Terrence stood at the bar waiting his turn. He took off his coat and hat and passed the time by watching Albert. The bulge of his nose, the thick body beneath the layers of lace and velvet. The flesh swag of his chin. He thought what an unyielding presence Albert was in his life, and with no hope of the law changing any time soon, the idea of nights like this stretching off into eternity depressed him. Unlike many who frequented this establishment, Terrence didn’t suit it here. He didn’t fit. Made sure he didn’t fit. Most of the people he was forced to rub shoulders with in this place disgusted him.
‘Good evening, my dear. Same as usual?’ Albert turned his big face to his.
‘Please.’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you.’ Up close, Terrence saw Albert was wearing a woman’s foundation. The pores of his skin pitted like an orange and clogged with powder. ‘Was your friend all right? Because when you were last here you ran off into the night.’
‘She’s fine. She didn’t go in the end.’
‘That’s a relief. That dreadful man was in here again yesterday.’
‘You should ban him.’
‘Rather difficult to do that, my dear. I can’t keep tabs on everyone, and there’s no one manning the door. But rest assured, none of my girls will be going with him again, so I’m hoping that will work as a deterrent to him coming here.’
Terrence glanced over to the usual gathering of prostitutes. There was no sign of the girl in the black feather boa. ‘At least it’ll mean they’re safe.’
‘From him, yes. Although…’ Albert rolled his eyes. ‘Another of my girls has gone missing. No one’s seen her for days.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘Oh, dear, indeed. Bella, do you know her? Fabulous redhead. Curls.’ Albert flapped a ringed hand at his thinning mop of greasy hair. Terrence shook his head; he didn’t think he did. ‘I tell them not to go off, that they’re to stay here. But do they listen?’ Albert scrunched his pulpy mouth and pushed Terrence’s tumbler of whisky towards him. ‘No, they do not.’
‘Does anyone know who she went with?’ Terrence paid for his drink and did his best not to breathe in Albert’s staleness.
‘There’s a few suspects. Not that we can do much, you understand.’
Terrence did understand. Involve the law, and the illegality that went on here would be blown wide open.
‘All we can hope is that she turns up safe.’
A group of youngsters in polo necks jostled between them. Terrence picked up his drink and left them to it. Pushed back through the crowd to join Malcolm and his friends at a table that had been ravaged by cigarette burns and candlewax. The varnish that had once been applied, worn away in flaking patches.
‘Terry, man.’ Malcolm beamed. ‘Come and join us… Seamus, deal a fresh hand, we’ll start a new game.’
‘Don’t worry on my account.’ Terrence kissed him then draped his coat over the back of the chair. Sat down with his hat on his knees. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘What’s up, man? You looking tired. You sick, or summit?’ Malcolm put his arm around him.
‘A spot of trouble at the club, I’ll tell you later.’
He downed his whisky and gasped. Better. Malcolm was watching him. Terrence touched his boyfriend’s face and a tender moment passed between them. He tried not to look at the scar. The ugly, thickened snake across the bridge of Malcolm’s nose that twisted down past his eye. He’d been lucky not to lose the eye. Terrence cringed at the memory and saw again the blood that wouldn’t stop… the shiny white walls of the police station. Wanting to forget the trauma, he moved his hand to Malcolm’s thigh and squeezed. A frisson of excitement fizzed through him.
‘I’ve missed you, Terry, man.’
‘I’ve missed you too.’
‘Want me to get you another?’ Malcolm pointed at Terrence’s empty glass.
‘Go on then.’
They kissed again and he sat back to watch Malcolm melt into the crowd. It never failed to shock, the lowlifes and crooks he was forced to rub shoulders with in this place. Seated at a table opposite, tipping ash into the candle bowl, was someone he knew to be an eminent cabinet minister, balancing a teenage boy on his knees. Head against head, drinking, giggling, oblivious to the swill of activity around them.
‘I’ve not been to police. Yet.’ The threat was little more than a puff of breath on the nape of Terrence’s neck.
