by Ruth Jacobs
32. Impossible Proposal
Shelley was glad to be back with Resident Dicks All the Boxes even though it was inconvenient to be seeing him on a Friday night. Due to oversleeping until the afternoon, she’d had to postpone her mother’s visit until Saturday.
He leant forward and pulled out the gilded wall mirror from under the coffee table. Near the centre was the mountain of cocaine and on one side, the roads: four colossal lines spanning the length of the entire mirror.
Although Shelley’s nose had acclimatised to the lines he made, her mind had not. She was aware that she needed to restrict the amount she sniffed – unlike the last time when she’d seen him at his London residence. Having only just recovered from her last bout of crack-induced psychosis, she didn’t want another attack inflicted by cocaine.
He rested the mirror on the rectangular table in front of them and handed Shelley a rolled up fifty-pound note. “It’s all yours, sweetie.”
“I’m taking it easy tonight, remember? Just one for me.” Shelley stayed sitting on the azure sofa. She bent over the mirror and snorted one line.
She rested her head in his lap. He stroked her hair from her temple to her neck. It wasn’t like being on a normal job. If she didn’t need to keep the cold bank refilled, it might not have been a job at all because she’d be in a position to see him for free.
“Can I get you another gin and tonic, sweetie?”
“I’m okay for now, thank you.” She smiled up at his narrow face. From that unfortunate angle, she could see right up into his nostrils, all the little hairs.
Her arms felt uncomfortably constrained in the bandages but she’d have to bear it a while longer. Oddly, he didn’t seem to mind that she kept her long-sleeved, button-down dress on. He was sympathetic to her predicament and had told her that this time, she’d be getting a little extra to buy herself a few similar dresses while her psoriasis was active.
“I’ve got a little something for you.” He repositioned her head on the sofa then left the room.
Unlike her, Resident Dicks All the Boxes hadn’t given a false name. It would have helped if he had. Because she was referring to him mentally as Resident Dicks All the Boxes, she worried saying the name aloud while she was high. Convinced it would slip out, she started calling him John in her head. After all, that is what he was – her favourite, but a john nonetheless.
Where was he? Shelley wondered, feeling uneasy. Just before panic set in, she saw him at the doorway. He’d returned with a gift-wrapped parcel.
“Happy belated birthday, sweetie.” He put the square package in her hands. “I hope you like it.”
“Thank you.” Shelley was stunned. Clients had given her gifts before, but never a present for her birthday. This was a first.
“Well, open it.” He smiled.
She pulled on the bow, neatly unfolded the wrapping paper and revealed a black velvet box. She opened the box, which was lined with cream silk or satin (she wasn’t sure which) and resting on that was a gold necklace with a red, pear-shaped pendant.
He took the necklace out of the box and sat down on the sofa next to Shelley. “May I?” he said. Then he turned her round to face the opposite direction. He removed the necklace she was wearing before fastening the new necklace at the nape of her neck.
“Thank you so much,” she said, staring down at the clear, red stone. “I love it... It’s perfect.”
“You’re perfect, perfectly sublime, and rubies are special, Kiki, like you.” He looked into her eyes. “They’re not as hard as diamonds,” he said, passing her the other necklace.
Shelley felt a warmth come to her cheeks. She hoped she wasn’t as blood red as her new pendant. She couldn’t understand why he liked her; she was no longer a blonde, she had bandaged arms and she kept her dress on all night.
“There’s something I want to ask you,” he said. “In the summer I live in America. I have a house in South Beach, in Miami, and I usually have a girl or two come to stay. I was thinking that maybe you’d like to come. I’ll be over there for two months, but you don’t have to stay the whole time. You can come for a week or a few weeks, whatever you like.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think I can.” The job would be worth thousands, but Shelley couldn’t go. Going abroad was impossible with a heroin habit. Even if she went cold turkey, she still couldn’t leave her other responsibilities.
