by Evelyn Weiss
8Monday 17 July
The past few days, even though they’ve raised hope, have given me so many sleepless hours, turning things over in my mind. The highlight, would you believe, was the medical examination, which I had the day after my visit to the Soames. Really interesting, I even learnt a few things, such as I’m Blood Group A. After that, a busy weekend: seven clients in all. Good money, but I feel fucked out. And all incalls: convenient, but I’ve not left the flat. I look out at the familiar sunshine on familiar bricks, slate rooftops, backyards. Will Barbara Boobs strip off today? Bloody hell, I’m reduced to staring out of the window watching the neighbours. Then my phone rings.
It’s Cheriton. “You’re a very lucky lady, Miss Harlow. You’ve been on our books only a couple of days, and I’ve got someone who’s interested in you.”
“Who?”
“All you need know at this stage is that this is very discreet. You must be here today at 4pm, to prepare for a guest who wants to see you for one hour only, at 8pm. Oh, and I received your medical examination certificate – all in good order. Thanks for doing that.”
“Will I be paid? From 4pm?”
“Yes, exactly as I said, you’ll be paid for the whole time. Don’t ask questions. Just be here at 4.”
I’m not thinking straight. I’ve just remembered something. “Mmm – bit of a problem. I’ve already got a booking at 4pm, I’m afraid. If your client’s not there until 8 o’clock, I could get to the Soames around 6? or? ...” I trail off: his silence sounds seriously pissed off. It’s difficult – I’m not in the habit of letting my normal punters down, a booking’s a booking. But if Cheriton gets the idea that I won’t come running whenever he calls... my brief career with him might be over already.
“Holly, you got a clash today? I can cover.”
“Jazz, that would be fantastic. Do you mind? 4 o’clock, details on the form on GirlsDirect. You’re a life-saver… Mr Cheriton, yes – of course I can be there, on the dot at 4, exactly as you say. What should I wear?”
“Travel in your everyday clothes. I’ll explain when you get here.”
OK, here goes with the new plan. I shower and put on my coolest cotton sun-dress. I leave the flat mid-afternoon, head over to Kingston. The late afternoon and early evening are spent in pampering. I’m bathed, massaged and perfumed by the same girl, Areeya, that I saw Cheriton arguing with. She tells me she’d like to work here as an escort. I suspect that she’s too valuable to Cheriton doing what she does. As she kneads my back I wonder: has he fucked her, to try her out in the sack? Slimeball.
At quarter to eight, wearing nothing but a silk dressing-gown they gave me, I go up to a big, airy bedroom; bay window, the old-fashioned sashes are open; I can smell flowery evening scents drifting up from the gardens. Finsbury Park was sweltering hot, but Kingston is somehow fresher, and now it’s evening, there’s a slight breeze through the room. Like Cheriton told me to, I sit in a chair opposite the door, take off the gown, feel a coolness on my skin. Which I like.
Ten to eight. The door opens, without a knock. A figure fills the door: well over six foot, and broad shoulders. Short-sleeved shirt and jeans. Like I said, I’ve no interest in football, but the face of Tony Cattrell is recognisable, even to me. The door closes behind him.
“Hi. I’m Tony. Tony Cattrell.”
“I can tell. You’re better in the flesh.”
“Better than what?”
Than on the telly, stupid. But he doesn’t wait for my answer. He’s undressing calmly, efficiently, like he’s in the team changing rooms. Then he goes into the bathroom, without shutting the door, comes out after one minute. Like Krasniqi, this guy doesn’t wash his hands.
“Can you get on the bed?”
Obviously, I will, and I do. The bed’s right in the bay window. They really are not afraid of paparazzi at the Soames, I think, as I pose on the bed like I’m making a porn movie, and he comes over to me.
It doesn’t take long. When he’s done, I speak.
“I love watching you play. You’re an artist on that football pitch.”
“You’re right. I’m an artist, that’s what they say.”
I’ve never watched one second of his artistic footballing talents. I’m picturing something else. Celebrity news and gossip. One issue of Hot magazine last summer was completely given over to photos of his wedding, and the ‘divine’ Devine Cattrell.
