She's Out

by La Plante, Lynda

  ‘Connie, listen to me.’ Gloria whacked her hard again. ‘Nobody is going to touch you, all right? We’re all here.’

  Dolly was breathless when she reached them. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s that bloke, her pimp. He’s come after her.’

  Dolly gripped Connie’s arm. ‘He won’t lay a finger on you. Gloria, go and get the other two. I’ll take Connie back to the house with me.’

  A frightened Connie clung to Dolly as they made their way to the house. The grounds were ominously dark and silent. Wherever he was, they felt as if he was watching their every move and they ran the last few yards past the stables and into the safety of the house. Dolly latched the door behind them and Connie sobbed, ‘What if he’s here, in the house?’

  Gloria, Kathleen and Angela wheeled the rest of the guns into the stable yard and then carried them inside. Connie was sitting with a large brandy, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, as Julia sat with her head in her hands, so hung-over she could hardly speak.

  Gloria held up a shotgun. ‘Right, we got enough of these. If that prick shows his face, I’ll blow it off.’

  ‘We’ll search the house,’ Dolly said. ‘Some of the windows are out so if he’s here, we’d better find him. We’ll have a good look round, then you, Connie, lock yourself in a room with Angela.’

  Connie began to sob again and Dolly was almost irritated with her. ‘Shut up, for God’s sake! And you, Julia, get some coffee down you and sober up.’

  Connie wiped her face with the back of her hand. ‘He said he’d take me back.’

  Dolly shook her by the shoulders. ‘Nobody will make you do anything you don’t want to do, okay? We’ll sort it, Annie-Get-Your-Gun-Gloria and me.’

  Gloria went over the grounds with the shotgun at the ready. She checked the stables, the outhouses and the yard, and even went up to the woods, but an owl hooted which gave her the willies so she scuttled back to the front door of the manor. It was ajar and she pushed it slowly. ‘Anyone here?’

  Dolly stood there with her hands on her hips. ‘Yes. Me, you fool. Did you see anything out there?’

  ‘Nope. Maybe he saw us and pissed off.’

  ‘Yeah, I think you’re right, but we’ll keep her upstairs with Angela. Then we can sort out the weapons.’

  Ester drove into the underground car park of the Club Cabar. She’d been to three and this was her last hope. She hadn’t many options: it was Steve Rooney or back to the Grange. She locked up the Range Rover, checked her hair and make-up, pulled her black dress down a bit further to show off her shoulders and tits and changed her driving shoes for spike heels. ‘Right, gel, do the business.’

  She walked casually, full of confidence, towards the private lifts to the club. The car park was used by a number of offices in the day but taken over by the club at night so they had their own small lift leading directly into their reception. As the grille slid back, a thickset muscle-bound bouncer in an ill-fitting evening suit and crushed carnation looked over any customers entering from the car park, as it was very much a members-only club. He nodded at Ester.

  She gave him a cursory waft of her hand. ‘Is Steve in?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s wiv someone now. I’ll tell ’im you’re ’ere.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said crisply, and headed towards the main room of the club. Its small sunken dance floor was empty but you could hardly see your hand in front of your face for the blinking neon strips. At least the ornate, over-brassy bar was well lit and the row of red velvet-topped high stools had only one occupant: a swarthy, fat little man, drinking from a long glass with a profusion of fruit and paper umbrellas sticking out of it. He was surrounded by sexy blondes with tight envelope-sized mini-skirts and tied blouse tops showing a lot of cleavage. Even their high-heeled shoes were higher than Ester’s. They were giggling and whispering to each other as the poor sucker with the paper umbrella almost up his nose slurped a drink that had probably set him back a tenner. The girls would make sure he was parted from a lot more before the night was out.

  Ester perched on a stool as far away from the fat man as possible. The slant-eyed barman was doing a lot of gesticulating with his martini shaker to the deafening, thudding rock music that made it impossible for anyone to have a conversation.

  ‘Hi, Ester, how ya doin?’ the barman lisped.