“I know what you’re thinking.” He placed his hand on her arm and patted it lightly. “Don’t worry, it’s okay. I spoke to a friend of mine, he’s a top dermatologist, and apparently, the sun can heal your psoriasis. Even the sea could help.”
Shelley didn’t have anything to say. What excuse could she give now? She tried to think of a lie but nothing came. The truth – she’d have to tell the truth, but only a small portion.
“It isn’t that.” Shelley turned her head towards the fireplace. “I look after my mum and I can’t leave her.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. Is your mother ill?”
“Kind of, she’s got depression.”
“Well she’s very lucky to have you taking good care of her.” He placed his arm around her slumped shoulders. “Can’t you ask someone to stand in for you?”
“There isn’t anyone. Just me and my aunt, and she can’t do any more than she does already.”
Grief coursed through Shelley’s body. Her eyes stung with uninvited tears. There was someone else but he’s gone. Perhaps the truth hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Crying wasn’t in her job description.
33. The Missed Turning
In her head, Shelley lay on South Beach under the azure sky, the sun warming her from the outside in. The art deco buildings that were behind her housing the restaurants, bars, and nightclubs were where she’d eat, drink and dance later. At night, she’d sleep in her own private annexe and in the morning, her breakfast would be brought in by the staff. The next day she might spend around the house, read a book by the pool, and perhaps call in the beauty therapist for a massage and a facial. Resident Dicks All the Boxes had done a good job on her; she was sold.
Shelley looked out the window to the grey sky that coordinated with the grey settee on which she was sitting. “God, it’s bleak out there.” This is England, cold and bitter.
“There’s beauty in the bleakness, if you look, dear.” Rita sipped her tea. “Only a week or so and it’ll be summer.”
What did that mean? The summer in England was a con. This could be the driver she needed to kick her habit. Surely, her aunt could pop in on her mother an extra once or twice a week, her psoriasis could be miraculously cured before she left, and she could be in Miami for July.
“What’s wrong with you today? You’re not yourself.”
“Why do people say that? Who else am I gonna be?” Shelley snapped. “Oh Mum, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— I’m just a bit stressed.”
“That’s a nice necklace, dear. Is it new?”
“Yes, I got it yesterday. Did you know rubies aren’t as hard as diamonds?”
“More likely to break then. You better look after it. Don’t you ever think having all this money to spend is a waste if you’re going to burn out earning it?” Rita said. “I have to agree with Elsie. I think she’s right. They’re working you too hard. You need to tell that boss of yours you can’t do so much.”
“I have to work, and they’ve been very good to me.” Shelley thought of the long lunch breaks Foxtons allowed her so she could visit her mother, and the time off that they’d granted her whenever Rita was ill.
“But you’re burning out, dear. I’ve seen it happen to people.”
“No you haven’t. Who do you know who’s burnt out?”
“Not people I know, dear – on the TV. It was a documentary,” Rita said. “I don’t think you’re looking after yourself properly. You’re so pale, and skinny. You need to put some meat on your bones and get a decent night’s sleep.”
Although in a way she’d been scolded, Shelley was
touched by her mother’s concern, until her guilt stole the comfort from those words and replaced it with remorse.
“You have to tell people how you feel or they won’t know how to help you.”
This from a woman who’s shut herself away from the world for the past seven years - Shelley looked quizzically at her mother.
“Communication, it’s essential for relationships to work. You need to let them know your limits.”
“What else have you been watching?” Self-righteous Silk, Shelley presumed.
“That’s not from the television. I’ve been writing things down to help me... I’ll show you.” Rita walked out the room then quickly returned with a mauve notepad in her hand. She took her seat next to Shelley on the sofa. She opened the notepad and read aloud her handwritten notes, or as she told Shelley, the pearls of wisdom that were apparently gifts from her new counsellor and the bereavement support group.