He jolted upright in alarm. That smell again. Industrial drain cleaner. Strong, but not strong enough. Terrence could still identify the rot beneath: the rot it was supposed to conceal.
He whipped his head around to confront him.
Christie.
Leaning close to his shoulder. The narrow face beneath the hat was half-hidden in shadow.
‘That’s not to say I haven’t been considering it,’ the whispering continued: soft and reasonable, as if he was telling Terrence it was going to rain tomorrow. ‘Let’s go and have a little chat, shall we, lad? Find ourselves a nice quiet corner. See what we can sort out.’
‘I’ve nothing to say to you, and I think you’ll find you’re not welcome in this place after what you did.’
‘Oh, dear. Is that right? Let’s just say I think you’ll find it were in your interest to do as I say.’
Something in Christie’s expression made Terrence think he best just get whatever this was over with. He left his hat behind on the table, made his excuses to Seamus and the others, and followed the prim little man in plimsolls through the throng of revellers, into an empty booth that fell between a pairing of plaster pillars.
‘I don’t enjoy coming to these kinds of public houses. I abhor public houses. They are such ungodly places.’ Christie, his nose in the air.
Terrence watched the man sit and arrange his raincoat around him, prissily, so nothing else of him made contact with the grimy upholstery.
‘Do you mind telling me what this is about?’
‘No, it’s not my kind of place at all.’ Christie ignored him. ‘I’ve rather refined tastes, truth be told.’
‘I asked you what this was about. What do you want?’
‘All in good time, lad. All in good time.’ He was doing that sucking thing with his mouth again. ‘The name’s Reginald, by the way. I know you were told my name’s John, and it is, but my friends all call me Reginald… well, Reg, actually.’ A small pale hand was extended from under the cuff of his sleeve.
‘Friends?’ Terrence refused it. ‘I’m not your bloody friend.’
‘Oh, now, don’t be like that, Terry, lad. May I call you Terry?’
‘Er… w-what?’ Terrence spluttered his protest. ‘How d’you know my name?’
‘I know all sorts about you, lad. And me knowing your name’s the least of your worries.’ A nasty chuckle.
Terrence gawped at him, mindful of his beating heart, as he did his best to control his breathing.
‘Anyway, where were we?’ Christie continued in his whispery way. ‘Ah, that’s right, we were talking about this place, weren’t we?’ Another chuckle. ‘Well, I can see why the likes of you come here. Nice and secret, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re being so sniffy about, I’ve seen you here often enough.’
Terrence had been forced to sit beside Christie in the booth. The man spoke so softly, he needed to lean close to hear all he was telling him. His was a voice that would be lost among others and it made him wonder if it was a deliberate tactic on his part. A clever one if it was, as it forced him to listen, to give more attention than he ordinarily would. But that would make this man very calculated and cunning, wouldn’t it? All the more reason to watch yourself and not underestimate the bastard… Terrence’s warning to himself.
‘Needs must. You of all people should know that.’
‘Yes, but just because you pay them, it doesn’t give you the right to hurt them. Albert said you tried to strangle Marie.’
‘Maybe I did, but it’s not like I hurt an innocent woman.’
Nervous in this creep’s company, Terrence was desperate for a smoke but he’d left his fags behind. Fidgety, he lit the candle on the table instead, positioned it between them. Saw how far it threw its light. Not far. The room around them dissolved into obscurity and their shadows flickered like giants against the walls.
‘I don’t like naked flames.’ Christie tipped forward: a dark-winged moth drawn to the candle flame. ‘I don’t trust ’em.’ He smothered it.
‘I don’t trust you,’ Terrence mumbled. ‘Anyway, enough of this shilly-shallying. Are you going to tell me what this is about?’
As alarming as he was compelling, Terrence couldn’t peel his eyes away from this noxious little man. His hypocrisy was stunning, as was his sanctimonious manner. Despite the smell he carried on his person, the man was obsessively neat in his appearance and this puzzled him too. He’d seen where this man lived. He’d seen the squalor.
