Guy Fawkes Day
Page 21
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Edgware Road, London: 5:30 p.m.
Paul Driscoll took a look around the small pub behind Edgware Road Station before perching on a stool by the counter. He was not a regular at the Carpenter’s Arms but he was a regular in the vicinity. In fact, he had chosen the pub precisely because he had never been there before. Probably, when he had exhausted all the watering holes within a quarter mile radius of his next destination, he would have to start revisiting those he had already tried. But being a meticulous man, the MP for Barnet would draw up a schedule for this eventuality so that his eminently forgettable face would continue to remain forgotten.
Once inside the chosen pub, however, the order of ritual was sacrosanct: pint of strong lager, please. Outside to smoke a cigarette. Gulp quickly to the bottom of the glass. Large gin and tonic, plenty of ice, please. Second cigarette outside. Wee-wee time. One for the road, please. Last cautionary wee-wee in case of getting urge to leak when pecker more pleasurably employed. Down dregs in glass. Insipid, forgettable smile to barmaid or barman. Off for fun!
Back in the street, Driscoll would habitually check his wallet, making sure that none of the crisp twenty-pound notes had disappeared. Money was the big problem with his weekly (now often twice-or thrice-weekly) treat. At one hundred and fifty pounds a time, Driscoll was starting to feel the financial strain. So, in a desperate attempt to find alternative funding for his habit, he had taken to preceding the brothel sprees with a visit to the bookmaker’s—more recently, even a casino. But the result had only been to add a vice and aggravate a debt.
Rounding the last corner into Star Street always sent a titillation of pleasure down Driscoll’s spine. Despite the evening chill, he could already feel the Latin American girl’s breasts sliding over his abdomen. Turning off the street into number 58, he telegraphed his arrival with the ring of his footsteps down the metal steps. A push on the buzzer was only out of politeness.
Footsteps in the hallway. On came the outside light. Sound of double locks turning in the door.
‘Allo, Mr Steve, come right in. She’ll be wiv you in a minute, dear.’
Driscoll followed the dumpy middle-aged woman into a gaudy sitting room of soft-cream sofas and suggestive pink cushions.
‘Will yer ’ave yer usual?’ she squawked.
Driscoll nodded, clearing his throat, which was tense with pent up excitement. The woman slipped on a blue movie in place of the soap opera and clip-clopped into the kitchen to pour his drink.
‘There you go, dear. It’s lookin ever so wintry outside, innit?’
‘Terrible, Miss Melanie,’ he agreed, just as he used to speak to his junior school teacher.
‘Never mind. Juliana will soon ’ave yer nice and warm, pet,’ she beamed.
Driscoll heard the door open and another man’s footsteps in the hallway. Miss Melanie scurried into the corridor to let the satisfied client out.
The bedroom door opened in front of Driscoll.
‘Ello Mister Steev,’ the Latin American girl smiled, lingering on each syllable long enough to hear him pant. ‘I’ve missed you.’ And with a purr in her voice she ran a long red finger nail down the length of his tie.
Driscoll gulped down the last of his vodka, anxious to soften the raging libido that threatened to soil his one hundred and fifty quid investment with premature enthusiasm.
Miss Melanie returned to the sitting room in time to watch Driscoll follow Judy into the bedroom. She felt a glow of satisfaction. But it wasn’t just the pleasure of seeing a regular becoming so very much more so. Gawd no! There were plenty more grey raincoats like ’im trippin’ over each other to see what young Juliana could flash their way.
No, this was quite different. A dark ’n ’andsome stranger had turned up on the doorstep last week, ’is pockets lined wiv notes—enough for a lady to retire on, it was. And the dark gentleman ’ad a most unusual request, but for fifteen grand cash, ’e was welcome to ask whatever ’e bloody well felt like.
When she was sure she had heard Judy taking Mr Steve’s money and telling him to undress, Miss Melanie tiptoed back across the sitting room and opened the door to the spare room.
‘All right, sir,’ she whispered. ‘E’s all yours!’
Hasan moved quickly and quietly to the kitchen. The camera was ready and the keyhole gave him a commanding view of the low-lying double bed. He had to wait at least five minutes while Driscoll lay face-down with Judy massaging his skinny white back. But when she got him to turn, Hasan set the camera rolling. Unlike the MP, it never lied.