The Hostess

by L. P. Gibbs

  The Hostess

  Also available on Kindle by L. P. Gibbs.

  WHITECHAPEL NIGHTS

  A variation on the 'Jack The Ripper' theme. The murders are factually correct, taken from witness statements, police records and coroner's reports. In between is the story of an ordinary, middle-aged Victorian couple. But is there a link. The chase goes from Paris to London, back to Paris and then finally, Dover.

  A TALE OF SOHO NIGHTS

  This tells the tale of a young man working his way up through the ranks of the underworld. Set in the underbelly of London's Soho district with its seedy clip-joints, strip shows, illegal drinking dens and brothels, the story is based very loosely on my life whilst working at some of the less salubrious establishments. Some events actually happened, some did not whilst others have been embellished to provide a more interesting story-line. I leave you to decide which is which.

  THE LAST PAYBACK **

  An ageing hit-man is forced out of retirement to eliminate those who have evaded justice for their sometimes unspeakable crimes. There was the Albanian people smuggler, a drugs baron, the child murderer and a vicious thug to name but a few. All of whom were deserving of this man's attention. If you enjoyed 'The Equaliser', you will love this book.

  THE MEN IN GREY SUITS **

  Thought you knew how Princess Diana died? Think again! A whispered overheard discussion leads an accomplished cat burglar to fear for his life. He has learned of the plot to assassinate The People's Princess and every policeman and CCTV camera in the country is looking for him. There is nothing he can do except run; run for his life!

  All available on Kindle or through the Kindle app on your phone.

  ** These last two also available in paperback from www.lulu.com

  When finished, please pass this book on to someone else or donate it to a charity shop.

  The Hostess

  A Novel

  by

  L. P. Gibbs

  Copyright © 2021 L. P. Gibbs

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  My grateful thanks to my long-suffering wife, June.

  Without her input, tremendous patience and understanding this novel would not have been completed.

  A special mention should also be made of all the young women who, of necessity, make a living in night spots like the ones in this novel.

  Their work is underappreciated, often precarious and is usually frowned upon by society in general

  L.P.G.

  WARNING !!

  THIS NOVEL CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF SEXUAL ACTIVITY. PLEASE DO NOT READ FURTHER IF YOU ARE LIKELY TO BE OFFENDED BY SUCH MATERIAL.

  Four previous novels can be found at:- www.amazon.com/author/lpgibbs

  Or on Facebook page: L P Gibbs Author

  Contents

  THE SHOOTING

  BEGINNINGS.

  LONDON

  SOHO BECKONS

  WORKING.

  ALAN RANDALL

  TROUBLE UP NORTH

  ESCORTING

  ON THE MISSING LIST.

  COCAINE

  REVENGE.

  BACK TO WORK.

  INTENSIVE CARE

  EPILOGUE

  THE SHOOTING

  Gradually lifting the long, multi-coloured, beaded curtain to one side with her right hand, Samantha stepped through from the small bar area into the club's even tinier entrance foyer. She had been sitting on a stool at the small bar downstairs in the club for the last two and three quarter hours, nursing an iced soft drink, awaiting the arrival of customers. Sweeping her hair back over her right shoulder, she then smoothed down her faux leather mini-skirt and adjusted the tight, red, sequinned boob-tube that only just about covered her ample breasts.

  As she sipped gently on the ice cold cola drink she had just brought up with her from the downstairs bar, she smiled inwardly as she looked at Alan Randall's broad shoulders efficiently blocking the doorway to the street, his well-fitted, black evening suit hugging his muscled body, the flashing string of brightly coloured neon lights around the door frame and the wide, floor to ceiling plate glass window giving his dark hair a bluish hue. She watched as the smoke from his cigarette drifted from his nostrils and upwards on the cold, winter air outside the door.

  She had loved him dearly ever since he had first been introduced to her by Chris, the previous doorman at Silk's Gentleman's Club in Great Windmill Street in the very heart of London's notorious Soho district with its neighbouring sex shops, strip clubs and illegal drinking houses.

  A few years had passed since that night, a hell of a lot of water under the proverbial bridge. Samantha always knew that her feelings for the man were not reciprocated anywhere near as strongly. She accepted, and understood that fact. He was not a one woman man and never would be, she knew. It didn't stop how she felt about him, though. Standing quite still, looking at him a sudden wave of pure, unadulterated love swept across her slim body, causing her to shiver a little, that familiar excitement coursing through her veins like hot, molten lava.

  As she stood there, watching him expertly surveying the street for prospective customers, she couldn't help but let her mind drift back to the last time they had made love in her tiny attic room in Royal College Street in Camden Town, just before Christmas. What a night that had been. He had seemed to go on for ever, her body writhing in ecstasy beneath him as he entered her and withdrew, time and again. Having caressed her entire body with his hands and lips, he worked wonders for her with his darting tongue, his lips exploring every centimetre of her. It was all she could do to prevent herself from screaming. Even now, just looking at his muscular profile stirred delicious feelings within her as she imagined his head once more between her thighs, his tongue sending exquisite electric shocks throughout her body. In her mind, she was imagining his hard erection inside her once more. She involuntarily shivered again.