‘Don’t be testing my patience, lad.’ Christie pressed a hand to the small of his back and grimaced. ‘I’m in a great deal of pain tonight.’
‘You look all right to me.’
‘I’ve a bad back.’ The eyes glistened. ‘I’ve a certificate from my doctor saying I’m unfit for work.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
Christie gave him a black look that made Terrence shrink under his clothes.
‘I suffer with headaches too, and flatulence, diarrhoea and piles… oh, yes, I’m a martyr to my piles.’
‘Nice.’ Terrence pulled a face. The man’s seemingly never-ending list of ailments was as revolting as he was. ‘Am I supposed to feel sorry for you, or something?’
‘I’m just explaining,’ the Yorkshire accent tiptoed over the words. ‘If you’ll do me courtesy of listening… it’s why I’m a bit short this week.’
‘You want money?’
‘Ah, now, there’s no need to be vulgar. Let’s just say I need a little something to help tide me over.’ The quiet voice continued with its despicable demands. ‘Unless you’d rather I went to police, told them what it is you and that darkie get up to.’
‘You want me to give you money so you don’t go to the police?’
‘Aye, why not? The likes of you should be locked up.’ The expression hardened; the mouth set in a thin, grim line. ‘Letting you roam streets, it’s disgusting… you’re not safe. Aye, I’d be doing community a favour by reporting you. But I suppose…’ Switching back to his slimy self and rubbing the side of his nose with an outstretched finger. ‘I could be persuaded for right kind of fee, if you catch my drift?’
‘Hang on, let me get this straight. You want me to pay you to keep your mouth shut? But that’s blackmail!’
Christie narrowed his eyes. ‘Ah, now, blackmail’s such an ugly word, Terry. No, this is just a little way for you to help me out now and again, and in exchange… well, I’ll keep quiet about your filthy habits.’
Terrence noticed the shake in his hand when he took out his soft leather wallet. ‘And if I give you this – if I give you what I’ve got on me – then you’ll leave me alone?’
‘Well, now, we’ll see about that.’ Christie smiled and snatched the money.
‘What d’you mean, we’ll see?’
‘I don’t think you’re in any position to be ordering me about, do you, lad? I’m one in charge, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Terry, man. I’ve been lookin’ all over. What you doin’? Who’s dat?’
‘Malcolm!’ Terrence jolted upright. ‘It’s nothing… nothing for you to worry about.’
‘Dat not nuffin’, man.’ Malcolm pointed at Christie’s fist curled over the wad of notes. ‘Dat look like a load o’ dough. What you be payin’ him for?’
‘Honestly, it’s fine. Everything’s under control.’ Terrence leapt to his feet and placed what he hoped was a reassuring hand on Malcolm’s shirtsleeve. ‘He’s got what he came for and was just leaving, weren’t you?’
Christie stuffed the money into a pocket and rose to his feet. ‘Goodnight, both.’ He doffed his hat. ‘I’m sure we’ll be bumping into one another again, Terry, lad.’
50
There was only Dizzy, purring and circling her calves, to welcome Queenie home from the dance class she’d had to duck out of halfway through. Before she could do anything, she had to give him the attention he craved.
‘Good boy.’ She stroked his fur and was soothed by him. ‘I’ll make us something to eat, presently.’
Her morning sickness had eased, but she was just as tired and achy. Dulcie Fricker’s concern had come as a surprise. The way she had put her arm around her and led her aside, asking, in a motherly way, if there was anything wrong. At this show of kindness, Queenie had wanted to come clean, to share her guilt and the dilemma she was in. Desperate to talk and unburden herself, she just wanted the fear and uncertainty she was lugging around to stop. She wanted an end to this misery. It was the same feeling she’d had when she was last in Joy’s company. But in the same way she did with Joy, she resisted telling Dulcie. Recognising it to be nothing more than a tapering moment girdled in gold like a sunlit cloud, that although it had the potential to offer some temporary respite, it would only slide her into a different kind of trouble.
