One London Day

by C. C. Humphreys

  She folded the serrated claws over his wrist, snapped them shut, then stepped away from him off the other side of the bed.

  He was fully awake now, blowing blood out of his nostrils, like a stabbed bull in a Spanish arena. His fury made him inarticulate, and he wasted time trying to jerk his hand free from the bedpost. By the time he realized that was impossible, she was half dressed.

  “Let me go!” he bellowed, loud over the music, Mozart now. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking have your visa revoked, you bitch.”

  She finished dressing, then came close fast. He flinched, raised his free hand to ward her off. She seized it, twisted it against the grain to a yelp, lifted it behind him and snapped on the other cuff. He was on the floor where the table had been, his arms bent awkwardly above him.

  She got out her phone. The best angle was from the ground so she knelt and snapped some photos, the first one catching his furious face just above the priapic dildo. Even when he turned away for the second, his identity was clear.

  “Look,” he said, sniffing blood, his voice now conciliatory, “I am sorry, I made a mistake. Let me get you some money. More money.”

  More? Something in the way he said it. She went and looked in the envelope beneath the TV. Hundreds only on the ends, tens between. Maybe three hundred quid there.

  She looked at him. He shrugged. “I’ll get you more. I’ll - ”

  She raised a hand and he quieted. “If you contact me. If any immigration people come after me, those photos go to the press. You understand?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Look, I - ”

  She tucked the envelope into her purse, picked up her coat. She closed the door on his yells, which were lost to the Mozart anyway. As she left, she hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle.

  In the hotel lobby, she raised a hand to cover her bruised cheek as she passed reception. A desk clerk studied her. But what had Sebastien said, about this hotel’s discretion? They would not disturb him for quite a while. The sign would prevent them. And they were probably used to moaning. Perhaps later tomorrow morning the maid might knock, or someone check into the next door suite and complain about the music.

  The hotel was near Portland Place and she walked to that busy road then up it, north. It was 830, there was lots of people about, and all the black cabs were occupied. She pulled her phone out, pressed a speed-dial number. It was Sunday night but there was a chance. It rang three times before the pick up.

  “Tsarina.”

  His joke. “You free?”

  “I can be. Where are you?” She found the street sign, told him.

  “You wanna wait in a bar near there or something?”

  She fingered her cheek. “No.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” he said, and hung up.

  Sonya leaned against a railing on the corner of Weymouth Street and watched the traffic. Two young men, drunk, tried to talk to her but she pulled out her phone, dialled, and they walked on. She hung up, and resisted the urge to sit down on the steps of the building nearby. She was suddenly tired, near overwhelmingly so. Her face and wrist hurt, and both were swelling. She didn’t know which was worse. She needed her prettiness to attract men in bars. And she needed two good hands for what they’d want her to do to them. Jesus, please, not now, she thought, not now. She got her phone out again, and pulled up FaceTime, her finger hovering over the name. But it was 1130 in Moscow, Marushka should be asleep and if she wasn’t… she knew she’d cry if she saw her daughter and she didn’t want that. While Georgiy? If he was drinking, which he would do once Marushka was in bed it would be bad. If he was doing something worse…

  She dropped the phone back into her purse. It was a warm night but still she shivered. What am I going to do, she thought? Who was he? Why did he know about me?

  She waited, trying not to think; heard a car horn, a familiar one, looked up to see the four rings of the Audi on the front of the black car. She walked quickly to it, using her unhurt left hand to awkwardly open the pavement-side rear door. She flung her bag and coat in, and dropped into the seat, reaching across herself to pull the door closed.

  “Are you alright, Tsarina?”

  She looked up at Tadeusz’ reflected eyes in the mirror. His concern was in them as well as in his voice. “Yes,” she replied. “No. Just drive.”

  “Where to, Tsarina?”

  “I don’t know. Around. I have to think.”

  He turned around to look at her. Jerked his chin at the damage. “Some fucker did this to you?”

  “Some fucker, yeah.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Near here? You want I should - ”

  “No. Do you have any ice?”

  “In the console. There are cloths too.”