Although Shelley wanted her mother to make progress, her behaviour was disconcerting. Walking around in the flat was manic for Rita, let alone entering into talking therapy, which she had always been against. Within a week, suddenly, there she was reciting phrases that were contradictory to her actions of the past few years. Shelley worried exactly what Aunt Elsie had enrolled her in – some kind of brainwashing, possibly.
“When you’re at UCL, I want you to be at UCL, not worrying about me. I’ve enough regret to last a lifetime already. I don’t want any more.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You know I’ve never blamed you.”
Hiding her own regret, Shelley hugged her mother. Her mobile rang out from her handbag but she wasn’t ready to break away. The ringing persisted and after letting three calls go unanswered, Shelley reached for her phone. She was a second too late and the caller had hung up. As she looked at the list of missed calls and saw the phone number, she knew she had to leave her mother’s immediately.
***
As she raced back towards Hampstead on the A41, Shelley made the three calls from her mobile to put everything in place. The car screeched as she pulled a sharp right onto Willoughby Road. Her open handbag fell from the passenger seat, emptying its contents into the footwell.
She parked at an angle in a space too short for her long car. Leaning across, she picked up her purse, mirror, lipstick and the syringe that had fallen out. Without checking the car was locked, she sprinted to her flat.
From the bedroom, she grabbed her beige suitcase. She searched through her work paraphernalia for the specific accoutrements required for the job: blindfold, handcuffs, whips, GHB, Rohypnol. She bundled some casual clothes on top, then rummaged in the drawers of her dressing table. She found her curling tongs and packed those.
She took off her jeans and sweatshirt, exchanging them for a red silk blouse under a black skirt suit. Finished in the bedroom, she ran through to the kitchen and picked up the cardboard box of beers, wines and spirits. From the cupboard under the sink, she lifted the air freshener, clingfilm and parcel tape. Finally, she went back to the lounge to pack her gear and a needle.
With her case packed, she sat on the sofa. She couldn’t leave without topping up her opiate level. From her black patent handbag, she took out her heroin. There was no time to inject, so she sprinkled some on a piece of foil and quickly had a chase. To save the leftover heroin, she folded it inside the foil. Then she hid the foil between the pages of The Escaped Cock – the slim paperback that was ideal for carrying and concealing in her handbag.
The compulsion to check the windows, taps and oven was on her. She tried to resist the pull of the obsession, but an authoritarian voice from the board relentlessly commanded her not to leave without checking. She had no choice but to succumb.
She managed to keep to the minimum counts for all her subjects. She scooped up her fake-fur coat from the sofa and rushed to the front door. Having locked it behind her, she allowed herself to slow down again, this time for the four-sets-of-five that were essential in ensuring her flat was safe to be left. Succeeding in keeping her concentration, she completed the task in twenty counts.
When she got to the car, she threw the box of booze, her case and her coat in the boot. She sped off down the back streets. Her foot shook against the accelerator as she drove. She worried she might crash if she couldn’t control it. Hoping to calm her nerves, she lit a cigarette and broke the silence with Capital Radio.
As she approached the main road at Swiss Cottage, she hit traffic. Making use of the time, she pulled out her foil and tube. She bent over her lap for a quick blast. She hoped no one in the surrounding cars would notice. Although it was early evening, the sun had made a belated appearance and transformed the sky to a brighter shade of grey.
A horn sounded. On looking up, she realised the traffic was moving. When she put her foot to the pedal, she noticed the shaking had stopped. After a short stint on the main road, she returned to the back streets, heading straight over Edgware Road then onto Elgin Avenue.
While she’d regained her external composure, her insides heaved with nervous anticipation. Her stomach turned as if a hit on a crack pipe was imminent and she felt queasy; though amid that, she recognised a splash of excitement.
Preoccupied with scenarios of what might lie ahead, she missed the turning for Ladbroke Grove. By the time she realised her mistake, she’d nearly reached Kensal Green. She decided it wasn’t worth turning back and continued on Harrow Road, taking the scenic route down Scrubs Lane.
