Tales from Soho

by David Barry

  As they neared Room 16, where Mrs Omar had passed away ten weeks ago, which was to be the new resident’s room, Mavis, lowered her voice as she spoke to the matron, making it sound like a half-interested enquiry, as if she was getting a more rounded identity of the man.

  ‘Does Graham have a surname?’ she whispered, aware the man in the wheelchair could probably hear every word.

  ‘Yes, of course he does,’ the matron replied, opening the door for Mavis to push in the wheelchair. Once they were inside the small neat room, the matron addressed the man jovially, though it was said for Mavis’s benefit, in reply to her enquiry. ‘Here we are, Mr Jackman. This is your own little room.’

  Mavis imagined she could hear the screech of tyres, a car skidding to a halt. Time was suspended for an instant. Her breathing became shallow and she felt herself overheating. She clutched the back of the wheelchair for support and thought for a moment she might faint..

  ‘You all right, Mavis?’ said the matron. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Mavis’s voice was hoarse when she replied. ‘It’s the heat. Makes me feel a bit woozy.’

  ‘It’s always the same temperature, Mavis. You know that.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Just a sudden nauseous feeling, that’s all. It’ll pass.’

  And it had passed. It was the initial shock. It was definitely him, she was sure of it now. Jackman. Her first reaction coupled with the surname was too much of a coincidence. It had to be him. It just had to be. And she couldn’t imagine that swaggering Soho pimp using a suburban name like Graham. He had probably adopted a name with a tougher image. So if it was him - and she was sure it was - he was now the vulnerable one. After all these years, she had him right where she wanted him.

  One of the porters arrived, coughing to announce his entrance, and bringing Jackman’s belongings from the van. It was lunchtime and matron suggested that Mavis take Graham to the dining area just off the lounge and feed him, while she prepared his room and unpacked his clothes.

  Mavis nodded dutifully. ‘I look forward to that very much,’ she said ominously, staring into Jackman’s face, searching for any sign of an understanding. She wheeled him to the dining area and parked his wheelchair at an angle in front of one of the dining tables. One of the kitchen staff, an Asian woman, her head covered in a purple scarf, brought a plate of mashed potatoes, fish in white sauce and peas and placed it on the table. Mavis mashed up a small mound of the food with the back of a fork, scooped a little mound of it on to a spoon, and moved it slowly towards Jackman’s mouth. He opened his mouth to accept the offering, his lips moving up and down eagerly like a fledgling bird. Mavis stopped, holding the spoon inches from his mouth. She saw panic in his eyes, and smiled heartlessly, enjoying the feeling of power she held over this useless lump of flesh. You know who I am don’t you, you bastard? She put the spoon back on the plate and leant forward to talk to him quietly, their heads close like two conspirators.

  ‘Remember me, Jake?’ She saw the comprehension in his eyes, a flicker of alarm. ‘Oh, yes, you bastard, you know fuckin’ well, don’t you? I’ve got you just where I want you. You are not getting away from me. You are going to suffer for what you done to me.’

