that you should have a detailed knowledge of your workforce, that you should be fully aware of the strengths and weaknesses of the people responsible to you. Only that way could you plan efficiently and set yourself real and attainable goals: some of the old clichés which he thought he had forgotten came sourly back to Matthew from a distant and more optimistic past.
He got the names of the girls who worked the streets under their protection and picked out three names at random. Different ages and different areas were the only distinctions he made. Show them that someone in control of their destinies cared; raise morale a little even in this dubious and dangerous industry. The fact that someone in charge was keeping checks and had their interests at heart would pass round on whatever grapevine operated in brothels. Thursday morning would be a good time to call, Matthew decided: in this trade, they surely wouldn’t be as busy midweek as at the weekends.
He didn’t know quite where he expected people like this to live, but he was surprised by the first house he visited. It was semi-detached, built in the nineteen-sixties in a dull but highly respectable road. Most of the residences here had recently fitted double glazing and neatly kept front gardens. Matthew checked the number and the name of the road again carefully before going up the path and ringing the bell by the front door.
The man who answered the door was stocky and heavy, with a paunch far too big for a relatively young man - Ballack took him to be no more than forty. He had inappropriately round and cherubic features, as if some sculptor had left off after half-forming a face. The incongruity was emphasized by the fact that he had not shaved for at least three days. He opened the door no more than eight inches and said suspiciously, ‘Whaddyerwant?’
Matthew felt he should be brandishing some kind of document to vindicate his authority, like a policeman’s warrant card or a meter-reader’s proof of authenticity. Titles such as ‘Brothel Controller’ or ‘Whoremaster’ flashed across his racing mind. He said, ‘Is Sandra Rhodes here?’
‘Who wants her?’
‘My name is Ballack.’ He took a deep breath, trying to make the next phrase impressive. ‘I’m her employer. It’s in connection with the cleaning-service rotas.’ That was the code they used. You needed something uncomplicated, with such a variety of backgrounds, not all of them English, so the girls who sold their bodies were all officially self-employed part-time cleaners.
The man opened the door a little wider, peered at him for a moment, and then said with a sudden and surprising switch towards deference, ‘You’d better come in, Mr Ballack.’ He led him down a surprisingly spruce and well-carpeted hall and called upstairs, ‘Sandra! Visitor for you. It’s important.’
The room where he left Ballack had probably originally been a separate breakfast room with a kitchen beyond it, Matthew decided. The two were now one, and had been fitted with an extensive range of units and kitchen appliances. Washing machine and washing-up machine were neatly dovetailed into the line, adjacent to the new sink. The fridge-freezer doors matched those of the surrounding cupboards. He had time to observe these details at leisure, for it was a full three minutes before the woman he sought came into the room.
He thought when he saw her that she had used the delay well. She wore a dark blue dress with an interesting but by no means daring neckline and court shoes which emphasized the excellence of her legs. The single ornamental slide in her blonde hair matched the gold bangle at her wrist. Her face was carefully and expertly made up. She could hardly have presented a greater contrast with the male figure upon whom she now carefully shut the door.
‘Matthew Ballack.’ He smiled and held out his hand.
She hesitated for a moment before she took it. ‘Sandra Rhodes. I don’t operate here. If you want to—’
‘I’m not here as a client!’ he said hastily. ‘I’m your employer. The man who makes sure of your safety and provides you with a place to work.’
‘Who takes forty per cent of everything I make.’
‘It doesn’t come to me personally. I work for the people who take the profits, like you.’
‘Big consolation to me, that is.' She walked across to the radio and switched it on.
To his surprise, the announcer told him it was Classic FM and a Strauss waltz filled the room with its incongruent lilt. ‘Nice music,’ he said lamely.
‘You mean toms shouldn’t like classical? It should be all Radio One and soft-porn TV for the likes of us, should it?’
‘Not at all. But do we have to have it on just now? It doesn't make it easy to talk.’
She gestured towards the door and said in a low voice, ‘It’s so Big Ears out there can’t hear, see? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’
‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come here. If you think it’s going to—’
She smiled at him for the first time. ‘He knows all about what I do, the idle bastard. It’s paid for all this and more.’ Her gesture took in the new kitchen and the house beyond it. ‘So long as he gets his beer and his fags, he doesn’t really give a bugger. But I like him to know as little of my business as possible.’
Ballack got the picture. Drawing unemployment benefit, living off his woman, flashing his money and boasting to his pals whilst he lost his money in the betting shops: Matthew knew the type and the temptations only too well. Not for the first time, he was amazed by what women put up with. What on earth could this cultivated creature see in that bundle of dependency out there?
He had never expected to be using the word cultivated when he set out to visit his chosen sample of his new working staff. He said, ‘I can’t change the forty per cent. I don’t fix it and it’s not in my power to change it. You get somewhere safe to work and protection from pimps who’d like to muscle in. You could have worse arrangements.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose you’re right. Anyway, I don’t have a choice, do I? If I tried to work my patch on my own. I’d soon have a face I couldn’t work with, wouldn�
�t I?’
He wanted to deny it, but he knew she was right. ‘We wouldn’t want to lose you. You know the score. You’re an attractive woman who knows how to draw the punters and how to keep her mouth shut. It’s a combination we like to encourage.’ He knew very little about her, but he was sure that this much at least would be true.
‘And a combination which will be chucked on the scrap heap, as soon as it gets a few wrinkles. I know the score.’ She looked him sharply in the face for the first time. ‘You haven’t come here to tell me I’m finished, have you?’
‘Not at all!’ Matthew said hastily. ‘I just like to get to know my workforce and let them get to know me. So that we’re not just names to each other, you see. And of course, if there’s anything you’re concerned about, I’d like to know about it. There are limits to what I can do, but I’ll certainly listen to you and do whatever I can.’
She looked at him for what seemed a long time before she spoke again. ‘You haven’t been involved in this game before, have you?’
‘Not directly, no. The managing director thought that someone more senior should take control of this side of our activities.’ Matthew brought out the sentence he had planned in the car; it had sounded more impressive and convincing there than it did here.
‘The more anonymous we are the better, in this game. So long as the punters pay up and I don’t get cut or beaten, you won’t get complaints from me. Except about the forty per cent, which you’ve already said you’re not going to change.’
The uncomfortable knowledge that she and not he was controlling this interview came upon him. She offered him coffee but he refused, anxious only to get out of this strange place before he lost all face. This woman he had unconsciously expected to be ignorant and fawning, to be grateful for this small attention volunteered to her by the man in control of her destiny, was dictating things. She seemed not only to know much more than him but to be both resilient and realistic. He stood up and smiled down at her as brightly as he could. ‘Well, it’s been good to get to know you a little. You’ll be a face to me now, you see, instead of just a name.’
