Tara dragged a stepladder from the back of her overstuffed wardrobe; clothes, handbags, shoes and empty coat hangers flew everywhere. She held the ladder in place while Franco climbed up to take a closer look. He found a tiny hole alongside the light fitting, fine freshly cut wires jutted out. If there had been a camera, it was wired in from the flat above.
Making sure the coast was clear, they stepped out of her flat and sneaked up the staircase like thieves, tip toeing along the lushly carpeted hallway until they found the door to the flat above hers. It was ajar, someone had left in a hurry.
“Hello, anybody there?” Franco pushed open the door; it was dark inside, no lights, no sound, no answer.
“Hello,” he knocked, pushing the door further open. They gave it a few seconds, looked at each other, and with an agreeing nod, stepped inside.
The apartment was empty, no carpets, just bare dirty floorboards. It smelled musty, as if it hadn’t been lived in for some time. The layout was the same as Tara’s, she was hit by the eerie thought that such an empty, cold energy could exist so close to her own cosy, warm place, only a few floor boards separated them, she shivered.
Franco led the way as they gingerly walked from room to room, turning on lights as they went, a single bulb lit up each, thick curtains and bin liners blocked windows, wire cuttings and empty boxes scattered the floor, whoever had been there had left in a hurry.
Franco pointed out that each room had a small hole drilled into the floor directly above Tara’s ceiling lights, to her horror, even the bathroom.
The full scenario began to dawn, she felt nauseous, blood drained her face, reaching out to Franco she steadied herself.
“I’m going to be sick; please get me out of here, Franco,” she cupped her mouth with horror. “Who could do this? How long have they been here? They’ve been watching, seen everything… my bedroom, my bathroom… everything!” she looked up at him, tears welling, eyes pleading for an explanation. He didn’t have one.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he put his arm around her shoulder and led her gently out of the front door, and down the communal staircase.
Once back in her own apartment, she walked into her bedroom, stared up at the ceiling and started to cry, uncontrollably. Franco lay her on the bed and covered her heaving body with a blanket. Seething, but keeping himself in check, he sat on the bed beside her, stroking her head until the sobs subsided. Eventually she drifted into an exhausted sleep.
Very quietly, shutting the bedroom door behind him, he tip-toed into the living room, and, in hushed tones, called Michael, Ned and then the police.
Chapter Forty-Three
He was restless. It was time for the next move; he was anxious to get on with it. He’d been planning for long enough; the den was ready, the fridge stocked, they had enough food to last for days and he’d ordered in plenty of film and drugs.
He was missing knowing his angel’s every move. Since leaving the spy apartment, he’d not been able to watch her. He sat for hours looking at old footage of her bathing, sleeping, reading, eating. He avoided the footage of her with other men, it was too painful, but repeated over and over the footage of the midnight hours he spent with her.
Soon she would be conscious when he touched her, soon she would be begging for him, regretting that she’d turned him away.
Distributing her photographs was having the desired effect; he’d manipulated a media dissection. The Sporjakk campaign was butchered, heads chopped, careers torn, reputations in tatters, the baying press and social media had played into his hands. He had the power to dismember lives through a few visuals, how clever was he?
Mission accomplished, his angel’s career was over and her boyfriend had left her. She was vulnerable, ready to be cut, just like he’d been. If she disappeared for a few days, no one would miss her; they would assume she was in hiding, lying low, avoiding the furore.
Freshly showered, naked, he paced up and down his flat. He’d completed an extra hard work-out that morning, and was still pumped, even after the soothing shower. Keyed up like a caged animal, pacing from room to room; maybe he shouldn’t have taken that extra amphetamine at breakfast, or was it the steroids? The heart palpitations were noisy in his head, he needed release, now.
He’d put in the call an hour ago; what was the bloody delay? It was pissing him off.
Chapter Forty-Four
The weather had packed Cellini’s to the rafters. A surprise summer storm had hit the streets of London. Pouring rain made the idea of sitting in a warm, cosy restaurant all the more tempting.
