The Hostess

by L. P. Gibbs

  “This is a Smith & Wesson MK22 MOD Hush-Puppy automatic pistol,” he told her. It's light and easy to conceal but has the power to do the job.” His left hand slid inside the carrier bag and pulled out a small canister. He held it up to show her. “This is the screw-on silencer. It dampens the sound of the shot. It's a Mk3 Suppressor and perfect for this gun.” Randall deftly screwed it into place on the end of the barrel. He then pressed a button on the grip and slid open the magazine from the butt. Taking it out completely, he held it up to show her. “It has a thirteen round HP magazine which will be more than enough for whatever you need.” With that he slid it back into the handle with the heel of his hand and it clicked solidly into place.

  Alan then pointed out a tiny lever on the left side, just above the trigger-guard. “This is the safety catch,” he said. “Only release this lever when you need to fire the gun. You can do it easily with your thumb.” He operated it to show her. Then leaned back on the bed, his elbow propped on the pillow and looked at the girl, awaiting her response. After a full minute she spoke.

  “Okay, …... I suppose I will have to try but I'm not sure I can do it.” He nodded slowly at this, understanding her apprehension.

  “Right, get some sleep and have a think about it. If you still want to go ahead with it, I'll pick you up tomorrow afternoon and we can go out to Nazeing where there are some disused gravel quarries out in the sticks where we won't be disturbed or seen. No-one goes there so you can practice in safety. Then you'll know if it's the right thing for you.” She reluctantly agreed.

  That night, the Saturday, Alan drove her home after work again and shared her bed for the night. They didn't get any sleep until almost six o'clock as he had been feeling as horny as hell. Waking at eleven, she found Randall already dressed and making coffee at the small table in one corner of the room. He looked back over his shoulder as he heard her stirring.

  After a breakfast of bacon sandwiches, they started down the stairs. As they reached the bottom, Arthur was on his way up from the basement flat carrying a large, black rubbish bag that appeared to be almost at bursting point. He put the bag down on the top step and glared at them as he rested his elbow on the banister rail to try to catch his breath from the exercise of climbing the stairs..

  “Now then, young lady,” he said with a nasty snarl, eyeing the innocent looking Randall up and down. “You know you're not allowed to have any male visitors at night. Especially all night. You could lose your tenancy for this, you know.” He continued to glare, shaking his head, his hands defiantly placed on his hips. Randall, the carrier bag still in his left hand, turned to the man and smiled in a certain way as he walked slowly across the hallway to him. He didn't come to a halt until his face was no more than six inches from Arthur's.

  “You don't seem to understand, my friend,” he said softly with just the right amount of menace. “This young lady losing her tenancy could be extremely bad for your personal health,” he continued, still smiling, but the steel blue eyes penetrating Arthur's. “For instance, you could very easily fall down these stairs which would be quite damaging, don't you think?” As he said this, he quickly grabbed the caretaker by the shirt front with his right hand and pushed him backwards, keeping a grip on the shirt to prevent him from falling. Arthur's arms started flailing around in fear, reaching for the bannister rail as his feet struggled to stay on the top step and then, just as he was about to fall, Randall pulled him back up. He released his hold on Arthur's shirt and straightened the man's now crumpled collar. “Now, do we understand each other?” he asked. Arthur gulped noisily and nodded vigorously, his eyes wide.

  “Y … y … yes,” he stammered. “Of course. Er, … m … my mistake. Sorry.”

  Randall turned back to Samantha and, taking her by the elbow, steered her down the steps to his car. When she was seated inside, he placed the bag between her ankles once again and got behind the wheel. Forty five minutes later they were driving along Crooked Mile in Nazeing. Randall turned off to the left on to a narrow track that had once been a road. Weeds and grass had long taken it over, brambles brushing along the side of the car, some of them catching on the mirrors. Trees were now hanging their wispy branches over the uneven track, some of them scraping gently on the roof as they passed. After about half a mile of bumping across pot-holes and swaying from side to side, they came to a rusting, padlocked metal gate that barred their way further. Randall got out and motioned her to follow which she did, holding the carrier bag. She followed him alongside the six foot high, wire fencing and ducked under some low branches and brushed aside thicker brambles that blocked their path. A few minutes later, Randall stopped and pulled on a loose section of wire so that it was open wide enough for them to pass through. He had obviously been here before. They went through the gap and eventually came to an enormous crater in the ground, the bottom filled with stagnant, green water. Randall looked around and nodded with satisfaction.

