‘I was only wondering.’ She felt depressed, let down. What had seemed like the beginning of an adventure was suddenly down to earth, tatty, rather sordid.
‘That ref,’ he muttered. ‘I’d like to flatten that ref, knock him on his poop. Crummy old woman.’
They turned off the main road and bumped along a muddy lane. He drew in and stopped under some trees. For the last half hour she had been hoping this wouldn’t happen but knowing it almost certainly would. He put his arm behind her along the seat and looked closely into her face. He still smelt of the ring, a sort of carbolic and resin and Vaseline smell. It was quite dark here but she could see the glow of his eyes. He bent over and began to kiss her.
You could feel the slight lump on the side of his lip where it was swollen, but it didn’t seem to trouble him. After a bit the kisses became more sexy. ‘Look, can you get your coat off. Just as a start, like.’
‘Let’s make a date,’ she said, ‘ for when I come home. I’m only away two weeks.’
‘Right. Correct. Agreed. But tonight’s tonight. Tomorrow, what say, we might both fall under a bus.’ He started unbuttoning the top of her frock. She pushed his hands sharply away. It was more an impulse than anything – an instinctive reaction in which there was a twist of fear. If he had been one of half a dozen other men whom she would have expected to try this, she would have managed it much more tactfully.
He sat back and ran a hand through his flowering head of black hair. ‘Little Oyster. You’re fabulous. You send me, you really do. Where’s the pearl? I’ve got to open the shell.’
He tried to slip her frock off her shoulders but the coat got in the way and it only slid back a bit. Then he changed direction and put his hand on her knees and ran them up inside her skirts.
She brought her knees quickly together and twisted away to get out of the car. She couldn’t find the handle and scraped with her fingers all over the door. He sat back again gasping, and she realized he was laughing. His extraordinarily unattractive laugh seemed very out of place just then. She stopped fumbling along the door, feeling a fool but short of breath all the same, scared.
‘Come off it,’ he said. ‘You must know what it’s all about. There’s no need to be shy.’
‘Did you steal this car?’ she said.
‘Suspicious little oyster. No, I didn’t, see. It belongs to an aunt. I work for her. She’s got plenty. I borrow her car when I want to. Right? I’ll take you round to meet her next time if you like, just to prove it.’
They were off the main road by a quarter of a mile: you could see the lights of cars passing. The night was hazy and the headlamps looked like searchlights. They were at the edge of a copse – low trees and the like.
He said: ‘O.K., O.K. You’ll not be happy till you know, will you. Not happy. Part time I work for an old girl as her chauffeur. She’s not my aunt. That’s all. That’s all the diff. She likes me so she lends me her car. Any time I want it. That way and leather pushing I get by. Like I said. Money it’s no problem. I make enough to get by. But any time now I’ll be in the big money. See the way I wrapped up that Mick tonight. In a few months now I’ll be a big wheel. Just that. Little God’s honour. So now you know. Satisfied?’
‘Thanks. Yes, I wondered.’
‘So now you know.’
‘Yes.’
‘That makes a difference?’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, now, it don’t need spelling out. Look, – these seats lean back. You just wind ’em.’
‘I’m sorry, Godfrey. It’s just that—’
He patted her hand. ‘Only take ten minutes. You won’t come to no harm, even if you’re not fixed up. Little God’s honour.’
She sighed and wished her voice was easier, more assured. ‘Sorry.’
‘What’s wrong? Not that corny old story. Or do I smell bad?’
‘No, of course not. It’s difficult to explain.’
‘Try me. Don’t be so scared.’
She didn’t answer because she felt that whatever she said he would misunderstand. It’s not always the moral thing that makes one moral. How can you claim to have a sense of dignity, a sense of privacy, of at least a little personal importance? How can you say that without inviting hoots of laughter? Pearl never could stand men who waded in, who seemed to think they owned you. But for heaven’s sake, she’d dealt with this before. What was the difference between him and others?