“Holly, isn’t it. I know what’s in your head, Holly.”
“What’s in my head is, I am one lucky girl.”
“You’re also thinking, why does Tony Cattrell come here, when he could go anywhere, pull any woman he likes.”
“You’re a mind-reader.” I’m enjoying pretending to be thicker than I actually am. Maybe if I keep pretending, I can ask him some questions about this place. I give it a try. “I’m guessing, gorgeous, that you come here cos it’s such a nice place, such nice girls. It’s really friendly, don’t you think?”
“It’s OK. Yeah, nice girls.”
“Do you ever see any other celebrities here?”
“Nope.”
“But I guess that’s what you like about it. Quiet like, away from all the buzz. Mr Cheriton, he’s great, he keeps this place like an oasis.”
“Oasis?”
“Like – a really nice place. You can do anything here.”
Two minutes. He’s thinking, then he speaks.
“You’re nice. Really nice, you know.”
“Thank you.”
“Devine. You know about her, of course.”
“You’re fantastic, so sexy. I feel like I’m the luckiest girl in the world.”
“You watch out, Holly.”
“Sorry?”
“Take care of yourself. You said, this is a nice place. But sometimes, it’s not.”
I kiss him, tracing my lips over his mouth, his cheek. I blow a kiss into his ear. “You’re amazing. You turned me on so much, the moment you appeared in that door and I realised it was you.”
He turns away, lies with his back to me. Speaks so softly I struggle to catch his words. “I mean it, Holly. You watch out. Girls who don’t keep to the rules, here – things happen. Don’t trust him. Ever.”
“Don’t trust who?”
“Cheriton.”
“He seems a nice guy to me. Of course, I’m new, I don’t know him very well...”
Silence. He feels he’s said too much: already he’s clammed up. Most guys would change the subject, to anything. He’s not got the conversation skills for that, so he keeps quiet. Several minutes pass by before he thinks of something.
“Weather’s been hot, these last few days.”
“Yes, it’s been roasting, hasn’t it? I like wearing light summer dresses, that helps. Ruby – she always looks good. In summer dresses.”
“Can’t say I’ve noticed.”
“Not noticed? A red-blooded guy like you? You must have seen her. She’s a gorgeous girl. Nice boobs, fantastic legs.”
“She’s OK I suppose.”
“And Potter – he seems to keep things running smoothly.”
“Don’t know him.”
Tony Cattrell’s conversation skills make most of my punters look like chat-show hosts. But there’s something, under the surface. Something he wants to say, but he’s holding back. I try again.
“If I was a bloke – well, I’d fancy Ruby, anyway. The other day I saw her, the sun was behind her, shining right through her dress, it was like she was nude, in silhouette. Stunning figure. Those legs go on and on.”
He murmurs something in reply. And I’m not 100% sure I heard it correctly, and I’m not going to ask him to repeat it, but I think it’s that very same phrase I replayed in my head a few days ago.
“Fucking tart.”
He lies there, silent. I gaze at the ceiling. After a few minutes, he says one word.
“Bye.”
And he’s dressed, and he’s gone. I’m kicking myself for not learning more, but at the same tim
e relieved to be rid of his company. You might kid yourself you’re an artist, Mr Football Genius, but how Devine – or any woman – stands being with you for more than a few hours, beats me.
They told me I could go back to the spa, or use the room’s bathroom, after the booking. Bath very much needed – and I’d prefer, like that actress woman from the old movies, to be alone. I open the bathroom doors, turn on the taps, step into the bubbles, lie back and don’t think of England. The football team, that is.
I could lie here in this water for hours, eyes closed, dreaming, forgetting.
I drift off in my mind, back all those years to a different time. A different world, where I’d been abandoned on a pavement on a January day, all my belongings in the world in three crappy cardboard boxes. I didn’t even think about going back into the children’s home. I looked up and down the gray street, the trees against the raw sky as I always see them, black-boned skeletons like the ones that come into my dreams sometimes. I shivered, and wondered where I would be sleeping that night. Then I piled everything that I could into one box that I could carry, and started to walk, as fast as I could, not knowing where, but going away, away from the children’s home, away from Amrit. I heard later that his parents were furious with him for abandoning me, and that his father had combed the nearby streets looking for me for two days.
