by Emmy Ellis
Rosie paced her parlour room and swore her hands still had the ghostly residue of his neck on them, the pressure, the touch of skin against skin, the thud of his pulse beneath her fingers, until it wasn’t there anymore. No amount of washing them helped, and she acknowledged it was her mind conjuring that illusion, the same as it had before, although it hadn’t been skin then but the coldness of a heavy candlestick.
How long had it taken for that phantom feel to go last time? Eight months? Ten?
She couldn’t remember.
Mr Greenly was due in seven minutes, and she really couldn’t be doing with him. Sixties, bad breath (garlic, reminding her of Aaron and his kebabs), a flabby paunch, his legs stick-thin and so white, and he swept his grey hair back with wet-look gel, the front in some mad quiff. He took ages to finish, and she had to hold her temper at the best of times, but tonight—well, it was technically morning now, coming up to half twelve—she wasn’t in the mood. He snuck to The Angel once his wife was asleep—fed her pills to zonk her out—and used up the whole booked hour, touching her, pretending he was married to her instead, indulging in some bizarre fantasy.
The games some of them played to assuage their guilt were unreal.
She showered in the en suite, as they always did between customers, wishing she could go home. The Brothers had probably taken the neighbour out by now, and their cleaners would be washing any trace of him away. Fingerprints, hair, maybe some skin where he’d knocked his head on her table. George had switched off the fella’s phone and pocketed it, saying he’d remove the SIM and dump that and the mobile, which meant the last known place the neighbour had been was in the flats. If coppers other than this Rod Clarke looked into the disappearance, it’d seem like the man had been home.
What if Clarke was overruled and someone else picked up the case, though?
She could only hope her acting skills were up to scratch this time around.
She slipped into the red dress Mr Greenly preferred and fluffed her dark hair—she didn’t put it in a ponytail with him as he never expected a blow job. To be honest, doing one of those so close to the neighbour demanding one…no thanks. Slid her high-heeled black shoes on—he liked her to kick him with the pointed toes and call him a ‘filthy, dirty little boy’. Normally, she enjoyed it, pretending she kicked Dave Reynolds (Houndstooth) and Richie Lime or Aaron, but tonight, no, she couldn’t be arsed. She was tired of the charade.
When Lime had tried to take over The Cardigan Estate recently, Rosie had remained silent about knowing him and Dave. She’d been too ashamed to admit she’d had dealings with the pair and kept to the sidelines during that particular episode. The news they were dead, though… She’d allowed herself to be happy about that—who wouldn’t in her position? They were nasty men and deserved to be wherever The Brothers had dumped their bodies.
The intercom buzzed on the wall beside the door, and Rosie jumped out of the past. She pressed the button. “Yes?”
“It’s Mr Greenly, love,” Debbie said.
“Okay, send him in.” Rosie smoothed down her dress, formed a wide smile, and waited for him to enter—he didn’t like her to open the door and collect him from reception, saying he preferred the illusion that he was coming into their bedroom.
Once The Angel had called time and closed, punters came in via the fire exit around the back, left ajar for them. In he strutted, as usual in his navy-and-red-striped pyjamas, grey chest hair peeking out at the bottom of the V-neck, his burgundy tartan slippers a size too big so they flapped as he waltzed towards the massage bed. He stood at the foot and eyed her shoes, licking his lips.
Her stomach churned, and she raised one foot, kicking him in the shin.
The hour crawled by, and at one point, she cried, turning her head to the side so he didn’t see. She asked herself what she was doing, why she’d continued on this path despite being free of Aaron, Lime, and Dave, and still, after all this time, she couldn’t come up with an answer. She was just here, doing what she apparently did best, according to Greenly, who panted above her and grunted out his pleasure: “You’re a right fucking goer, you saucy bitch.”
She stayed in the shower for ages after he’d gone, safe in the knowledge she didn’t have another customer until two, and he only lasted about ten minutes, then that was it, shift over.