  The Audi was an A8L. Tadeusz leased it for his chauffeur work. It was luxurious and behind the door that clicked open she found two crystal decanters, a small ice bucket and some serviettes. She took two, wrapped cubes in each, laid one against her wrist on her thigh. Before she raised the second to her cheek, she poured a tot from one of the decanters, took a deep swallow. It was good cognac, and it helped a little.

  Tadeusz drove off, turned left, heading north. He was muttering lightly under his breath, curses in Polish. In a way, he was the closest she had to a friend in London. They’d arrived near the same time, eleven months before. He’d been an Uber driver then, had driven her across London from an early gig, another that had not gone so well. They’d commiserated about how the city treated them, how those from the east were regarded by many. When he saw where she lived, how she lived, in the estate in Peckham, their bond grew – he was in a similar ‘heap of shit’ off the Harrow Road. He’d given her his card, said that for her he was always available. She’d wondered if he wanted something more from her. Until she discovered that Tadeusz, the burly former boxer, was homosexual, had an old mother and a closeted teacher lover back in Gdansk, was earning money to bring them both out of there. Even when he graduated from Uber to the luxury service, he was always there for her, had only rarely been unable to get to her after a job. Except for Sundays, most of which he spent at a Polish church, good Catholic as he was, with many sins to confess.

  He drove them up into Regent’s Park. Her one eye was closed to the cold cloth on her face and she regarded the huge, columned white houses through the other. She’d worked in one of them, couldn’t remember which. A prince from the Gulf, a full night, a lot of money. She’d hoped he would become a regular, but he’d gone home.

  In her mind, she went through her contacts list, seeking a client she could call, one who cared for her a little as well as for the sex. There were only a few, like Bernard, who’d lost his wife, who wanted comfort. But she couldn’t contact him now, now she knew he was connected with this Sebastien. Which government service was he? Some thing in intelligence, she thought? So Bernard was perhaps too. This close to her goal, she could not afford the fuss. And the others? How could she call them on a Sunday night, on the off chance? What excuse? Offer them a discount rate for – how did the English say? - ‘spoiled goods’? It was not possible. And unless this ice really took the bruise down, she didn’t see how she could visit some of the better haunts, in Kensington, Mayfair, Shoreditch. Bars and clubs where she tipped the doormen and barmen so they’d let her in, let her stay. Sunday night and yet many men would still be drunk, lecherous, looking for a good time. They would have on what that man had called ‘beer goggles’. She didn’t find it so funny now. And she wasn’t sure she could be as seductive as she’d need to be. Not if she couldn’t stop this shaking.

  Focus, Sonya, she urged herself. Think of Marushka. Six and a half thousand more, to be safe. A week’s double time work. Fly to Moscow, collect her, fly to Baltimore. John Hopkins Hospital for first tests. Bring Russian x-rays, lab results, translated reports. An operation required immediately. Have you the funds, Mrs Ivenetza? Yes. On my phone here. Immediate transfer to any account you say.

  Her one open eye had glazed. She focused again. Tadeusz had
brought them to Camden Town. Traffic crawled down Parkway through the Sunday night revellers. She was looking at girls in short skirts, guys in long beards and check shirts, drinks in hand on a patio. All laughing, having a good time. When had she last laughed? When had she last had a good time?

  She cracked the window. Warm air and music flowed in. She closed her one good eye to both.

  Her phone buzzed. It was the sound of hope and she fished it from her purse. A number she didn’t know, but people passed on her number. She thumbed and the screen opened.

  L here. Doing anything tomorrow night?

  Sonya considered. L? She knew a couple. Leo, the Swiss Banker. Larry, from Montreal, the ex-hockey player turned fight promoter. She hadn’t heard from either for a while. But both were big tippers.

  She was about to text back her query, when another message came.

  Sorry. That’s L for Lottie.

  Lottie. The girl from last Tuesday. The three-some with the black actor. It had actually been a fun night. Mainly because of Lottie. She’d liked her. Funny, tough. Sexy, though she didn’t usually think that about women. Though after the year she’d had, she didn’t think it about many men either. Sebastien had known about her though, about their time together. Was this Lottie connected with him?

