by Ruth Jacobs
As Shelley moseyed back along Willoughby Road, she regretted not sharing The Lanesborough secret with Angel. She felt a need to talk about it to someone, to unburden herself of the fear. But what if it wasn’t a secret? Then she could talk with Nicole. But then, if Nicole knew, why hadn’t she mentioned it? Perhaps it was because she had enough to deal with. With the court case and now the justice they had planned for the rapist, Nicole didn’t need another problem from Shelley.
If she were to tell Angel, it would be useful to have another pair of eyes scanning the newspapers daily. There’d been days she’d missed when she hadn’t been able to leave her flat. She didn’t want to miss any more. The news might have been reported already and her current efforts could be in vain.
When she got home, she decided to keep it to herself. In time, if she came to know Angel better, maybe she’d confide in her then, but the time wasn’t ripe now. She didn’t even know Angel’s real name. Though she felt an affinity with her, it was foolish to follow her gut instinct. On this, she needed to think and act with her head.
15. Paying For It
Harsh rain pummelled the roof and windscreen of Nicole’s TVR Chimaera. It was bringing on a pain in Shelley’s head. Her hair was still damp after her shower, and the client they’d just spent the evening with in Belgravia had plied her with alcohol and cocaine – not that she’d objected, but with a cold head and the rain trying to penetrate the car, her buzz was being slaughtered.
“Have you got any puff?” she asked Nicole.
“Check the glove box. There might be a bit in the Silk Cut packet.” Taking one hand off the steering wheel, Nicole switched on the overhead light. “Can you believe what’s come out about O J Simpson? How the hell did he get off the first time?”
“Money, from what I’ve read.” Shelley foraged for the cigarette box.
“When do you ever read a newspaper?”
“How can you smoke these? They’re like smoking fresh air.” Shelley waved the Silk Cut ten-pack. “Will you pull over so I can skin up?”
Nicole parked on Eaton Place. Shelley put a Rizla on her lap, broke off part of a cigarette and emptied the tobacco onto the paper. She needed a smoke before they delivered the fee to Marianne. She was dreading looking at her. This was the first time she’d had to see her since finding out what she’d done to her and her friends. How had Marianne been able to look at them knowing what she’d done?
“That cunt makes me feel sick.” Shelley crushed the warmed hash between her fingers, sprinkling it over the tobacco.
“I don’t think anyone likes a wife-killer.”
“I’m talking about Marianne.”
“Sorry.” Nicole covered her mouth with her hand.
“We need to get moving. I can’t keep this nicey-nicey act going much longer. I told Angel we’d all meet up this week and now it’s already Tuesday.”
“Don’t fret about it, love. I’ll call Tara tomorrow. We’ll get it done this week.”
***
The Chimaera roared as Nicole raced down Pont Street, heading towards Marianne’s flat. As usual, parking was at a premium in Cadogan Gardens. Though unlike Shelley, Nicole didn’t hide her car around the corner on purpose, she ended up parking there nonetheless.
Shelley wasn’t sure if it was one precautionary measure too many, ensuring her car was always parked out of Marianne’s sight. Could she really track her down from her registration plate? Although most of the madams Shelley worked for seemed nice enough, she was sure there were bound to be some insalubrious characters amongst them. And as she regularly stole their clients, in the event they ever found out, those were the type she didn’t want knowing her real name and address.
Staying out of the rain, they counted Marianne’s fee in Nicole’s car. Shelley was sickened that not only did she have to see Marianne, but she also had to pay her for the privilege. The job had been a short two-hour stint and, as was often the case, they didn’t have sex with the client. In this instance, he was too coked-up to get an erection. That was why Shelley, and most of the other working girls she knew, preferred the cocaine and crack jobs. Generally, they didn’t involve intercourse, not with the client.
“Let’s get this over with.” Nicole released the spring on her black umbrella before getting out of the car. She went round to the passenger side, holding the umbrella over Shelley as she stepped out into the rain.