Dressed again, this time in an emerald-green sheath, she wandered into reception, in need of company other than with pawing men. Debbie was always good for it, and besides, she’d said that was part of her job, to listen and give advice if they wanted it. She was their friend as well as taking rent money for the rooms.
“All right, Rosie?” Debbie smiled and lowered one of her ever-present magazines. Glamour this time then. She had it open at the Hair Trends page. Was she thinking about a new cut and style? “Fancy a cuppa?”
Rosie nodded and turned to look out of the window at the cemetery in the distance. If Aaron had been born into a different family, he would be there, down in a deep dark grave, his headstone proclaiming he was a good son, the best brother, and may he rest in peace, Heaven his new home. Rosie wished he was in Hell, burnt time after time, the Devil his wicked master as much in death as he had been in life.
She shivered, lost herself in imagining his skin puckering from the heat, turning crispy and black.
Debbie brought two cups over, and they sat on the sofas facing each other.
“What’s the matter?” Debbie curled her feet under her and balanced her cup on one knee. Steam writhed from the tea.
Rosie couldn’t help but smile. That steam married so well with her recent thoughts, smoke rising from Aaron’s fire-ravaged body. And how did Debbie always know when any of them were down or had a problem? She must have a sixth sense.
Rosie glanced at the closed doors of the other rooms. The last thing she needed was someone coming out and catching them talking. She wasn’t ready to share with the masses. She’d taken Shirley’s place in the parlour after she’d been murdered, glad to be inside and safer, rather than out on the corner, harassed by people coming out of The Roxy, blind drunk, alcohol lending them the courage to slag her off.
“When I got home last night…” Rosie paused. If she opened up, there was no going back, but if she didn’t, she’d go mad, and anyway, The Brothers might tell Debbie. “I’ve got this neighbour, a man, don’t even know his name.”
Debbie’s eyes widened, and she leant forward slightly, as if ready to get up if she needed to. Always there, was Debbie, on hand to offer advice. “Shit, if you’re going to say what I think you are, tell The Brothers. You sell sex, you don’t get raped.”
“No, it wasn’t that. Not really.”
Debbie frowned. “Not really? If you said no…”
“That’s the thing, in the end I basically said yes. Got down on my knees…” She winced. “And I bit his cock.”
Debbie roared with laughter, some of her tea spilling onto the silk of her blue dress. She wiped at it. “Good for you, and poo, that’s going to stain. Dry cleaners it is then. So what happened next?”
“I killed him.”
Debbie wasn’t smiling now, the stain forgotten, her laughter dying to nothing. Her pink lips parted, maybe in her attempt to say something, maybe in shock, and Rosie studied her face for signs of revulsion or that little expression that told you someone no longer thought of you the same way.
“Say something, for fuck’s sake,” Rosie whispered, anxious to keep their friendship on the same level.
“Did you…? Shit, you rang me, didn’t you, and I didn’t answer. I remember the missed call now. Sorry I didn’t get back to you, I was asleep for about four hours, then got caught up with Lisa in the morning—she had to do an overnight stocktake.”
Rosie liked Lisa, the manager of The Angel. “It’s okay. I phoned The Brothers, like we’re supposed to if you’re not available.”
“I was just going to ask that. And?”
“The man will be gone by now, the cleaners doing their bit
.”
Debbie dropped her feet to the floor and came over to sit beside her. She placed an arm around her back and again balanced the cup on her knee, covering the wet stain as if that meant it wasn’t there. “It’ll all be sorted by the time you go home, don’t you worry about that. The most important thing is, how are you?”
“I don’t feel bad, he was scum, spoke to me like I was a piece of shit, it’s just… I don’t want this to become a habit.” She may as well confess all.
“A habit?”
“I killed my boyfriend, too, then I moved here. A couple of years ago, that was. Feels like only yesterday sometimes.”
“Bloody hell… Why?”
Rosie spilt the lot, conscious of getting it off her chest before any of the doors opened and the girls and their customers came out. She gave the abridged version so Debbie got the general idea.