Derelict: Ground Fucking Zero. But something in me was still strong. I spent eighty pence on a coffee at a greasy spoon, nursed that drink in its plastic cup for two hours, then I started walking again, kept going through the cold rain, until I was several miles away, somewhere in the north London nowhere-land. Then, outside a parade of shops, I saw Derry, one of the kids I’d grown up with at one of the homes. He was a couple of years older than me, and in fact when I was about fourteen I quite fancied him for a couple of months. He waved, said he’d carry my box for me, where was I going? He told me that him and a couple of his mates were occupying a basement, illegally of course. He said that during the day they lived on the buses, stealing mobile phones off people and then selling them on to a guy they knew, they were making good money, they would rent a place to live soon. So of course I spent that night at his place, met his two mates, both of them a bit dim and I could tell, they looked up to Derry. He’d become leader of his own little gang. After two days, I realised that I’d moved in with them. I’d joined his gang too. There were bottles everywhere, nicked from supermarkets; it was nice to glug down half a bottle of something strong and forget for a while where I was, who I was. After I’d been staying there a few days, there came the only occasion I tried drugs: some cannabis a guy had given them in return for a phone when he was short of cash. We all got high and started playing a kind of strip poker drinking game: it ended with a shambolic orgy. Then I remember waking in the night, naked, lying next to Derry, listening for a long, long time to his breathing in the dark.
After that, the next year was a blur. Guys would come round and would pay fifty quid to Derry to join in with one of our sex sessions. My job was to get food; Derry would give me twenty quid to go to the pizza place, the fried chicken shop etc etc. And every now and then when Derry and his mates were out, I’d go to where he kept his cash and take a £10 note. I knew that he counted his money when he’d been on weed all night, and therefore his counting would be a bit hazy. So I got away with it. I hid the notes that I stole behind a loose brick in a dark, damp corner of the basement. And the next night there’d be another guy, another fifty quid, plus the money from the mobiles. Derry was no accountant, but he was sure good at persuading some mate of his to part with fifty quid for some fun with a teenage girl in a shitty basement. And after a few weeks there were two girls for them to enjoy: Derry brought along his ‘girlfriend’ – petite, pretty, redhead Debbie. Even younger than me. We went on like that all spring and summer that year. It was a warm year: rarely were we cold even though we lived like animals, dossing in that basement.
“Holly!”
I open my eyes, look up. Cheriton is standing over me, gazing at my soapy body lying in the water.
“Does a girl never get a moment to herself round here?”
“It’s important. Very. I’ve got another booking for you.”
“So? Do you have to intrude on me even in here, to tell me?”
“Another booking – for this Thursday evening. But I’m telling you now, because when I phoned you this morning about Cattrell, I could tell, you were reluctant to clear your diary for today’s booking. This time, no questions, no hesitation. You’re here on Thursday, you’re available for our guest. And you’re charming to him.”
Under that plummy manner, behind that fat face that gazes down at my floating boobs among the bubbles, I sense that he means business. Despite being on the game for over ten years, I’ve managed to avoid almost all pimps. I’ve met a few, of course. And shagged a couple of them, for the right money. But one and all, they’ve been horrible, horrible people. It’s as if a bit of their heart, the bit that recognises that people actually do have feelings, is missing. And that’s the impression I have now. Cheriton swans about in his gold-buttoned blazer, and I bet he’s never hit a girl. Oh no. He’d hire someone else to do that for him.
“Holly, you’ve just landed the goose that lays the golden eggs. Considering you’ve so recently joined us, you’ve been very, very lucky to be picked. This client is extremely choosy.”
“How did he ‘choose’ me then?”