  ‘I’m doing fine. Gimme a Southern Comfort, lemonade, slice of lemon and crushed ice, easy on the lemonade.’ She lit a cigarette as she spoke, but he knew what she liked and was already searching through the array of bottles. He skimmed up and down the bar and then whisked out a paper napkin and a bowl of peanuts before placing her drink down with a smile.

  ‘On the house.’

  ‘Cheers.’ She sipped. He’d OD’d on the lemonade. Through the mirror and brass fittings she saw Steve Rooney talking to the crushed carnation, who gestured at the bar. Ester acknowledged Rooney, who put up his hand to indicate five minutes.

  A few more punters arrived and wandered around. Ester signalled for a refill but stipulated no more lemonade, then took a handful of peanuts. It was strange. She’d been out of the business a lone time, and didn’t know any of the girls now. She shook her head and smiled. What a life! She wanted out. She hated the whole scene, which was why she’d moved to the Grange, and for a while she had been coining it. She didn’t have time for any further reminiscence as Rooney tapped her shoulder and pointed at his office. She slid off the stool, drained her glass and followed, flicking a look at the little fat man. ‘I’d get out while you’re still on top, man.’

  Rooney eased himself round his fake antique desk and then perched on it. ‘So, how’s tricks, darlin’? I just hope you’re not touching me for a few quid. As you can see, we’re not exactly filling the joint and it’s Friday.’

  ‘It’ll pick up, always used to.’

  His polished Gucci loafer tapped the side of the desk. ‘What do you want, Ester? I know you’ve schlepped round a few places tonight.’

  ‘Warned off me, were you?’

  He smiled. His eyes were pale blue covered by tinted glasses. ‘You’re not still wheeling around in that Range Rover, are you?’

  She lit a cigarette, clicking off her lighter.

  ‘You really are stupid, you know that, don’t you? You tried it on with the wrong kind, Ester. They got a lot of dough and they’ll use it to find you.’

  ‘No kidding. Doesn’t scare me.’

  ‘It should. That was a stupid move. They paid out a lot of cash for you, and what do you do?’

  ‘I did three years and I kept my mouth shut. They ripped me off.’

  ‘No, they didn’t. How were they to know you had a string of offences as long as both arms? They paid your taxes and your lawyer, and you come out, try to nail them for more cash, then nick the kid’s motor.’

  She stubbed out the cigarette. ‘They got enough of them. What’s one little Range Rover?’

  ‘It wasn’t what it was, it was you doin’ it. It was stupid.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe, but you seem to know a lot about my business.’

  Rooney sighed and picked a bit of fluff off his Armani jacket. ‘Because I supply them now, okay? I’m not gonna hide anything from you. It’s not as if I nicked your clients. You were inside.’

  ‘Yes, I was, and now I need a job, Rooney.’

  ‘Don’t look in my direction. I can’t help you and I’m not going to put myself out for you, Ester. You never gave me a leg up when I needed it.’

  ‘But I sent a lot of clients your way, you cheap shit.’ His face tightened and Ester would have liked to smack him. Rooney had once been a barman she had hired for special parties, back in the old days when she ran a house for two major club owners. They’d have the clients drinking and eating at their respectable joints and when they wanted a girl Ester supplied them. She kept ten good-looking tarts, and they were always busy. There were private parties for movie stars, MPs, tided perverts; in fact anyone the club owners gave membership to would at some t
ime or other end up at the Notting Hill Gate house … until it was busted. Ester had served a few years way back then, and when she came out of prison, she had been determined that the next place would be her own, so she turned tricks solo for four years, working the main hotels until she had enough to put down on Grange Manor House. Rooney, a barman at Notting Hill Gate, had learned fast, and soon after her bust, which he was never questioned about, he had gone to work for the club owners.

  It had been Rooney who had sent her the Arab clients for the manor, and he’d taken a cut. But, just like her bust at Notting Hill Gate, when it went down at the Grange Rooney’s name was never mentioned. Rooney had even suggested to her that if she played her cards right, she might even earn extra by making a couple of videos of certain clients at the manor. He had sold a few for her, just light porn stuff, but when she told him about the tape she’d made of his Arab clients’ kids, he had walked away. He told her that if she had any sense, she would as well. A couple of movie stars caught with their pants down was one thing but not the so-called flowing-robed royalty: that was asking for trouble.