  II

  Jackman’s cramped Soho flat was on the top floor of a ramshackle building in a narrow passageway which ran between Wardour Street and Dean Street, with a red telephone box which stood sentinel at one end of the alley. Inside the box, the space above the telephone was plastered with postcards offering the delights of Trudi, Amber, Candy and countless other call girls; one only had to pick up the phone and dial to experience the guilty pleasures of what has moved the world since time began. At the centre of the alley was a shop window, lit up with a neon sign and the simple message ‘sex’. Displayed under the sign on boxes covered with fading magenta crepe paper was a display of luridly-titled videos and magazines, and a mannequin dressed in bondage leather stood in a corner of the window, peering through a mask with lifeless eyes, whip in hand. On the opposite side of the entrance to the sex shop was a permanently open door, and a notice on the frame scrawled with felt-tip pen in red offered the delights of a euphemistically named ‘model’ on the first floor, instructing the customer to ring the bell before ascending. The staircase was narrow, uncarpeted and each stair creaked loudly like the sound effect from a horror film. On the second floor lived the landlord who sublet the first floor flat on a pro rata basis to whichever pimp or call girl needed a working premise for a few hours or days, depending on whether or not trade was busy. Above his flat on the top floor was Jackman’s two- room flat, and he had often toyed with the idea of using it for the same purposes as his landlord, but it was clearly out of the question, since his landlord wouldn’t entertain any competition in the same building. So the flat was just somewhere for Jackman to sleep, although he often woke late, then spent what was left of the morning studying the form for the day’s racing, before going out and spending the rest of the day at the bookmaker’s and pubs. He occasionally made forays by train to race meetings, but more often than not he stuck to Soho like a ship’s barnacle. He was an inveterate gambler, although he tried to confine himself to horses, kidding himself there was a science in studying the form, the weights, the handicaps. He bet heavily, and would sometimes win enormous amounts of money, but often he would crash and burn, and end up having to borrow hugely, paying back money borrowed at extortionate rates of interest. During the down times he thought about how advantageous it would be to find an accommodating young girl willing to be exploited. If only he could find this buffer from his losses, a guaranteed income. Unfortunately, he knew only too well that if he was lucky enough to find a willing meal ticket, there were other men in Soho - men with connections - he didn’t dare challenge. These were influential hoodlums and it was dangerous to muscle in on their territory and rackets. So he abandoned any hope of living off a girl’s immoral earnings - certainly as far as Soho was concerned.

  But whenever he was flushed from winnings, and feeling horny, he liked to visit more exclusive call girls in Mayfair’s Shepherd Market. These were the high class prostitutes whose clientele were streets away from the shabby losers who climbed the stairs to the first floor of his Soho building. And once, on one of his many visits to Shepherd Market, he thought he recognised a member of parliament leaving his favourite call girl’s flat. It was after these Mayfair visits that he dreamt his dream. He became ambitious. Not for him a seedy little Soho room with a naked red light bulb. One day, he promised himself, when he was on a roll, he would find the perfect floozy and set her up in Mayfair. But he needed a bird with film star looks. A stunner A Diana Dors look-alike, maybe. But, as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, his avaricious and licentious dreams became as threadbare as the carpet in his flat. Until one day, when his dreams had all but popped like a soap bubble, he bumped into Mavis. .

  After a traumatic childhood in Ipswich, growing up in a strict Catholic orphanage, Mavis escaped to London on her eighteenth birthday, and swore she would never look back, never go to church and never have children of her own. In spite of her scarred upbringing, Mavis was stunningly good looking, and because she had never been indulged like loved and spoilt children, her figure was perfectly proportioned and temptingly sensual. She was a natural blonde with high cheekbones, sparkling blue eyes, and turned men’s heads wherever she walked. When Jackman spotted her wandering aimlessly around Piccadilly Circus one evening, staring wistfully at the flashing neon lights, he knew he’d found his gravy train. But he was smart enough to realise he couldn’t leap in with his Mayfair proposition and needed to bide his time. Discovering she had only six pounds between solvency and destitution, and flushed from a good day at the bookies, he treated her to a slap-up meal at an Italian restaurant in Greek Street. During the meal he discovered she had nowhere to stay, having arrived at Liverpool Street station that very day carrying a heavy suitcase, w
hich she had booked in at a left luggage bureau before taking the tube train to Piccadilly. He offered her a room for the night, then accompanied her to pick up her suitcase, and hired a taxi to bring her back to his Soho flat. He expected her to make some sort of objection to the location of the flat, seeing as it was above a sex shop and a flat of prostitution, but although she ascended the stairs with fear and apprehension, his generosity and understanding dispelled her dismay once she was settled in his flat.