Umbrellas were scattered around the reception area, the receptionist busy cello-taping cloakroom tickets to handles. The electricity in the air was tangible, making clients jumpy and excitable like skittish racehorses. The smell of wet clothes and appetizing cooking mingled. High-pitched chatter filled the room; only the English could talk ‘weather’ quite so enthusiastically.
There was a guilty pleasure, something smug and comforting, about sitting in a warm restaurant window looking out over the rest of the world as it rushed by - drowned rats struggling with the elements, bobbing in and out of doorways avoiding blustery sheets of rain, negotiating puddle-spray from thoughtless cars, hanging onto hats, umbrellas, hairdos and dignity.
But today, the girls were not feeling smug nor comforted; they were huddled together in a corner table at the back, away from the window and prying eyes. With the onslaught of media coverage over the past few days Tara had become recognizable. Curiously, people couldn’t make up their minds whether to love or hate her, think her sexy cool or a disgusting slapper. Helen, of course, loved it; she had a prostitute and a porno slapper as girlfriends.
For once, the girls did not need to rush their lunch for Tara to get back to work, she was on sick leave. They ordered a leisurely full three courses, which was unheard of for them, normally having to settle for a quick lunch hour main course and coffee. It felt weird; Tara had to keep telling herself to relax, there was no hurry, she didn’t have a job to rush to.
After the past forty-eight hours, this was just what she’d needed, frivolous TLC time with the girls. Bored with her situation churning over and over in her brain, she asked them to talk about something else first. Josie and her hooker admission kicked off the banter.
On the day of her shock confession, after Tara had stomped off in a huff, Josie and Helen had gone back to Helen’s apartment and sunk a few more bottles of vino, while Josie cried her eyes out, admitting every sordid detail of her double life to a spellbound Helen.
Helen lectured the disillusioned, ashamed, depressed Josie over and over, building up her esteem. She encouraged her to… “kick this feeling worthless shit’ and look at her job choice differently, she was not being used, nor a victim, she was actually using them, using their loneliness.
Her clients had no love, no value in their selfish lives, they had to buy it, to pay a woman to pretend to like them, to pretend to want them, to fake orgasm… how shit is that?
Josie had the power, not them; they were the sad lonely jerks that would probably never experience real love, romance. Never experience being wanted for who they were, because they had overstepped the mark and lost the magic of what could really be out there for them, had gotten used to paying for it rather than earning it, they should be pitied. Paying for sex was sad.
She reminded Josie that she was loved; her friends cared what happened to her, whatever she did.
“… anyone who has a problem with it, is not your friend.”
Tara took her last comment as a deserved dig.
Helen did a great job, after a few glasses of vino, Josie felt empowered.
Helen thought the whole prostitution thing brilliant, exciting, she wanted to know all the gory details, Josie or Josephine, had gone up ten notches to icon status, she still loved her knowing the truth, even more so, it seemed.
Josie wondered why she hadn’t confessed before; a huge weight lifted from her shoulders. She felt mo
re positive than she had in years. Helen had given her confidence.
“I know you don’t like what I do, T, but that’s the way it is. I luv ya an’ if you can’t accept me, tough, there’s nufin’ I can do; it’s your problem, not mine,” there, she’d said it, she couldn’t believe how brave she was being, Helen’s support had been good for her.
“You know I love you, whatever you do. I just don’t like the idea of you selling yourself; you’re better than that. I hate the thought of all those ugly old men groping and doing dodgy shit with you, apart from everything else, it’s dangerous, there are some bad people out there,” she was beginning to sound like her mother, “also, you lied to us all this time about your job in the bloody city…do you know how many times I had to sit listening to you drone on about some boring share deal?”
“But I do dabble in shares, it’s my passion; honestly, I wasn’t lying about that, my share dealings are going to get me out of this game. I’m not doin’ it forever; besides, it’s a young girl’s sport.”