  Samantha caught a brief glimpse of herself in the reflection from the large window. Although standing only five feet four without her heels, she knew she looked good in them. Her long, jet-black hair hung low, the ends just touching her breasts. Expertly made-up with full, red lips, she was aware that almost any man could fall under her spell. She turned slightly to one side to examine herself better and felt more than satisfied with what she saw looking back at her.

  One of the other regular hostesses at Silk's Club, aptly named Pepsi because that was all she ever drank, was lounging back, propped up on her elbow on the long, bright red leather, Chippendale style sofa behind the highly polished mahogany reception desk, her somewhat pointed chin cupped forlornly in the palm of her hand, looking thoroughly bored as punters had been thin on the ground so far that night, even though it was only eleven o'clock. None of the regular Soho touts that frequented the club had brought them any customers either, which was unusual as that was the touts' only way of making a decent living on the streets.

  Sometimes, it could be well past midnight before any of the punters started arriving, having spent the earlier part of their evening in some of the local public houses which all closed just after eleven o'clock. It was hoped that they still had money left to spend. Samantha was about to relieve Pepsi and take over for the next hour. The girls took it in turns, changing over with each other every
hour or so. Seeing a scantily clad, attractive young girl through that large, illuminated window often enticed wavering customers through the door who would maybe have hesitated before. It was Alan's job as doorman to ensure that the customers did come in. He was a persuasive talker. Once she had taken over from the other girl it would then be her job to escort any eager customers from the doorman, through the small bar area behind her and down the narrow, spiral metal staircase leading to the club proper, all under the watchful eye of Rocky, the barman and whichever doorman was on duty at the time.

  On some nights, more often than not, the entire, tedious hour went slowly by without even a sign of a prospective client. Still, she could always pass the time chatting with Alan and maybe, if she was lucky, get a sneaky squeeze of his hand when no-one was looking. Because of the hour, it appeared that earnings were going to be somewhat slim that night as the girls only earned their money in the commission on what the customers paid. There were no wages.

  At that point in time, she became vaguely aware of a large, black saloon car coming to a sudden halt in the street immediately outside the door. She couldn't see it properly as Alan was standing in the way. She was aware of someone shouting something from the car. Then, for some reason, Alan suddenly dived to his left, crashing in to the desk and pushing it backwards towards the couch, trapping Pepsi behind it. At the same time she saw a blinding, bright blue, orange and yellow flash accompanied by an extremely loud bang. Pepsi screamed like a banshee. This was immediately followed by a sharp, raw stinging sensation that flowed quickly over the left side of her face, head and shoulder followed by an unbelievably painful stabbing feeling that seemed to go right through to the centre of her skull.

  A horrible burning smell filled the small, cramped foyer and she sensed a foul, metallic taste in her mouth. It was her own blood. She vaguely thought that she heard the screech of the car's tyres pulling sharply away as she fell backwards through the curtain beads to lie on her back, her hands at her sides, palms upwards with her little gold clutch bag still dangling from her wrist and her lower legs and feet twitching, protruding through and underneath the swishing beads that had by now dropped back into their normal position. The man behind the bar shouted out something and Alan replied but she couldn't make out what was said.

  Suddenly, her Alan was there, kneeling at her side, his warm hand on the cold skin of her exposed right shoulder. His expression was one of fear mingled with anxiety and anger. His lips were moving rapidly and she could tell he was saying something to her but she had now gone completely deaf after the loud noise. Samantha could feel his hand trying to shake her, bring her back to his world.

  She blinked painfully for what she imagined to be only a second, but when she looked again, Alan's image had been replaced by that of Lenny Harris, the grey-haired proprietor of the premises. He was kneeling down and leaning over her with his camel hair overcoat thrown loosely around his shoulders and one of his usual fat, unlit Havana cigars hanging from his thin lips, a terrified frown upon his craggy, wrinkled face as his hairy brows knitted together.

  “Fuck me, Rock!” he exclaimed loudly, his rasping, croaky voice wavering like she had never heard before. “This looks like a bad 'un. Phone fer a fuckin' ambulance, fer Christ's sake.”

  “I'm already on it, Len,” she heard Rocky the barman reply from somewhere over to her left. She could clearly hear the bleeping tones of the telephone as Rocky dialled the number but his voice just seemed to be mumbling far away in the distance. All she heard was the word 'shotgun'.

  In all the confusion, she noticed Lenny Harris pushing Alan towards the interior of the club and barking out orders to him. Alan disappeared from view as Harris tore down the beaded curtain.

  There was the acrid smell of cordite mixed with burning flesh and a faint, hazy, blue-grey smoke drifted in the air and hung, suspended close to the ceiling. At first, in her confused state she thought it was from Lenny's cigar but, through the mists of her clouded mind she realised it had not been lit, just clamped firmly between his yellowing, uneven teeth.