“That’s a lot to cope with,” Debbie said. “I don’t blame you one bit. Lime, though… Why didn’t you say anything with the Sarah and Beth business?”
Rosie shrugged. “No point. It wouldn’t have changed anything. Lime and Dave were still going to get killed no matter what I said.”
“True.” Debbie sighed. Checked the clock on the wall. “Look, do you want me to hold off your last punter or ask one of the others to take him?”
Rosie shook her head. “I may as well get on with it. I’d like to say it’d take my mind off things, but it hasn’t so far.”
“When you go home, it’ll be like it never happened. Your flat will have had such a clean you could eat your dinner off the floor, trust me. There’s this place they go to, the bodies, and I’ve been there afterwards. Not a speck of blood in sight—that’s how good the cleaners are.”
“The warehouse.” Rosie shut out the image of red spatter and pools of scarlet. “That’s where The Brothers said they’d take him.”
“He’ll be chopped up and in the river by now. Gone.”
“Just the aftermath to deal with then.” Rosie sipped some tea, and it reminded her of the ones she’d drunk while the corpse had grown cold on the kitchen floor. “The thing is, I got through it before, learnt to act, had a solid alibi, but it was hard to stitch all the pieces together and stop them from fraying. This time, it’s easy. I can say I didn’t know the bloke. But it’s the acting I have a problem with. I worry I’ll slip up, show something on my face. It was hell back then, always second-guessing myself and questioning whether they picked up on my lies.”
“I know the feeling, but you’ll get through it. You have to. It’s survival. Anyway, Rod Clarke will tuck it all away nicely.”
“That’s what George and Greg said.”
“I can find out what’s going on when the copper gets involved, if you like.” Debbie stared down at her cup, the soft pink of her nail varnish glinting from the overhead light. It had a pearlescent effect. “I happen to shag him—not my choice, believe me—and he’ll keep me updated.”
“What’s he like?”
“A one-minute wonder and gross, but it’s something I do to keep him on my side. I happen to know where he lives, what his wife’s called, so if he starts any funny business, he thinks I’ll go round there and whisper in her ear.”
“Would you?”
“No, but he doesn’t have to know that. I just like the power of the threat. And anyway, why would I want to upset the poor woman?”
It seemed they all had secrets weaved into the fabric of their lives.
Just a shame I have two. If I hadn’t let him in, if I’d just left him outside to fuck about with that lock… She’d thought this already, yesterday at some point, but things were still the same.
Hindsight was an unhelpful cow at times, so she rolled her shoulders to get rid of the thoughts. Debbie must have taken it that Rosie didn’t want to be touched, and she removed her arm.
“Sorry, I know how prickly you can feel after something like this,” Debbie said.
“It’s not that,” Rosie told her. “I just…I was thinking about what I could have done differently—in both instances. I could have called the police both times and let them deal with it, but with Lime… He’d have killed me, so I couldn’t.”
“Listen, if it helps you to stop beating yourself up, and this isn’t common knowledge, I’ve killed twice, too, and I don’t feel bad either. Usually, guilt is a hard taskmaster, but sometimes, it really isn’t.”
“What?” Rosie stared at her.
“These things happen, but I’m still smiling, see?” Debbie flashed her teeth. “And you will, too. All I will say is, the next time you fancy biting a cock off or strangling someone, speak to me first. There might be a way to deal with it where you don’t have to act innocent afterwards. As in, someone else can kill them for you.”
“The Brothers,” Rosie said.
“Yep, The Brothers.”
Chapter Seven
Julie had met up with Aaron a few times now, always in The Flag, and whenever he walked her home, he steered her towards the women on the corner. Some scowled at him, and others smiled, stepping forward to chat, but he brushed them off, frowning, and Julie was tempted to ask him what the problem was—why he didn’t want to talk and why they seemed to know him.