He offered her another cigarette and she took it though she didn’t really want it. He used his lighter this time on purpose and the lighter showed up her pure skin and clear features. It showed up too the intentness, the uncomprehending intentness of his own look.
They smoked in silence. She was anxious only for him to start the car, to move on, but she did not say so. She told herself that he had been nice to her, he had spent hard earned money on her, and he expected what he normally got. Although he was only twenty-two, she felt she might be dealing with a man ten years older than that. Although she had in a sense been invited out under false pretences – and this irked – she could not show him this or he would think her a gold digger and a snob.
At last. ‘Is that the time?’ she asked, pointing to the clock.
‘Yes. O.K., not to worry. Just one last good-night kiss, eh?’
So they kissed a few times more, and that was all right. It was less predatory than last time and she quite enjoyed it. But suddenly his hand slipped quietly under her skirt and began tugging at the elastic at the top of her tights. It was fantastic because it was so expert, she couldn’t have done it quicker herself. She fought his hands away and they came back. For about two minutes they had a terrible sexy struggle: he seemed to have four hands and they were everywhere at once. She began to scream.
That stopped him, but one hand came up to her throat and clamped hard on it so that she choked. ‘Hi! you’ll have somebody coming!’
She clutched at his hand. ‘Let go! You’re choking me!’
He eased his grip but did not move it. ‘That’s a stupid piece of jazz. Lay off it, Oyster. If somebody heard you—’
‘I swear if you lay hands on me again—’
‘And if you scream again, what about that? What about that?’ His fingers tightened again and then relaxed. ‘Grip, grip, and you wouldn’t scream no more. I won’t stand for you trying to get me into trouble deliberate. Little God wouldn’t stand for that.’
Panic kept coming in great waves. ‘Let me go.’
‘All right, all right. But there’s got to be fair play, like in the ring. Screaming’s not fair play. You could get me in the nick for that. They’d say I’d done things to you.’
Not so far away a car’s headlights swung across the sky. The car came nearer, passed the end of the lane, lights like radar beams that didn’t quite reach.
He was stroking her neck now, smoothing her down. ‘You came out with me willing enough. It beats me what you expected … Jees, you’re all right. Super neck, like a – like an urn. And as cold as ice, eh?’
‘Will you drive me home, or shall I get out and walk?’
‘Look, I got a proposition. There’s three rugs in the boot. What say we get out and sit down among those trees for a bit? Nothing serious if you don’t want it. I promise …’
She knew then with the most awful certainty that she was in real danger. Her heart was bumping like a car wheel with a puncture.
‘I promise. Don’t you believe me? Look, I’m in a way about you. I want to be friends next time. I won’t bite. I don’t make girls do things!’
‘Yes, but you—’
‘Think this is ordinary with me? Well, it’s not. I’m dead gone on you. I’ll only hug you a bit if that’s what you say. I want you to be my girl. I’ll buy you things, give you things. I want to show you off to people. I’ll be good.’
‘You promise?’
‘Promise? I don’t promise, I swear. You can trust Little God. He won’t let you down.’
‘It’ll be cold outside.’
‘Not on your life! Not wrapped in a rug.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But—’
‘Good girl. Good little Oyster. Little God’s a man of his word. You’ll see.’
He leaned over and found the door catch she had been unable to locate. While doing this he pressed his cheek against hers. Then he turned to get out. Before he could open his door she had slipped out and was running down the lane.
She heard him shout, then she heard him laugh, and he suddenly switched his powerful headlights on, and there she was, her flying shadow leaping about like a scarecrow strangled on a wire. She had never run so fast in her life, didn’t know she could. Then she heard the car door slam and he was running after her.
In the struggle one leg of her tights had been ripped away from the top, and this rolled down and nearly tripped her. Then she turned her ankle on a stone and caught at a branch of a tree, anything to be out of this light; soon his shadow would be stretching out to reach her. A gate and she scrambled over it somehow, skirt tearing, into a field. The field was bare, no corn, ploughed or something; heavy going; he would catch her, no escape. More trees on the left. She angled for them and lunged over the second gate.