  That first night he was cunning enough to play the considerate charmer, and they drank gins and tonics way into the night. She told him about her life at the orphanage, and he detected the bitterness and her inclination to escape her past, and knew he could play on her desire to lead a more exciting life. As the alcohol freed her inhibitions, she admitted she wasn’t a virgin, having been sexually abused by a male member of staff at the orphanage ever since she was fourteen-years-old. Now Jake, as he called himself, subtly suggested they made a move into the bedroom, and told her he would respect her and understand if she didn’t want to have sex with him. It worked. He knew she felt she was in his debt, and had only one thing to offer, to pay him back for his generosity.

  The very next day he asked her if she would start taking the birth pill, and because she didn’t want to give birth to an unwanted child, she readily agreed. For weeks she was happy. And so was he, thinking that he might have fallen for her. But the biggest part of him was absorbed by his own needs and desires which came before anything else, and he spent most of his days gambling, leaving her alone in the flat, returning late in the evening to satisfy his own cravings. Mavis spent so long on her own in the small flat, she became bored and restless. She felt as trapped as she had in the holy sisters’ orphanage and wanted to escape. Twice in their first month together he took her with him to the races, once to Folkestone and then to Kempton Park, but these two outings only swelled her discontent, giving her a teasing taste of freedom, freedom from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the shabby Soho flat. Occasionally, after a day gambling in Soho bookies, he returned in the evening and took her on pub crawls, where she developed a craving for gin. But mostly these outings were infrequent, and she became frustrated and resentful, although she tried to curb her feelings, knowing she was being supported by him, and the only thing she had to offer in return was the sex he demanded when he returned from the betting shops and pubs at night. So, although she became dependent on him, she determined that one day soon she would rouse herself and perhaps get a job, although she had no qualifications or work experience. And, as the days slipped by, nothing changed. She was torn between wanting something better and the debt she owed her saviour.

  Jake, on the other hand, was content with things as they were. After all, she seemed to bring him luck. Most of the horses he chose romped first past the post, and by the end of their first month together he was richer by five-hundred pounds, a substantial sum in the mid-Seventies.

  And then the honeymoon period came to an abrupt end.

  As soon as she heard his feet tramping up the narrow stairs one evening, she could tell by the defeated tread and scrape of his soles on the curling linoleum outside the door that a great change had come about and things might never be the same again. As he entered the small living room, with its shabby alcove kitchen, she could tell he’d lost everything. She could tell by the slump of his shoulders, and the way his eyes darted guiltily away from her probing stare.

  ‘How much have you last, Jake?’ she demanded.

  Exhausted by the trauma of wiping out five hundred pounds in less than two hours, he collapsed into a mangy armchair. He let his head tilt back and stared at the ceiling, his eyes vacant but his mind replaying the recent events of a gambler’s what might have been if only he’d bet on his first choice.

  ‘You had as much as five hundred quid, Jake. Don’t tell me you lost it all.’

  He sat up suddenly, leaned forward and glared at her. ‘I need a drink.’ He stared pointedly at the empty gin bottle. ‘You’ve fucking drunk it all.’

  ‘I was depressed. Knowing you’d blow everything.’

  ‘Don’t use my bad luck as an excuse. You’re becoming a fucking lush, sweetheart. There was half a bottle left in that. You’ve done half a bottle in less than two hours.’

  He stood up, eyes puffed with anger, and she thought for a minute he was going to hit her. But he restrained himself and sat at the table opposite her, on the chair with the wonky leg. He dropped his head into his hands and sighed.

  ‘Christ! I’m sorry, sweetheart. I was on a roll. I could’ve cleaned up. It was the last race I bet on... the fucking favourite in a three horse race... lost by half a length. Half a fucking length! No one could have seen that one coming. I was up nearly two grand, and I could have come away with three.’

  Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened. It was incredible. How could he be so stupid? Up by as much as two thousand pounds and he goes and throws it back at the bookies. ‘I can’t believe how stupid you are,’ she snapped. ‘The only winners are the bookies.’

  He glared at her, hating her and her truth. ‘Tell me something I don’t know. And whose fucking money was it anyhow? It’s not as if it was yours. Who bought that gin you drunk?’ He jabbed an angry thumb at his breastbone. ‘I did. That’s who. I pay the rent for this gaff, and I’ve been providing you with food and drink. I’ve even give you money to buy clothes.’