  “This will do,” he said and took the bag from her hand. He reached inside and took the gun and silencer out, screwing the latter on to the barrel. He handed the weapon to her, butt first. “Okay then. Remember what I told you about the safety catch?” She assured him she did. “Aim it at that rock pile and squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it, just squeeze.” Gingerly, she raised her arm straight out in front of her and pulled the trigger. Her arm jumped backwards and up from the recoil of the gun firing. Samantha hadn't expected that to happen. She watched in fascination as several stones and pebbles jumped into the air as the bullet hit. Randall laughed.

  “You should see the look on your face as your arm jumped up,” he said. “Next time, use both hands and relax your arms a little so that the elbows are slightly bent. Hang on a moment.” He went about twenty feet away from her and piled some large stones on top of each other to form a crude pyramid about ten inches high then walked back to her side. “Now, try shooting at those stones. Let's see if you can hit them.” She fired again and completely missed the pile altogether. She lowered the gun and the disappointment showed on her face.

  “I'll never be able to do this, Alan,” she told him.

  “Yes you will, just keep trying. You'll get there in the end.” An hour later, having reloaded many times, Samantha could hit the little pyramid almost every time and when she did miss, it was only by a fraction. Alan seemed to be pleased with her progress and aim and told her so.

  “I think you've got the hang of it now,” he said when they were back in his car and pulling out onto the road once more. “Now, when you've finished with the gun, you'll have to dispose of it as soon as possible along with the silencer in a way that it will never be found, like in the middle of a river. When we get back to your room today, we'll clean it up properly and from then on, only touch it if you're wearing the latex gloves that I'll give you, just to be on the safe side. I've got several pairs in the boot of the car. You never know when they might be needed.”

  And so it was that the next Friday morning found Samantha seated on the eleven fifteen express train from London's Kings Cross Station to travel the almost four hundred miles to Newcastle. She slept for over an hour and a half on the journey and arrived at five minutes to three in the afternoon. With her overnight bag slung over her right shoulder and the hood pulled up on her jacket, she set off on foot and arrived at Sandra's home twenty-five minutes later. Her friend was at first shocked to see her but the shock soon turned to fear.

  “Oh Jan,” she said, a tremor in her voice, her lips still slightly swollen from the previous beating, a bruise evident on her left cheekbone. She still remembered Samantha as Janet from their schooldays. “You can't stay here, pet. Barry will be home in less than an hour and he'll go mad if he sees you here. He doesn't like any of my friends coming round. Gail Stebbings walked home from the shops with me one day and he was very rude to her. When she left he had a go at me and accused me of trying to go out at night.” Samantha touched her arm affectionately.

  “Now listen very carefully to me Sandr
a,” she said sternly. “This man has got to be stopped. You can't carry on living in fear like this, it's barbaric.” She paused for a moment. “I have a plan that will set you free of him but you must do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”

  “What do you mean? What have I got to do?”

  “Does he go out on Friday nights?” Samantha enquired.

  “Oh yes. Always. He goes to The Albion. You know the pub don't you?” Samantha assured her that she did. It had been one of her father's regular haunts at one time before he had been barred from the establishment for starting a fight and she knew exactly where it was. Sandra continued. “He's always the last to leave the pub when it closes at eleven o'clock.”

  “How does he get there?”

  “He drives that old Vauxhall over there.” She pointed out the car, a rusting heap that had seen better days. “Drinking and driving doesn't bother him. He gets picked up in a van for work so doesn't use it during the day.”

  “When he goes out tonight, you must go and see your mother, alright?”

  “Why? What do you have in mind?”

  “Don't ask questions, Sandra. Just make sure that you stay there at your Mam's until at least half past eleven or even later if you can and make sure that Betty Patterson from next door sees you there too. Take a bottle of gin with you. Betty loves a gin and tonic so she'll jump at the chance.”

  “What's going on, Jan? I don't understand.”