Dark in the undergrowth, lungs fit to burst, a ditch; she fell into it anywhere; it was dry; brambles scratched then closed over her.
He came panting up. He was half laughing, half cursing. She couldn’t understand him: they might have been playing lovers’ hide and seek if it had not been for her certainty that they were not. Perhaps he’d be laughing when he raped you. He was close by somewhere now listening. She put her hand over her mouth trying to filter air in silently, breath she had to have to live.
‘Oyster,’ he said cautiously, and his voice shattered her it was so close – could he see her? ‘I know you’re here, so be a nice chickie and call it a day. I’ll not lay a glove on you if you do. Take you straight home. Little God’s honour. It was all a lark, wasn’t it, so let’s go.’
No answer from her.
‘It was all a lark, see; but if you keep me hanging around I may get cross. So come out now. It won’t make no diff. I’ll hang on here till midnight.’
Pearl was not really the praying sort, but when you’re in a real panic the words come. ‘Dear God …’ And then she stopped because it seemed as if he had stolen the name and she was praying to him. ‘ Christ … Christ help me. Jesus Christ help me.’ Because, whatever calmer thought might come later, she was certain then with an inner conviction that if he caught her he would rape her. And if she struggled he would strangle her as well.
He moved a bit away. He obviously had no torch, otherwise he would have seen her at once. But the car lights weren’t far away. They wouldn’t last for ever, if he didn’t go back soon he would have a flat battery.
He stumbled over something and cursed, and he must have disturbed a bird because there was a frightened fluttering.
‘Oyster,’ he called, and began to come back. ‘I know you’re near by. I can wait. I’m not in all that hurry. I’ll fix you yet.’
As his eyes grew used to the dark he would see her, her coat was dark but her face was white and one of her legs was white and she didn’t dare move to draw it up under her.
He went away again. That is, his footsteps moved away, but on the soft earth you soon lost the sound of them and you couldn’t tell how far. Complete silence. She was lying just as she had fallen, and there was a branch digging in her shoulder. Something began to crawl over her bare knee. It was a snail. She groped round the shell, got it and pulled it off; the thing had a horrible suction on her skin. She dropped it away, and the shell made a rattle among the branches.
‘That you, Oyster?’ he said, still close.
Another bird fluttered and flew away.
He went right past. ‘Now come on, chickie, enough’s enough. I’m getting razzed. If you don’t come out now you can walk home – and it’s five miles or more – I’m going to wrap for the night. Jees, d’you think I want you now? I’ve gone right off, I can tell you that! Not me. I’d sooner have an honest tart any day!’
He was still fuming as he went out of earshot, back the way he had come. A car started and then it seemed to die away. But she wasn’t absolutely certain, and long after it had gone she lay where she was, only shifting her shoulder to get away from that branch.
She began to count. She thought, when I get to 1000 I’ll move on. I’ll go then. I’ll be safe. I’ll wave a car down on the main road and … When I get to 1000. But it took too long and she was too cold. At 241 she lost count and jumped to 750. It seemed as if she couldn’t lie there a minute longer.
And then suddenly his voice shouted at her close by: ‘ Well, chickie, I hope you rot in your ditch and get pneumonia! But remember, there’ll be a next time. Don’t you worry, I know where you live. There’ll be a next time!’
A rough crackling in the undergrowth and she heard him move off. Almost at once she scrambled out of the ditch and knelt on the dry soil listening. And this time she heard him start the engine and the lights moved as he backed and turned. When the lights were pointing the other way she stood up and watched them flicker off down the lane and turn into the main road and flash eastwards. She ran across the field in the other direction looking for another road.
Chapter Four
Home without anyone knowing. Back on the main road at a crossroads, she took a chance at thumbing a lift. A middle-aged couple stopped and were sympathetic to her made-up story, drove her home right to the door.