  ‘I’ll pay you back, Jake. Soon as I get a job.’

  He laughed harshly. ‘Oh yeah? What you gonna work as? Barmaid? How much d’you think you’ll earn as a barmaid or a waitress?’ Suddenly, he stared at her with a glint in his eyes and his mouth widened into a broad grin. ‘I’ve got a better idea. A much better idea of how you can earn good money.’

  She knew exactly what he was driving at and thought about the women who plied their trade on the first floor of the building. Shaking her head rapidly, she said, ‘If you think you can put me downstairs with those filthy... ’

  He didn’t let her finish. His grin broadened as he placed a hand over hers and squeezed. ‘Relax, sweetheart. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. No, I’ve got other plans for you and me, baby.’

  Over the next few weeks he borrowed enough money from a loan shark to put down a deposit for a small Mayfair flat, and then he coaxed her, begged her, and threatened her. Eventually, she reluctantly agreed, and she was put to work with him as her pimp and protector. At first, he promised she would do no more than two tricks a day for well-heeled clients, but his gambling habit needed supporting, so she had to resort to five men a day. She was now swept into his circle of increasing debt. Then, one day, her nightmares began.

  Usually, Jake arranged the client visits, and made certain he was nearby in case she needed help. Most of her clients were either married, and even if they weren’t they were the sort of men who demanded total discretion, and most of them probably had family commitments at weekends. Therefore, as in the title of the Greek film, Mavis -

  or Jade as she was now known as - never worked on a Sunday, and Jake usually took her out for lunch, or she would go shopping in Oxford Street. But this one particular Sunday, when she awoke, Jake was gone. At first, she thought he had gone out to buy milk or the News of the World, as he occasionally did on a Sunday morning; but by late afternoon there was still no sign of him. And then the doorbell rang. Usually, clients announced themselves, saying they had an appointment at a certain time, and she would remotely unlatch the street door for them. But this was a Sunday and she wasn’t expecting any clients. Unless Jake had gone out, got pissed and lost his key.

  She clicked the speaker entry and asked who it was.

  ‘ Jade, I’m a friend of Jake’s. He asked me to call round to collect you. And bring you for surprise birthday party.’

  She had no idea when it was Jake’s birthday, and had no reason to doubt the man, so she pressed the button
to open the door to the building, and waited near the flat door for the man to climb the four flights to the second floor. She heard several footsteps, wondering why there was more than one person, and she was suddenly afraid. Something was not quite right. She began to open the door slowly and peered cautiously through the gap. That was when the door flew open, hitting her in the shoulder. There were two of them, and they shoved her backwards, entered the flat and slammed the door behind them.

  Her life ended at the moment. She was slapped, cried out and was told it would be worse if she didn’t shut up. She cried silently, tears streaming down her cheeks like rainwater. They were large men, overweight but strong, with cruel faces and foreign accents. Through her heaving sobs she asked for Jake, but the men just laughed, telling her he owed them money. She now belonged to them. Jake had sold her to them to clear his debt.

  That was when one of them held her down while the other took out a syringe and injected a vein in her arm. She thought it might be something to put her to sleep, and she begged them to stop. But instead of passing out, she experienced a strange feeling of elation, an unreality wiping out her fears. But when they began to undress her roughly, she struggled and cried out. She was slapped again, and then both men raped her. She lost any sense of time, her life playing at a slower speed. She gave up struggling, and didn’t know whether the experience was a swirling dream or a nightmare. Horrific and illusory images propelled her towards loathing and self-hatred, and she wished herself dead. Everything became a blur as she felt herself becoming a discarded and useless heap of nothing. She couldn’t remember much of what happened later. She vaguely remembered staggering, being half-carried down the stairs. A hand gripping her tightly by the throat. A car journey. For how long she had no idea. Then stumbling down stone steps into a dank basement.