  No, he’d been following her to her rendezvous, that’s all. Why and how she could not think of. Not now. Not with one week to earn what she needed.

  What had she charged for the threesome? £1500? Near one quarter of the way to her goal. She put thumb to keyboard.

  Party for three again?

  Three replies came fast.

  A sad face.

  Just us. U n Me.

  That ok?

  Sonya tapped the phone against her teeth. This Lottie would remember her single rate, so she couldn’t charge more than eight hundred. But if she scheduled it right, she could still get out and down to Mayfair for a bigger pay day later. She tapped.

  Have to be early. 9 for a couple of hours?

  The sad face came again. Then.

  Done. Remember where?

  She had it in her notes. She texted back a thumbs up.

  Lottie responded with a kiss.

  Sonya probed her cheek with her tongue. Still swollen, and the shaking hadn’t diminished much. She wouldn’t do well tonight. She called, “Take me home, please, Tadeusz.”

  He looked at her in the rear mirror. “Good,” he replied.

  She put down the cloth, got a couple of Advil from her bag, washed them down with brandy. Then she scrunched down and laid her head against the cushioned seat. But when she closed her eyes she saw handcuffs, a strap on dildo, a pot belly with grey hairs, so she opened them again and watched London pass.

  It didn’t seem to take long to reach the Aylesbury Estate. She usually insisted he dropped her on Deacon Street. It was easier to reach her flat via the walkways. This time he insisted on dropping her at her block – and, over her protests, walking her the three floors up to her door, carrying her bag.

  He’d never been into her flat before. His glance was neutral. She was pretty sure he looked at the same basic furniture, the same bare walls, saving decoration money for those who needed it more back home.

  He saw the photo - of her, Maruska and Georgiy, taken at Moscow Zoo. “She is pretty, your girl.”

  “Yes.” She reached into her bag, brought out the envelope the Englishman had short changed her with. Peeled off fifty pounds and held it out to him. “Thank you, Tadeusz.”

  He looked at the money, didn’t take it. “Not tonight, Tsarina. This one on me.” He lifted his palm to her, shook his head. “You be ok?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She suddenly leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You are a good friend,” she said, her voice thickening.

  He nodded, squeezed her arm, left. Wiping a tear away with the back of her good wrist, she poured herself a vodka from the freezer, and went to run the bath.

  As she lay in it, her shakes faded. The liquor helped. But she was also planning and that usually calmed her. One more night, she thought. I can’t do any more. About six grand to make. Eight hundred promised by Lottie. After her, 11pm. Mayfair, the Arabs. Choose carefully, make it very special, earn a very special tip. Then, one in the morning, the Groucho. There was an Australian film director, always there on a Monday. His London residency, he said. He’d been waiting for his new film to be green-lit. ‘When it is, Sonya, love, you and I will celebrate,’ he’d said, running a finger up one inner thigh under the table. He’d previously mentioned a few things he’d like to do. Somewhat unusual. She’d quoted him the price and he hadn’t blinked. And the film had been greenlit, she knew. It was the one that black boy, Patrick, had been cast in.

  She’d hire Tadeusz to stick around. She could use the speedy rides and, after what had happened with Sebastien, a bodyguard.

  One more night, she thought, and sank into the hot water till her face, her swollen face was beneath the surface. The shabby bathroom looked better blurred.

  Agony! Sebastien didn’t think he’d ever been in such pain. Maybe when he’d had his appendix out. But that was a memory and this was present, real. His nose throbbed where the bitch had kicked him. The back of his head hurt and he wasn’t sure why – until he turned and saw the bedside table on the floor, with all the things that had been on it. He must have hit it when he fell. He could taste blood and snot, and a burning in his throat.

  But the worst were his wrists. The cuffs were so tight his fingers were already numb. The wrists weren’t. The wrists were afire, radiating agony all down his arms, into his shoulders. They were thrust above him, he was stretched out, whichever way he moved – and he tried several – nothing eased. He couldn’t get himself up onto the bed, the angle was impossible.