“He saw you here. When you arrived this afternoon, when you came in for your scrub-up session. He came over to see me about you, immediately. He’s very different from Cattrell. Cattrell is a regular here – he dines here, he likes the restaurant, in fact he and his wife are both members here – but she knows nothing, of course, about the other services that he uses here. She believes this is just an exclusive hotel and restaurant. But Cattrell himself – in terms of sex, he rarely chooses the same girl twice. Whereas the new client, he’ll need more – conversation. Intelligent conversation. He’s been trying a few girls recently but I happen to know he is looking for one person to be… You see, his work is very stressful; he comes here to relax, to be himself. And he likes to develop a connection with someone. He might want something regular, with you alone. It’s promising, and it could be very lucrative for you. So you’re more than lucky, Holly. You’ve won the fucking Golden Ticket.”
Even when he swears, Cheriton is using every single word like a tool, to make me feel how he wants me to feel, so that I’ll do what he wants. He’s told me nothing, of course, about what this special client likes about me. To him, I’m something for sale in his shop. My personality, my feelings, are just things that he needs to take into account when he’s trying to control me. And right now, there’s no point in resisting. Pick your fights, Holly.
“OK. I’ll keep Thursday free. And thank you. Thank you for getting this set up for me. It does sound – really good.”
“Good. We’ll provide your clothes. Your wardrobe needs to be appropriate. You’ll be meeting our guest for dinner in our restaurant, at 8.”
Finally, he’s gone. I’m really determined now to enjoy this bath. I bolt the door. And although I try to relax and forget, the memory floods back to me: the basement, the smell of damp plaster, rotting food, alcohol, cannabis, sweat and semen. The smell of that summer, long ago.
It’s late when I leave the Soames: walk, train, tube, home. I’m on one of the last trains of the night to Finsbury Park, and I try to stop my mind flashing back to the night that Wycherley died. Now, as then, I sit on a late tube, sweaty and dog-tired. As the train chunters along, I avoid the eyes of the scattered young and old drunks, gaze out into the black tunnels through the window. I’m looking into the dark, but I’m seeing redness. Suddenly a wave of exhaustion comes over me, and I can’t wait to be in my flat, in my bed. I’m glad to see the sign for Finsbury Park station slide into my view. Out on the street, it’s just as hot and stuffy as it was on the Underground, the air is close and warm li
ke a blanket. The tread of my feet aches on the pavement. Nearly home. One minute before my street, there’s a little open area of scruffy public lawn among the houses. We call it the Green, it’s not worthy of the title ‘Park’. Parents keep their kids off it, because it’s where every dog walker in Finsbury takes Poochie for his daily shit: right now, the place stinks in the heat. I walk along the edge of it in the dark, keeping an eye out for dog crap and litter in the dim orange glow of the streetlights.
My mobile rings. A punter calling me to make a booking, at this time? I answer it automatically, before checking who’s calling.
“Hello, Holly. Do you still smell of petrol?”
“Sorry, is this a kinky call?”
“No, you fucking whore. I mean the petrol you used to try to burn me to death, you shitty bitch.”
“Krasniqi.”
“Yes, I’m still alive, and I guess you know that now. You burnt my home, my papers, my computer.”
“I burnt nothing. I was never anywhere near your place, not after that one time. I never wanted to go back, not as long as I live. I don’t hate you. I just despise you for what you are.”
“Listen, I don’t care what you describe it as – hate, despise, who cares. Nice dress, by the way. I like blue.”
I’m wearing my blue cotton sun-dress. I’m under a streetlamp. I cast my eyes around the street and out into the blank blackness of the Green.
“Now, bitch. Move into the middle of the park.”
“Not on your fucking life. Why should I?”
“Because you know, you cheap slag, that I’m not interesting in hurting you. You’re not worth hurting. No. You and I have business to discuss. I can put you in prison for a long, long time. The police, you know, don’t just think that you killed that man at the hotel. They also think that you tried to kill me, to silence me, because I can put you behind bars.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about what they think, if I were you.”
“You mean DI Pawan? Saint Florence fucking Nightingale? Perhaps you don’t know: she’s been taken off the case. Replaced by someone who is more interested in getting results. Someone I can talk to, someone who has been listening to me, a lot. Now walk, out onto the grass, right into the middle of the park.”