Turning the corner towards Marianne’s building, Shelley heard sirens. Nicole didn’t react, appearing not to notice the noise. Though nearly sure that it was in her head, it didn’t stop Shelley’s heart speeding up and her mind picturing the police arresting her for the dead john at The Lanesborough. Distracted by her thoughts, she skidded on the pavement strewn with mushiness from fallen browning blossom.
Nicole steadied her. “Are you all right, love?”
“I just hate being here,” Shelley said. The joint had calmed her marginally, but what she really wanted was to shoot some gear, and that couldn’t happen until after they’d paid Marianne, Nicole had dropped her home and she was finally by herself.
Nicole pointed in the direction of Marianne’s block, farther up the road, opposite the gated garden. “D’you see that?”
“What?”
“There’s Old Bill on sick bitch’s step.”
***
On seeing the platoon of police stood outside the red-bricked building, Shelley’s board called an emergency meeting. Her head was cramped with their voices speaking over one another.
“That doesn’t mean anything. There’s lots of flats in the block.”
“It could be anybody. Maybe someone was burgled.”
“Maybe the police traced your call from The Lanesborough.”
“You’re just paranoid from taking cocaine.”
The sirens Shelley had been listening to were now so loud they sounded as if they were in the next street. A police car zoomed past, splashing up a colossal puddle and drenching Shelley. She tugged on Nicole’s sleeve, signalling her to stop. They stood still, watching from a distance.
Huddled under the large umbrella, the rain couldn’t get to them but it was of little use to Shelley. She was now soaked on one side of her coat right through to her dress and her knickers, and her thick hair hadn’t dried at all since her earlier shower.
“We look too obvious,” Shelley said, shivering. In an effort to appear inconspicuous, she lit a cigarette, although a dog on a leash would have been more appropriate.
After a short while, she saw two police officers marching someone down the steps. From where she stood, she couldn’t tell if the figure was Marianne. In the brightness of the security light, she could see that the clothes were overbearingly garish and it did look like blonde hair, but it could have been a pale-coloured hat.
Shelley advised lighting another cigarette and walking closer. With their second round of cigarettes lit, they sidled towards Marianne’s building. It only took a few steps for Shelley to see who the police had hold of and were now shoving into a panda car.
“Serves that sick bitch right!” Nicole poked her umbrella in the air.
“Yeah,” Shelley said meekly, imagining she was about to be picked up by the police herself for a crime she hadn’t committed. How long would the sentence be?
“What? You don’t sound very sure.”
“I just wanted to deal with her our way.” Shelley turned, walking back towards the car.
“They won’t keep her for long. It’ll be tax evasion or living off immoral earnings. She’ll get a slap on the wrist and a fine.”
All Shelley could think about was getting home and fixing up, if she managed to get there. It might be her last hit if someone had seen her at The Lanesborough and was able to identify her, if the police had her DNA, if she missed wiping her prints from something in the suite. She had to change her appearance. She had to pray the Royal Free didn’t have her DNA. She had to get rid of her working flat. What if Tara told Marianne her real name and address? Her hea
d spun with such velocity it affected her vision. Her legs quivered. She tightened her grip on Nicole’s arm.
“What’s wrong?” Nicole asked.
“I’m just tired, maybe.”
Nicole stopped under a black street lantern. She unlinked her arm from Shelley’s and turned to face her. “I can tell there’s something upsetting you. What is it?”
“No, really, I’m fine. I haven’t been getting enough sleep, and I think I did too much coke.” Apart from the ‘no’ and the ‘fine’ that was true, and as such, it wasn’t the time to contemplate discussing the dead john. She’d ingested too many chemicals to make a balanced decision.
“Yeah, you were putting it away tonight.” Nicole re-linked her arm in Shelley’s and set them off walking again. “If something is the matter though, you know I’m always here for you, don’t you?” She squeezed Shelley’s arm in the crook of her elbow. “You can talk to me about anything. I'll never judge you, Shell, never."