  “Fuuuuuck!” he screamed. But he knew that no one would hear. Not above the music, blaring some orchestral piece. And though he’d lied to the bitch about everything else – his name, his desires, the money – he hadn’t lied about renting both suites. But she was meant to be making the noise, not him. She was meant to be screaming, unheard, and telling him everything he needed to know.

  “Fuck!” he said, more quietly. Pain was making thinking hard. But thinking was all he had.

  He thrust his head forward, peered around his tricep. His phone was on the floor, screen up. He could see messages on it, though couldn’t read them through the sweat that was stinging his eyes. If he could get the phone to his hands, he could press his thumb down, open it, call Siri, get her to… but as soon as he tried to move his legs that way, double agony shot through his shoulders. He couldn’t move like that. How had that bitch managed it?

  He sank to the least painful position, still fucking painful. He started to cry, salt stinging. What was he going to do? He’d paid for discretion. He was a regular at the Excelsior. They liked his tips. They’d keep away.

  He twisted his head from side to side – and noticed the hotel phone. It had fallen a little further into the room and he thought he might be able to reach it with his left foot. It nearly killed him, but he did. Three flicks and he’d righted it. He could hear the distant beep beep of the disconnected line. He was weeping fully now as he angled his foot still more and pushed the disconnect. When the dial tone came, he managed, on the third attempt, to hit first zero, and then the button that read, ‘Speaker Phone’.

  Three rings and a pick up. A male voice, accented.

  “Good evening, Mr Devereaux. How may I help?”

  He was about to scream, get me an ambulance, the police, my wife… but he managed to stop himself. “I need you to call someone for me.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, please you turn down the music…”

  “No!” he screamed. “I need you to call a number for me.”

  “You may dial ‘9’ for an outside line…”

  “No!” he yelled again. “I wish you to call this number.” He swallowed. Christ, what was Bernard’s number, he usually just speed-dialled him. “Z
ero two zero six six, uh, three six, no, seven, three seven two, zero eight eight four. I mean five!

  “Zero two zero double six, three seven three seven two zero eight five?”

  “Yes! Yes, I’ll… I’ll explain later. It’s a… it’s a kind of a joke.”

  “I see, sir. I will …call.”

  “Wait! The call is for Bernard Rawlings. Only him. When you get through tell him to come here straight away. No delays. When he does…” Sebastien shifted slightly and the torture of that almost made him faint. “When he arrives you are to bring him up…” he bit his lip, tasted blood, “bring him straight up, I say, and let him into my room. Do not come in with him! Do you understand?” He tried a laugh. “The joke won’t work then.”

  There was a silence. For one horrible moment he thought they’d somehow been cut off. Then the desk clerk said, “I see, sir. Of course. Anything else?”

  Sebastien managed to hit disconnect. He fell back, and fainted.

  Part II

  ONE LONDON DAY

  14

  Monday… July 30th 2018. 945am

  There was a park not far from his flat in Gants Hill, between two rough estates. Run down, with a tatty playground and toilets that saw a bit of action on a Saturday night – drug action, prostitute action - but not much during the day. No CCTV, a camera would be gone in hours. People tended not to bring kids there because of the needles. Mr Phipps always took his white overalls and cap off in a cubicle there, shoved them into a bin liner then put that in the boot. When he’d started in the game, he’d been so scrupulous about getting rid of any possible traces, he’d go to a foundry where a mate from the Paras now worked and had given him the door code. At night, when no one was about, he’d burn everything in the furnace. But overalls cost a shocking amount these days so now he recycled. Figured that with a good hot water bleaching, any of his or the gig’s DNA that might have splattered onto him, would be gone. If it wasn’t… well, if the Bill was checking his overalls for DNA he was probably fucked anyway. But he didn’t want anyone to see him arrive home in them. The gig’s wife would not, he was pretty sure, remember much about his face - but she’d remember the white overalls, the red cap. Those, he thought, dumping the bag in the boot, she’ll remember for the rest of her life.