I step onto the grass. There’s a touch of dew: I feel it on the sides of my feet, between the straps of my sandals. It’s mad, I’m worrying about not stepping in any dog poo in this darkness. I keep the phone to my ear, he keeps talking, telling me to keep moving. Blackness all around. His eyes are out there, somewhere. I speak into the phone.
“OK, I think this is the middle. So what do you want?”
“Before we come to what I want, I’m letting you know two things. First. You told the cops that I could not have fucked you at your own flat, because I wouldn’t know your address. Well, that’s changed now. Someone very helpful, someone who is investigating the murder, kindly told me your address. You live with that other silly bitch, the one who thinks she’s clever. I’ve been to your street, I’ve watched your door, I’ve seen you both come and go.”
“You said two things, Mr Krasniqi.”
“The second thing is this. Since I have to make a full new statement, I’m thinking of telling the police that I was walking back towards my home, when I saw you pouring petrol through my letterbox. I think that the new police team will be very interested to hear that.”
“So, what you mean is, you haven’t told them that fairy-story already. Well try it. You can’t keep changing your story to them. They’re going to start laughing at you, you know.”
Keep calm, Holly, try to keep calm. But the thought that he knows where Jazz and I live, it’s turned my insides to water.
“Yes – I can get away with telling the police that – if I tell them that I was too afraid, at first, to tell them everything. It will still be a written witness statement. Whatever they believe about me, they will act on it. The evidence will all point to you, for both crimes.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s very simple. I just need £5000. That’s all.” And he can’t resist adding “For the moment.”
“You mean, £5000 now – and more later. Try to kill me if you want, but I’m not doing this. I’m no way letting you start blackmailing me for the rest of my life.”
“Not for life, though, Holly. You must remember, if I go to the police in a few months’ time, my story about you and the petrol may not be believed, they will say I should have come forward earlier. So, I need to use this opportunity now, while my information still has – currency. Now you can understand why I ask for this money. Your work earns you a lot of money: share some of it with me. For a couple of months only, and then you need never see me again.”
“But five thousand pounds! Be realistic. I don’t know what you know about my earnings, but...”
He cuts in, sharp. His patience has run out. “Forget it, Holly. This is not about negotiation. You get that money for me by a week on Friday, 28 July. I give you that time, to let you get the money together. Get your clothes off, get on your back, work that nice little pussy that you showed to me, earn some cash for me. You earn your money piss-easy – so I should get a share of it, yes? Then, on the day before, Thursday 27th, I will phone you. I will tell you where you will meet me, the place where you will hand over the cash to me. Then, I will tell you what more money I need to keep silent. To keep you out of prison. So, you see, I do you a favour.”
“Why here?”
He’s silent. I shout “Why here? Why did you get me to come out here in the dark, into the middle of the fucking Green?”
“I’m not going to harm you, Holly. Not yet, anyway. You are a meal ticket for me. But I enjoy – I like – to scare you.”
He’s rung off. I pick my way back to the pavement, to the lights.
As I reach the pavement, the phone still in my hand, it rings again: I nearly jump out of my skin. I look at it. Incoming call: Cheriton. I sigh. From one sleaze merchant to another.
“Mr Cheriton. Late, isn’t it. What do you need me for?”
“Just checking you got home safely.”
“I’m not home. Yet.” I hurry away from the Green, but none of these, my familiar home streets, feels safe anymore.
“Well, have a pleasant journey, then. And, a reminder about Thursday. But also, short notice I know, but I need you to come in tomorrow. Usual rate of pay, but it’s not a booking. You and I need to meet. See me in my office at 11am. I’ve got another piece of work for you, it’s a one-off but it could earn you a nice bonus. Something I need you to look into for me.”
“Look into what?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. It’s something a bit out of the ordinary, something I believe you’ll be good at. And by the way, well done with Cattrell, he told me he’d enjoyed himself. One of the best in the last month, he said to me. So – goodnight. Sweet dreams.”
And he, too, is gone. And at long, long, last, I’m home. For a few hours.