16. A Game of Waiting
Shelley was dying for heroin. She wanted to inject it, but she’d have taken it any way she could if only she could have it. But Nicole had other plans, and hers reigned over Shelley’s. She’d insisted on driving straight to Tara’s in Earl’s Court. She’d said that since they were already practically there, compared to where they lived on the other side of London, it would be “mad not to stop in”.
On the King’s Road, just before World’s End, Shelley asked Nicole if she could roll another joint. Nicole turned up a side street and pulled over. As they smoked, Shelley asked Nicole if she believed Marianne might have been arrested for something more sinister than her previous conjectures.
“Like what?” Nicole asked.
“I don’t know. Does she do anything dodgy?”
“Resident Most Precious Pothead, what do you think?” Nicole said mockingly, and she blew smoke in Shelley’s face.
Once they’d finished the joint, Nicole drove off, accelerating at her usual breakneck speed. Shelley looked out of the passenger window, watching the yellow light from the street lamps whizzing into one long line of fluorescent blur. She had a feeling that the violent wind behind them could be propelling the car even faster than it was being driven out of World’s End.
The rain beating down on the windscreen and roof amplified her feeling of impending doom. She knew once they were at Tara’s, they’d most likely end up on the pipe. She didn’t like the paranoia and hallucinations that came with it. Nevertheless, it was a price she knew she’d pay to feel higher than the miniscule hit bestowed by the joint. There were no other options open to her in that part of London, and never in the company of Nicole who was a fervent member of the AHF – the Anti-Heroin Front.
***
“You didn’t call her, did you?” Shelley said, scurrying along the slippery street, under Nicole’s umbrella. She hoped Tara wasn’t in. Not only did she want to get home to heroin, she wanted to get into dry clothes.
Nicole pressed the buzzer. They weren’t buzzed in. “Damn. We should’ve called her.” She pressed down again, multiple times in succession, but there was no response.
Nicole handed her umbrella to Shelley, then searched in her handbag for her phone. Protecting them from the rain was far harder than Nicole had made it look. Shelley had to fight against the wind that was tirelessly trying to poach the umbrella with a gust.
“Where are you, love?” With the phone in one hand, Nicole used her other hand to assist Shelley in controlling the feral umbrella. “We’re outside.”
The buzzer sounded and the communal entrance was unlocked. Nicole held the door open while Shelley shook the water from the now concertinaed and containable umbrella. She followed Nicole inside and up the wooden staircase to the third floor where Tara was standing with her door slightly ajar.
“Why didn’t you answer?” Shelley asked.
“The intercom’s not working properly.” Tara hitched up her pyjama bottoms from the waist. They were stained with off-white and brown irregular-shaped splodges, as was the co-ordinating pyjama top. The brown was most likely coffee. But what was the off-white? Milk, yogurt or glue, perhaps, though it looked most like she’d been ejaculated on by a myriad of men.
“Do you want a pipe?” Tara asked, dawdling down the hall in front of them.
“If you’ve got enough.”
“There’s enough for one each. Do you want one, Shelley?”
“I can’t exactly say no, can I?” Shelley removed her sodden coat and took her place on the navy sofa by Crack Island.
“I’m ordering more. Do you want me to get you any?” Tara said.
“I’ll get two-hundred and fifty’s worth.” Shelley felt anxiously excited and took out her purse. She wanted to use Tara’s hairdryer to dry her hair, her wet dress and her knickers, but she wanted the crack first.
Nicole flicked through a wedge of twenties and fifties. “I’ll get the same,” she said, putting some of the notes on the glass coffee table. The rest, she bound back into the roll she kept secured with a red elastic band.
Tara relocated Shelley and Nicole’s cash to the table in the adjoining dining area.
“How much are you getting?” Nicole asked her.
“I haven’t got any money.” Tara walked back towards them. There was a blankness in her overly wide-open eyes. She looked like the sole survivor of fatal car crash.
“That’s okay. I owe you from last time,” Shelley said.
“You don’t need to.” Tara’s expression changed unnaturally; she smiled with only half her face. “I’m getting a camcorder’s worth.”