As she hung up her coat and dance shoes, she wondered what would happen if she did take Dulcie into her confidence. If she told her about the baby. How she was as frightened about her best friend finding out what she’d done as she was about her future. But she and Dulcie had never been friends and Queenie couldn’t go back on that now. So instead, and without pulling on her Marigolds as she usually would, she washed every part of the house. Knelt on the flagstone floor, the cold against her legs, scrubbing and scrubbing, until her hands grew red and sore. She cleaned out the fires. The stove. Pushed the Ewbank carpet sweeper over the bumpy rugs in the hall. Dusted the windowsills, polished the windows, the cabinet of her father’s trophies. Things he had won before Queenie was born that Norma said they didn’t have room for in their new Norfolk home. Cleared the matted strings of her dark hair from the plughole and polished the tap on the kitchen sink. Went outside and poured disinfectant down the toilet, swilled it around with the brush. Thought, I should never have gone near Charles Gilchrist, I should have known it would end badly… So why had she? She hadn’t been interested in him before he was interested in Joy. Was that it? Had she been driven by a sense of loss for the friend she had thought would always need her, and jealousy towards the man she had lost her to? But he’d deceived Joy too, it wasn’t only her. Not that halving the blame made her feel less dirty about herself.
She went upstairs to strip the bed. Boiled water on the stove and washed the sheets in the Belfast sink. Rubbed them in Tide washing powder and rinsed them under the icy water until her hands ached from the cold. This was life, her life. And life was grim. Unless you were Heloise and could afford the latest mod cons: a fridge, an electric cooker, a maid at your beck and call. What business did Queenie have in thinking there could be anything better for her? A sideways glance at the envelope on the kitchen table as she wrung out the sheets and passed them through the mangle. The contract from the record producers, the pages of typed text she flicked through, reaching the section she was supposed to sign but couldn’t; the nibbling teeth of her conscience putting paid to that. Panting from the effort, she shook out the heavy sheets and folded them over the clothes horse in front of the fire. You had the chance to do something different from the class you were born into, but you’ve blown it. Queenie’s thoughts were bleak ones. She could no more be part of the chorus in a Broadway show than she could sign that recording deal.
Her sudden frenzied activity made Dizzy scarper off upstairs, but she didn’t stop. Carrying her block of beeswax and duster, she moved into what her parents had always called the front parlour. Circling the heavy leather furniture, buffing the top of the dark wood sideboard with its musty-smelling insides. The arms of the leather chairs tha
t always sat on either side of the fireplace. Paused to stroke the antimacassars her mother had embroidered during the final bedridden months of her life. Turned on the stand lamp with its red silk shade and bobble fringe. The pinkish light glowed on the metal frame of a wedding group photo that she was just about to pick up and look at when someone knocked on the back door.
‘Queenie? Are you there?’ A man’s voice filtered through the glass panel. A voice she recognised.
‘I’m just coming.’ She dumped her beeswax and duster and, with the cat tiptoeing behind her into the kitchen, she rubbed the soot off her cheek and opened the door.
‘Terry! Oh, it’s good to see you.’ She was kissing his cheek when Dizzy jetted out between their feet and into the garden.
‘Was that a cat I just saw?’
‘Yes, that’s Dizzy. He’s as crazy as me, as it turns out.’
‘Great name, but since when do you have a cat?’
‘He just turned up.’ Queenie shrugged. ‘It’s nice to have the company. It’s lonely without Dad. Come in, I’ll make tea.’
‘Good heavens, Queenie, darling.’ Terrence, as if only just noticing her. ‘You look like you’ve been shovelling coal.’
You don’t look so hot yourself. He did look tired, his eyes sore like he hadn’t been sleeping and – what was unheard of for Terrence – day-old stubble on his chin. Dead leaves skidded in across the floor tiles.
‘I’ve been cleaning.’ She shut the door behind him then turned to put the kettle on to boil. ‘I’d not given the place a thorough going-over since Dad left.’
‘Sorry for calling round unannounced, but I didn’t want to wait until you got to the club.’
The Girl at My Door: An utterly gripping mystery thriller based on a true crime Page 21