But quite ill next day. A touch of flu maybe; there was plenty about, or lying in the ditch. She told Rachel she had a sore throat and did not mention the skinned elbow, the bruises on her arms, three nail scratches high up on the inside of her leg. Little God. The memory was hard to keep on her stomach, she would have liked to sick it up. The whole pretence of the thing affronted her, too. She was disgusted with herself for falling for such a tall story – smart (borrowed or stolen) car and the rest – and she was disgusted that she had let herself get into the position that she had. A cheap boxer’s girl friend could probably only expect to be treated the way he had treated her – like a piece of flesh to be given over to his enjoyment. She shuddered and shivered in bed and loathed him and loathed herself. She was such ababy to have been taken in: it was the humiliation.
In the light of morning she was somewhat less completely convinced that he had meant to force her against her will. A girl, an ordinary decent girl brought up in England, comes to look on herself as inviolate, protected by society, self-possessed by personal right. Whether she is moral or immoral is not the point; she is still ‘preserved’, as one might say, for whom she chooses. Pearl had read plenty of news items about ‘Nurse attacked in Railway Carriage’ etc., and rather enjoyed reading them – it made the news interesting – but she hadn’t ever thought it would happen to her. Now in the light of day she wondered if she’d read too many news items, if she’d panicked unnecessarily, if she’d made even more of a fool of herself than she needed to.
But there were doubts. Her confidence was shaken. Life for a brief half hour had become dirty and dangerous. And it was not just confidence in her safety she had lost for that short time but confidence in herself.
God, or Little God, or Old God, or whatever he called himself, lay on her memory, and she could not sick him up. His handsome head, deep-set dark handsome eyes, eager and lustful and wild eyes, beautiful miniature body, every muscle rippling and tuned, fine dark hair on legs, fine olive skin. And hands, fingers, powerful predatory obscene fingers pressing over the soft parts of her body, undoing her clothes with lightning speed, taking hold of her breasts, clutching her throat.
Iron-strong fingers, but so much more dangerous than iron because they not only attacked your body, they attacked something in yourself.
Rachel was always too busy, too hard-worked, too disorganized, too interested in her own children, to spare much attention for Pearl, but in the evening her father came up and loo
ked at her and sent for Dr Spoor, who arrived two hours later and said she had a high temperature and a relaxed throat and it meant a couple of days in bed. This was catastrophe because if he insisted it meant missing her flight to Geneva in the small hours of Saturday morning.
After he had left, her father came back and sat talking. Mr Friedel was not tall – Pearl got her height from her mother – but to his family he was an impressive looking man, with a fine fresh complexion and a short pointed beard going grey and an appearance of dignity about him. He might, Pearl felt, have been a financier or a surgeon or even a diplomat. He was always neat, always quiet, always dignified, and always carefully dressed, though he spent little money on his clothes. Pearl would see him coming down the avenue on a summer evening, stocky, respectable, in command of himself, and be glad to think such a distinguished man was her father, and at the same time perplexed that he was only an assistant accountant.
After he had smoked a small cheroot – he never smoked cigarettes – he said to her: ‘Did you bang your neck somewhere, Pearl?’
‘My neck? Oh, this mark. It’s like a bruise, isn’t it. I don’t know where I did it.’
‘Who did you go out with last night?’
‘It was two friends from the shop. They were coming this way and picked me up in their car.’
‘Dr Spoor asked me if you had had a shock.’
‘What? …’ She laughed, but that hurt so she stopped. ‘I shall have a shock if I miss the plane on Saturday!’
‘Rachel said your shoes were very muddy.’
‘We had supper at a restaurant in Chelsea and then drove round by Keston. We got out and walked a bit. It was a lovely night.’
He put his finger tips together and looked at her. ‘I don’t want to seem inquisitive. You’ll excuse me, I’m sure. But you’re barely twenty, and with your mother not being … Sometimes one gets anxious.’
‘It’s all right, Dad. Thanks.’
He blinked, and his cautious elderly eyes went round the room. ‘Often I wish you had a brother of your own age, someone to go about with. It would be better. If your mother had lived …’
Angell, Pearl and Little God Page 7