“Well, I bloody well hope so, when I have a kid, you two are going to be godmothers, I can hardly have a bloody prossie as a godparent now, can I? For a start, Mum would kill me…”
They giggled at the thought of Gloria Warr’s haughty face thundering over the christening font of a poor baby with a prostitute godmother. A baby that, throughout its life, would have to carry the heavy, suffocating mantle of being her grandchild. God knows what kind of epileptic fit she was having over her daughter having sex on the front page of newspapers across the nation, Tara had ignored her calls.
“Anyway, I can talk, I’m hardly saintly mother material, no one will want to marry me now, never mind make me the mother of their child.”
“Rubbish, it will all blow over, no worries,” soothed Josie, patting Tara’s back, topping up their glasses with wine.
“Well, I think Josie’s profession is great, T; in fact I want her to bring me along on one of her jobs. Do you know how much she gets paid? It’s criminal, and I’ve been doing it for free all these years. I’m considering sending a back-dated bill to all my ex’s… if I could remember who they were. Damned cheek, all those freebies, I could be a millionairess by now! … ooops! oh yeah… I am already,” she giggled. “Never mind, I’m still owed, it’s the principle of the thing,” Helen had obviously been finding out all the gory details.
“How is Donal, Mr BJ? How much should you be getting for that? Weren’t you giving him seven a day at one stage? He doesn’t know how lucky he is,” giggled Tara, enjoying thinking about something else for a change.
“Well, actually,” Helen faltered, glugging back her wine. “He is no longer; he gave me the push. Said he was beginning to have nightmares about teeth tearing his watsit, so he became paranoid about me doing it anymore. I bet he noticed that I kept losing my rhythm. He just wanted straight sex, vaginal warts and all, or we were over. The little shit did some research and lectured me on warts. Said that they were caused by a virus called PVC or HPV, something like that, and could be removed by freezing or laser treatment under local anaesthetic, then just use a condom; can you believe it…he had me booked in for some laser treatment.”
“So, why didn’t you come clean with him that it was a fib,” chuckled Josie.
“Told him to get stuffed… besides, I had met Kevin by then,” she looked up cheekily, knocking back more wine.
“Ok, so what is Kevin into?” Tara was almost too frightened to ask.
“Golden showers.”
“What?”
“Golden showers, you know… any more wine in that bottle?” Helen lifted her glass towards Josie, who filled it, emptying their second bottle.
“No, I don’t know, is it some kind of pouring champagne all over you?” Tara asked. “Yo! an expensive pastime Hel.” Helen and Josie laughed, snorting into their minestrone broth, a perfect starter for a cold rainy day.
“Well, what the fuck is a ‘golden shower’ then?” raising her voice, slightly pissed off that she wasn’t in on the joke.
A waiter had arrived with a third bottle and stood patiently over their table, waiting for one of them to notice him and give him the nod to open it.
“It’s when people urinate on each other, Madam…will this do?” he asked, his posh English accent seeming out of place on Italian terrain. He pushed the wine bottle forward into Tara’s squinting eye line, so that she could read the label. “Same again, Madam?”
Tara looked up at him aghast.
“What do you mean, urinate on each other, that’s not very nice, is it?”
“It depends if you are the giver or receiver Madam, did you want fresh glasses with your wine Madam?”
Helen and Josie were nearly under the table with hysterics. Tara’s face was a picture; she really did look like her mother. The waiter was brilliant, didn’t bat an eyelid, all in a day’s work, his Shakespearian accent (he was a resting actor) made it all the more outrageous.
“No thanks, it’s the same wine, go ahead, what do you mean, giver or receiver?” it dawned on her. “Err… ok… no, don’t answer that, I get it,” her hand up, palm out. “I couldn’t do that, I mean… I couldn’t pee to order… what if I’m just not in the mood?”
“Drink a gallon of water about half an hour before needed, Madam. I find it’s better than filling up with beer; beer has a nasty yeasty smell, Madam, and gives you wind, which isn’t so nice for the receiver… and avoid eating asparagus, it can be a little smelly. Can I get you anything else, ladies?” he cleared away debris from their table and waited for their reply.