  ‘You don’t know how to say thank you, do you?’ she said curtly.

  Rooney leaned close. ‘Sweetheart, I owe you fuck all. You done nothing for me. Whatever I done, I done all by meself.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re still an illiterate shit.’

  ‘Maybe I am, but I’m a fucking sight richer than you are and I don’t want any aggro. That’s why I’m in business and you’re nowhere.’

  She was about to remind him of who gave him his first job, but there was a rap at the office door and Brian, the crushed carnation, appeared.

  ‘There’s a party of six kids, they said to ask for you. None of them are members but they look as if they got a few readies.’

  Ester stood up, smoothed down her dress and saw the car keys on the desk. She whipped them up fast and then picked up her handbag. ‘Well, I’ll be going.’

  Rooney asked her to go out of the back entrance. ‘I don’t want any aggro, Ester. I’m sorry.’

  She pushed past him and he looked at Brian. ‘If she’s in that fucking Range Rover, get it.’

  Brian moved away as Rooney closed his office door and headed into the club’s reception.

  Ester walked out through the kitchens, down the fire escape and into the car park. She was searching in her bag for the Range Rover keys when she saw Brian stepping out of the lift, accompanied by another equally thuggish bouncer. They walked nonchalantly towards the Range Rover and leaned against it. ‘This isn’t yours, is it, Ester? Give me the keys, darlin’.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Brian made a grab for her and she twisted the keys into her fist, jabbing hard at his face. She caught his right eye, a beaut, and he backed away. Ester felt her hair being torn out by the roots by his friend and she screamed, hurling the keys at him. But by that time Brian was back and taking a swing. Ester fell on to the dirty garage floor and tried to crawl away. She was kicked in the head, the ribs and the groin, curled up in a tight ball to protect herself, but they kept on kicking until she half rolled beneath a car.

  She stayed there, wedged under it, as they threw her belongings on to the ground before they drove the Range Rover out of the car park. She moaned, feeling her ribs, her face. She then searched for her handbag and dragged her body upright. It was agony.

  When she pressed the alarm on the keys she’d taken from Rooney they lit up a brand-new Saab convertible and, as sick as she felt, she couldn’t help but smile. It was beautiful. She was just about to drag her belongings together when she heard the lift opening. Rooney slid back the gate. ‘I’m sorry about that, Ester, but I’ve got to take the car back and if you’ve got any sense you take that tape back to them.’

  She picked up her case. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  Rooney peeled off two fifty-pound notes and tossed them towards her. Take a cab.’

  She wouldn’t let him see her grovel and pick up the notes, so she stood there until the lift had disappeared, then picked up the money, wincing in pain, and opened the boot of the Saab, tossing in her case.

  ‘Fuck you, Rooney.’ She got in and drove out fast, smiling.

  Gloria had all the guns laid out on the kitchen table, a formidable collection, and she was in her element as she fingered them, showing them off as if they were fashion accessories. Kathleen wouldn’t go near them but hung back, eyes popping. Julia touched the Hechler and Koch machine-gun. ‘My God! You had these stashed in the house?’

  Dolly was uneasy with them but at the same time knew she was looking at hard cash. ‘What are they worth, did you say?’

  ‘Thirty grand at least,’ Gloria said proudly.

  Dolly nodded. ‘Well, the sooner they’re out of here the better. You tell that husband of yours I want a cut, fifty per cent. If he doesn’t like it …’

  Gloria sniggered. ‘He can’t really do a lot about it. He’s doing eighteen, Dolly.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Just don’t want him sending any goons round so get a contact and get rid of them – fast.’

  Gloria began to roll up the shotguns in their padded cloths. She was almost tender, taking great care in replacing each one in its case. Gloria quite obviously knew what she was doing and Julia couldn’t help but be a little impressed. ‘Can you use these?’

  ‘Course I can. I belong to one of the top gun clubs in the country. You got to know what you’re sellin’ or buyin’.’ She picked up a .45, showing Julia the cartridges.

  Dolly turned on her angrily. ‘Just put them away, Gloria!’