Falling back into a reverie, she smiled. She bit her bottom lip between her front teeth. If it was him, then this Saturday night would be like no other. A snigger escaped from her mouth, but there was no reason to laugh except in hysteria.
34. In the Twilight
Turning into Bracewell Road, Shelley scanned the street for Nicole’s blue Chimaera. It wasn’t there. She parked up farther down the road. Stepping out of the car, she shivered. Tomorrow would be a good day, she thought as she gazed up at the red clouds that were populating the sky.
She took the box and her beige case from the boot. She placed them on the pavement while she wrapped herself in her warm coat. Then she walked round the car, counting aloud as she used her hands to feel what she didn’t trust her eyes to see – that it was secure and safe to be left.
Approaching Len’s terraced house, she noticed the next-door neighbour’s lights were on. Through their net curtains, she saw the couple sitting in their front room, watching television. They’d have to keep their noise to a minimum, she thought.
The wrought iron gate squeaked as she pushed it open. She paused to look at the immaculate front garden. She noticed the three red rose pot-plants in front of the bay window that replaced the mess previously residing there.
Her heels clicked on the multicoloured mosaic embedded in the path that led to the front door. Walking up the three stone steps, her heart quickened. When she took the key from her black patent handbag and turned it in the lock, she realised the shaking had returned.
A light shone down the hall from the kitchen in the back of the house. Nervously, she advanced towards it. The germ-ridden kitchen was empty. With boiling water on a tea towel, she wiped down the Formica worktop. On it, she placed the wine and beer bottles. To the side, she arranged a display of the spirits.
She checked the lounge. The same filthy, and possibly flea infested, armchair was still the centrepiece of the dilapidated room. Thankfully, leaning against the ripped wallpaper were her grandparents’ folding chairs, which she’d brought on her last visit for a clean place to sit.
From her case, she took the can of air-freshener. Heading upstairs, she sprayed as she walked. She checked the four bedrooms, which had retained their après-burgled look. Where were her friends? She took her mobile from her bag and checked the time – 8.22 p.m. He was due at the house at half past. If her friends didn’t arrive, she’d have to manage on her own.
Eight minutes to prepare was all she had. She went back down and yanked open the little door under the stair
s. The cellar reeked. The fetid odour stuck in her throat. She was convinced there was a dead rat, or two or three or more, somewhere in that room. Her footsteps creaked down the narrow staircase. She switched on the solitary light bulb. There were no dead rats. Maybe the vermin lay above her, under the floorboards in the hall, or perhaps they were among the boxed-in pipes for the central heating; it was too late to do anything about that now.
Returning to the lounge, she unfolded one of her grandparents’ wooden chairs. There was only five minutes until the rapist’s arrival. She needed a chase. If the others smelt anything, she could blame it on the tenants. She shook the paperback to free the silver square from its pages. Then she took the foil tube and her Clipper out of her handbag.
As she sucked in the fumes from her third run on the foil, she heard a knock on the front door. She folded the foil, put it back in its hiding place and stuffed the book and the tube back inside her shiny handbag.
Calmness enveloped her. She wondered if it was not from the heroin, as she hadn’t taken much, but perhaps the finality of the situation.
Approaching the front door, she tried to make out the figure on the other side of the glass. The shape was too long and wide to belong to her friends. It was a man, but was it the rapist? For a moment, fear infused her calmness.
Her hand was on the lock. The ordeal he’d put her through played out in her head. Hot rage permeated her body. She hoped it was him and not a random punter. Her heart pumped in her chest. It was a different feeling to that when she wanted to flee. This wasn’t the flight with which she was familiar. This must be the fight.
***
Shelley stood at the front door, facing the demoniac who’d raped her. In the radiance of the twilight, she smiled at him. To other people he was probably an ordinary looking man: a businessman, a husband, a father with a young family, but Shelley could see the evil in him. She looked past the pretty lashes, disguising the malevolence, and into his dark, sunken eyes. She could see the sickness in his soul.