Taking Tara’s scrunched face silence, and the girls’ shaking shoulders (faces hidden behind napkins) as a no, he smiled graciously, ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ bowed and moved on to take an order from the next table.
“Hel, how could you do that? Get rid of Kevin pronto…Yuk, that’s disgusting… there is no way you can be godmother if you are still seeing Kevin, still showering,” Tara despaired with her friend, whatever next. .
“…and who the hell is the wonderful new waiter?” she watched him glide around the restaurant, majestic, dignified, as if in a scene from Julius Caesar, Mark Antony speaking eloquently over Caesar’s corpse… friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears….
“How much could you charge for that, Josie?” Helen asked.
“HELEN!” Tara shouted.
“T, you can talk, with pictures of you ‘dung punching’ all over the place,” Helen snapped back.
“Where’s the waiter?” asked Tara, in an innocent voice, her eyes searching the restaurant for him.
“’Err… sir… excuse me… what’s dung punching?” Tara giggled, pretending to ask him, in a voice just low enough not to be heard. Sending the other two off into hysterics again… napkins covering their faces.
Chapter Forty-Five
The doorbell rang, he jumped.
“About bloody time,” he mumbled as he walked towards the door.
Passing the mirror, seeing his reflection he stopped to admire himself… make him wait a little.
His gym workouts had paid off, he had the hard, defined body of an athlete. He loved it, loved running his hands over the taut muscle, following the lines of his six-pack, stroking his sun-bed bronzed skin. A white tan line framed his cock, trimmed curls of pubic hair trailed up his flat stomach. He was perfect.
“God did good when he made me… shame he didn’t get to keep me,” he smiled as he gave his cock a gentle pull, waking it up.
The doorbell rang again, then the doorknocker hammered loudly, his visitor was getting agitated.
“David, David… open up, it’s pouring out here… for Christ’s sake…”
Seb’s irritated voice shouted through the letterbox. David grinned and walked to the door, pulling it open with such a jerk that a sodden Seb tumbled into the hallway, landing in a heap on the floor.
“Holy moley David, what the….” noticing his host’s state of undress. “Oops, sorry, mate; did I catch you in the
shower?”
Seb pulled himself up and closed the door. Leaning back against it, his clothes soaking wet from the rainstorm, he brushed himself down and he caught his breath.
“It’s cats and dogs out there…” he stopped, noticing the semi lob that David had in store for him.
Since having a taste of David, he could think of nothing else. He’d struck gold, why had he waited so long? He was finally being himself, and fucking loving it. The buzz of sex stayed in his body 24/7, he couldn’t keep the smile off his face, he wanted to tell everyone, wanted more and more, David was a drug.
Although, sometimes David would frighten him, he would hold his face up close and take on a trancelike stare deep into Seb’s eyes, as if searching for something at the back of his skull, it was intense, but a turn on at the same time, weird.
“Bloody hell, David, you’re eager, aren’t you… give us a chance to get in the feckin door.”
David was in no mood to wait, he slammed into Seb there in the hallway. Mouth on mouth, hands tearing at clothes, pinning him up against the door. Within seconds Seb was naked, but for a grin and rain-soaked trousers around his ankles.
Seb loved it; he melted into whatever David wanted, putting up no resistance. Letting his body be stripped, manipulated, any which way David wanted, as long as he didn’t take that fucking sexy mouth away from his, he didn’t care, he was his slave.
Chapter Forty-Six
“Anyway, I wasn’t dung punching, Hel, I don’t go there, that’s your department… if you don’t shut up, I’m going to ask him what felching is; that’ll keep you quiet.”
“Oh, no, T, don’t you bloody dare… I’m tryin’ to eat ’ere, do you mind, you posh birds are disgustin’… I like this restaurant, would like to come ’ere again! Puhlease!” moaned Josie, putting her hand up to Tara’s mouth, playfully trying to stop her talking. Grateful the new waiter had disappeared off to the kitchen with a handful of dirty plates.
The Penance List Page 25