The good vibe Shelley had been riding from her pleasant feeling of expectance, fleeted. “You can’t sell your camcorder.”
“There’s no need to look at me like that. It’s not mine. A punter left it here.” Tara took her mobile and made a call out of the lounge. When she came back in, she was carrying wine glasses. She placed them on the coffee table next to a mangy looking bottle of Smirnoff.
Shelley and Nicole were once again left alone in the lounge while Tara disappeared a second time. Shelley stood with her side pressed against the radiator to dry out her wet dress. Twenty minutes passed before Tara returned with a Sony camcorder in hand. Shakily, she set it down on the carpet, and knelt by the coffee table.
Measly portions, hardly worth smoking, Shelley thought, as Tara divided what remained of her crack. Though she knew it wouldn’t be much of a hit, Shelley craved it nonetheless. Seeing the pipe being prepared thrust her back into the saddle, riding her vibe again. That once she had the first pipe, she’d be chasing the rush for hours – or possibly days – didn’t seem to make any difference to her exhilaration.
Tara lit the rock as Shelley sucked on the misused biro. Just as she was exhaling, she heard Nicole’s words and was reminded why they’d come to Tara’s in the first place.
“You’ll never guess what we saw tonight,” Nicole said playfully.
After a couple of failed attempts, Tara said, “I’m not in the mood for this stupid game.” She threw her head back and swigged directly from the vodka bottle. “Either spit it out or I don’t want to know.”
“The sick bitch got arrested, we—”
“We don’t know that,” Shelley corrected Nicole. “we only saw Marianne being put in a police car. Maybe she got arrested, maybe she didn’t.”
“What’s so good about that?” Tara threw her hands in the air. “How are we going find that scum if she’s locked up?”
Shelley was in agreement with Tara: Marianne being arrested was not in their collective best interest. Nor was it in Shelley’s personal best interest if Marianne was being questioned about the dead body at The Lanesborough, but she kept that fear to herself.
“Stop fretting. She’ll be out in no time,” Nicole told them.
“If the police are sniffing around her, we can’t do anything,” Shelley said, back in her position next to the radiator. “They might be watching us.”
Tara chugged down
more vodka. “It’s a dangerous game, being on the game.”
“We’re not on the game. No one is. We’re sex workers.” Nicole tutted. “Game, like it’s some fun thing to do. Most of our lives have been littered by tragedy. We adapt or it’s a learned behaviour or something. Putting our lives on the line is not a fucking game.”
“The same applies for Russian roulette, and that’s a game, isn’t it?” Tara said.
“No, it isn’t.” Nicole picked up the pipe Tara had prepared for her and turned Shelley’s purple Clipper on it.
Shelley thought longingly about her next round of Russian roulette and in which vein she’d shoot. She lifted her hand closer to her face and examined it for raised blue lines.
“People say it is.” Tara looked at Shelley. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
Shelley put her hand on her hip and clamped it down with the other to prevent it wandering back up towards her face. “What people?”
“People,” Tara said. “Normal people.”
“That don’t know people like us.” Nicole slammed the pipe down on the coffee table, showering the glass top with ash. “This life is a game? Russian roulette would be quicker and I bet it would hurt less.”
“What’s going on with her?” Tara asked Shelley.
“This life isn’t a life. It’s a half-life, part existence.”
Shelley went to sit with Nicole. “It’s not that bad,” she told her, though she didn’t believe it herself.
“I don’t have a real life. I can’t, ’cos I don’t know who I am, but at least I’m not deluded like you, Tara. Think you’re better than me ’cos you’ve never worked the streets. Let me tell you, it makes no difference, we’re all the same.”
“Blah-blah-blah...” Tara walked towards the door. She turned back to face them. “Prostitution is a painful business borne out of painful pasts,” she recited as if it was a maxim. Then she exited the room.
Shelley willed the dealer to come. She needed to get Tara’s last sentence to stop repeating in her head. After another hour and a half of waiting, Shelley urged Tara to chase him up with a call.