They were prostitutes, she’d worked that much out for herself, so did he use them or what? Maybe. He hadn’t made a move on her. She’d like to think what people did for a living didn’t bother him, that he was kind and knew them because he walked past most nights, but something niggled at her: it was more than that.
Yet still she met up with him, still had the tummy tumbles every time he texted. Maybe that was because he was so nice to her, attentive, and she was comfortable with him. For the most part. There were moments she caught him out in little lies, but she never questioned him about them, things being relatively new. They hadn’t progressed to anything beyond having drinks together, nothing permanent going on, as in, an official ‘we’re together as a couple’, so what right did she have to query what he’d said anyway?
Like him saying he lived ‘clean’, all that chicken and plain rice for dinner, the gym visits, but he’d had a bacon sandwich or two every weekend since she’d met him, plus he drank a lot of beer in The Flag and ate those kebabs. Small things, but she’d picked up on them. And his hand. It’d healed quickly, the bandage removed the day after he’d hurt himself. His initial explanation about the injury had led her to believe he’d broken a couple of small bones and had splints on beneath the bandage, but there weren’t even bruises or any swelling—maybe she’d imagined him telling her what he’d done to himself. She had been spooked by Houndstooth, after all.
In fact, there was no indication he’d hurt his hand at all.
She couldn’t help but think these warning signs meant she should walk away, but the second he opened his mouth and got her laughing, the whispers of doubt faded.
Tonight, three months in, they were in Flamingos. Gail was there with Dean—she’d been shagging him for a while now, although she’d said it wasn’t anything serious—and they looked loved-up and happy. Julie pasted on a smile that matched Gail’s, although inside, she wasn’t merry in the slightest. Aaron had said something weird in the queue outside, and it played on her mind.
Two young women ahead of them had been drinking from a small bottle of vodka, and the bouncer had told them if they wanted to come in, they had to leave the voddy with him. They’d tried wheedling at first, then got lairy, the bouncer telling them to fuck off, they weren’t going in.
“Women should do as they’re bloody told,” Aaron had said.
She’d laughed, thinking he was joking, but that look on his hardened face said otherwise. Was that really how he saw women? His attitude towards her was great the majority of the time, so was he hiding his true feelings? Was there a dark side to him that was yet to emerge?
“Not what I wanted to hear.” She’d faced ahead and counted the people in front of them, then asked herself if she should go home, her happy mood obliterated now
. That one sentence from him had soured everything.
He’d dug her with his elbow like he had that first night. “I’m only messing.”
Whatever. For it to still be bothering her was yet another blip on her radar, one that shrieked an alarm with every pulse of the warning light in her mind. So why couldn’t she just tell him to sod off? It was as if he pulled her to him, and every time she entertained thoughts of him being slightly off, he erased them with nice words and a kiss to her cheek. For the most part while with him, she was cocooned by his ways, his attention, but alone, in her flat or at work, she had the sense she should run.
Confused wasn’t the word.
She gulped down a vodka shot then wandered to the dance floor, to sway to the music and be by herself, if just for a moment. But he followed, pressing up behind her, and his hardness poked into the bottom of her back. At last, there was some sign he fancied her properly, that this might go somewhere, and once again, her worries melted. She turned to face him, forcing a smile, and in the green, red, and blue flashes from the strobes, his eyes lit up.
They ended up in her flat, undressing quickly, and it was over as soon as it had begun. Julie got nothing out of it. She put his swiftness down to the first flush of excitement, the alcohol, and afterwards, he dressed instead of snuggling.
That hurt. She felt used, abandoned. It was nothing like she’d expected and everything she hated. All those weeks of her imagining how it would go, and it hadn’t even come close. Her fantasies fizzled out, replaced by the cold hard fact he was useless in the sack, inattentive, just out for his pleasure, giving her none.
“Come on, let’s go and get a kebab,” he said.
“What? We’ve not long got in.” She grabbed her tight clothes anyway, the call for cheesy chips stronger than her desire to remain put.