  The main fluorescent light strip in the centre of the ceiling suddenly came on, flooding the entire foyer with its brilliance. The first time she had ever seen it working, as the foyer was usually only dimly lit by three small, low-powered wall lights. Lenny's worried face faded away and passed from her view and she found herself staring up at the smoke covered ceiling above her and realised for the first time how cracked and stained it appeared in the harsh light. Then she thought 'What a stupid thing to think at a time like this'. It had probably never seen a paintbrush in all the fifteen years that the club had been open.

  More voices and other incoherent noises came to her through the woozy haze of her consciousness. Lenny Harris saying something urgently to Alan, and him responding in a much quieter tone, Pepsi still screaming out loud, Rocky telling her to calm down and the outside sounds of sirens approaching at speed coupled with heavy footsteps, running along the street.

  The image of a young, uniformed policeman came into view at the periphery of her vision and then disappeared just as quickly to be replaced by two other men in suits and overcoats

  The next thing she was aware of was the ambulance personnel, a man and a woman in green uniforms kneeling beside her, passing tubes across her body, talking urgently to each other and scurrying back and forth. She felt their hands on her body and face, examining her rapidly but carefully.

  “Airways are clear now,” she heard a female voice.

  “Get some sterile pads from the box,” said the male ambulance operator. “We'll need to try to stabilise this bleeding.” Samantha felt something soft and warm being applied to her cheek, or what was left of it.

  And then the unbearable pain began. It came on slowly at first, a slight burning which gradually increased in intensity until she opened her torn and bleeding mouth to scream but nothing came out.

  She felt the sharp scratch of a needle going into her right arm and then another on the back of the wrist.

  These images and sensations went on for what seemed an eternity to Samantha but was, in fact only a few minutes. More policemen had arrived along with another ambulance crew and the foyer became so crowded that it was impossible for anyone to see the now congested roadway outside.

  “Can we have some space here, please?” one of the ambulance staff angrily called out loudly.

  Then came the blackness and silence, which was probably just as well for her. Within five minutes of their arrival at the scene, the ambulance people had done their best to stabilise their charge and were carrying her out of the club on a wheeled stretcher into the cold night air, a red blanket hung loosely across her and towards the waiting ambulance which was parked in the middle of the narrow roadway. They knew that they had to get her to the Emergency Department as quickly as possible. Her injuries were such that they could not deal with them at the site.

  The high brick walls of the surrounding buildings on either side of Great Windmill Street were illuminated by the flashing blue lights of the numerous, stationary, emergency vehicles.

  As she allowed her vision through her one good eye to slowly wander upwards, still not really making any sense of what had just transpired, she saw what she perceived to be hundreds, maybe thousands of sparkling, brightly coloured jewels scattered wildly across a plush, black velvet blanket.

  Samantha was looking at the stars.

  * * * *

  BEGINNINGS.

  At one forty five in the morning of 31st July, 1952, Janet Mary Robson entered this world, crying at an unbelievably high pitch. She was her mother, Norma's first child and, she vowed, her last. The unmistakeable odour of childbirth filled the room. The older neighbour from next door, Betty Patterson, cut the umbilical cord having first tied it off with some string and placed the tiny baby on to a thin blanket that had been hastily draped across a chest of drawers against one wall of the drab bedroom. Betty was used to it; she had delivered many a child in the terraced row of houses
in Bentinck Road on the outskirts of Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. She expertly cleared Janet's mouth and nostrils before tenderly wrapping her in a white, hand-knitted blanket and gently handing her back to Norma, who gazed down at the infant with the eyes that only a new mother would have. The love for this child oozed in crushing waves from every pore in her body. The nine months of carrying her and the pain of childbirth was worth it to have this tiny, wailing but beautiful bundle laying in her loving arms. Sweat flowed down Norma's face, dripping from her chin on to the edge of the blanket. Tears of joy began to trickle down her rosy cheeks to mingle with the tiny beads of sweat.

  “Why, she's a canny lass, though but,” Betty told her with a reassuring smile as she wiped her hands on a towel and came across to the bed. She gazed down at the slowly moving bundle in Norma's arms. “Healthy lungs as well, pet. She's a good weight too if I'm any judge.”

  Just at that moment, Harriet the midwife arrived. She had been hastily summoned by Betty from the telephone box on the corner near the Duke Of Portland public house.

  “Well, ye took your bliddy time, lass,” Betty told her, hands on her hips.

  “Aye, I know, pet. I had to pump one of me tyres up before I could ride the damned thing,” Harriet replied, breathless and shaking her head, annoyed at herself for not checking her bicycle earlier.

  Harriet laid her nursing bag down on the carpet by the door and went across to the bed, a warm, comforting smile beaming across her round, ruddy face. She was still panting for breath having cycled hard from her house on Normount Road. Pedalling as fast as her chubby legs would allow, the journey had taken her over ten minutes. Now she needed to check first on the new-born infant and then the mother. Bending over she looked at the baby and her smile increased to spread right across her face. She nodded slowly as she gazed down and spoke.