  ‘Right, right.’ As Dolly walked out, Gloria grinned at Julia. ‘You know, they say Hitler’s mistress never died in the bunker with him. That one, dead ringer for Eva Braun.’

  Julia smiled, and put on the kettle to brew some coffee.

  Angela was sitting holding Connie’s hand. She was still scared, jumping at every creak in the house, and sprang up when Dolly walked in.

  ‘I’m going to bed. Julia will stay downstairs just in case he comes back but I think he’s gone.’

  Connie stammered, ‘He’ll be back, Dolly. He’ll never leave me alone.’

  Dolly didn’t want to hear it all over again. ‘How did he know where you were?’

  Connie paused. ‘I might have mentioned it, I don’t remember.’

  ‘Well, then, you got nobody else to blame, have you? Goodnight, Angela love.’

  Angela shut the door and went back to sit with Connie. ‘Why don’t you call the police about him?’

  Connie sniffed. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Well, he can’t knock you around and get away with it.’

  ‘No? Who’re you kidding?’ Connie wiped her nose with a sodden piece of tissue. ‘All my life I’ve been on the end of a fist. First my dad, only he did a lot more than knock me around. My poor mum was so scared of him she used to lock herself in a cupboard. Even when she knew what he was doing, she didn’t stop him. It meant that it wasn’t her getting a beating and … Every man I’ve been with. I dunno why but I always thought Lennie was different, I really thought he loved me.’

  Angela slipped her arm around Connie. ‘We’ll all look after you here.’

  ‘Can’t hide out here for ever though, can I? Because he’ll come back, you know, he thinks I’m his property.’ Angela was getting bored. Connie was going over and over the same ground. ‘If I could get an agent, a decent one, I know I could make my living doing proper modelling, I know I could. I can’t do anything else.’

  ‘How old are you?’ asked Angela innocently, and was taken aback when Connie turned on her.

  ‘Mind your own fucking business.’

  Ester kept her foot pressed to the floor. She hit a hundred and twenty, passing everything on the road, and then suddenly felt sick and veered over on to the hard shoulder. She only just got out before she vomited and sat with head bent, the driver’s door open, as she waited for the dizziness to pass.

  Julia saw the headlights and went to
the window, wishing she had one of Gloria’s guns. But then she heard the clip-clip of high heels heading towards the back door.

  Angela woke and sat up. Connie was by the window. ‘I just saw a car drive up.’

  Angela listened. She heard a door open and close below. The next moment there was a light tap and Gloria appeared with a loaded shotgun. ‘Did you hear someone?’ Angela nodded. ‘Right, you lock the door and stay put. I’ll see to him.’

  Gloria crept down the landing and almost blasted Dolly. ‘Cor, you give me a fright!’ she exclaimed.’

  ‘What you think you’re playing at? Put the gun away,’ snapped Dolly.

  ‘Somebody come in the house, we all heard it. Shush, listen.’ They could hear a chair scraping and then Julia talking. They inched down the stairs together, Gloria in front with the shotgun.

  Julia examined Ester’s ribs. They were cracked, she reckoned, the deep, awful bruises looking like massive purple balls.

  ‘I just pranged the car – steering wheel hit me,’ Ester said, gasping with pain.

  Julia produced a bandage and had just begun to wind it around Ester’s midriff when the door burst open. Ester jumped out of her chair, flinching, as Dolly and Gloria marched in.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Gloria snarled.

  ‘Yes. Sorry about this, Dolly. I was driving along and had a bit of an accident. Is it okay if I just stay for a night or two?’

  Dolly folded her arms. ‘You had a prang? In a car? Who you kidding?’

  Ester turned away her bruised face, changing the subject fast. Whose is that flash Porsche parked down the lane?’

  Julia looked at Dolly, then back at Ester. ‘Our lane?’

  ‘Whose do you think? I passed it on my way in.’

  Gloria ran upstairs to ask Connie what car Lennie drove. She was back a moment later. ‘It’s his.’

  Julia helped Ester to bed and then joined Gloria and Dolly to search the grounds. This time Dolly carried the shotgun, making Gloria hold up the flashlight. They toured the stables, the outhouses, and saw Ester’s Saab.

  ‘Where did she get this?’