  “Be honest, Sarn. Wouldn't you like to be rid of the pig? Be happy and free of the bastard for good?”

  “Well, yes but I still don't know what's going on.”

  “Don't you worry about anything, love, you don't need to know, that way you can't let anything slip out,” Samantha told her and squeezed her arm. “Whatever happens, you mustn't tell anyone that I've been here, okay? Absolutely no-one must know I've been here. It's very important. Do you understand, Sandra?” Sandra agreed but still seemed perplexed. “If everything goes the way I've planned, I'll phone you next Tuesday. With a bit of luck, everything will work out just fine, you'll see.” She reached up from the doorstep and kissed Sandra's cheek then pressed a rectangular white envelope with banknotes in it into her palm. “There's a few pounds in there that I've been putting aside from work. It should help you out for a bit.” Without waiting for Sandra's reaction, she turned and walked rapidly out of the street. Sandra opened her mouth to call her back but she was gone and had turned the corner within seconds.

  Samantha walked round to Pitt Street to her mother's block of flats and climbed the stairs to the eighth floor, the single lift being out of action yet again. She stood still when she got to the landing to get her breath. Approaching the faded, paint-peeled blue front door she hesitated for a moment then, plucking up the courage, lifted the knocker and let it fall with a bang. Her mother opened the door and stepped back in wonder, her hand clasped to her chest in surprise.

  “Janet!” she squealed with delight. “Why on earth didn't ye tell me ye were coming home, pet?” Samantha grinned widely and threw her arms around her mother, squeezing her tightly.

  “I didn't know myself until this morning, Mam,” she replied. “But listen, you've got to keep it a secret or I could get into big trouble.” Her mother stood back and glared at her inquisitively.

  “What's gannin on then, hen?” she demanded to know. She couldn't tell her mother the truth and so came up with a plausible story about delivering a bag of illegal money for someone very important. Her mother appeared to accept the yarn, or perhaps she just wanted to accept it.

  “Away inside then and I'll put the kettle on for a cup of tea,” she said, opening the door wide. “I daresay they don't brew proper tea down in London.” Samantha's eyes screwed in sorrow as she replied, shaking her head.

  “I can't come in. I'm truly sorry, Mam,” she said. “I dare not let me Da know I was here and you mustn't tell him. You mustn't tell anyone that I've been here or I could get into big trouble. It was only because I was up here that I had to come and see you just to get a hug.” She held her mother tight once more before standing back with a smile. “Oh, and to give you this.” She handed over another white envelope with five hundred pounds inside. “It's for you, Mam, and don't let on to him or he'll blow it all on the drink.” Norma Robson gazed at the envelope that had been thrust into her hand and simply stared at the money inside for a moment or two.

  “Why, I don't need your money, pet. You'll be needing it yeself.”

  “Honestly, Mam. I've got enough. It's for you. Now I've got to go or I'll miss me train,” she lied convincingly, turning and heading for the stairs. “Don't forget, …. I haven't been here, okay?” she asked before going down. Mrs. Robson nodded with a weak smile although there were tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. Samantha smiled back and disappeared noisily down the stairs. Something in her heart told her that there was always the possibility that she would never see her mother again, and her own tears mingled with the spots of rain that had started to fall from the dark sky as she emerged from the block on to Pitt Street.

  Pulling up the hood on her jacket and with her bag slung over her shoulder, she made her way down and along Westgate Road in the rain until she came to Lynnwood Terrace. Samantha stood on the corner for a good ten minutes, trying to make her mind up about what she was going to do next. Having decided on a course of action, she walked slowly along the road until she found the house she was seeking, a small, shabby two up, two down dwelling, the dark green paint peeling from the door with age. Branches from an ancient laurel tree hung across the short path to the front door. Putting on the Latex gloves that Randall had provided her with and looking up and down ensuring she was not being observed, Samantha knocked on the heavy front door and waited. After a few moments waiting there, a muffled shuffling noise could be heard from within, approaching the door. It opened a few inches with a security chain in place and a reddened, puffy face peered through the gap.

  “Yes? Who is it?” asked the face.

  “It's Janet,” she replied.

  “Janet? Janet who?” he asked, sounding confused.

  “Uncle Bertie, is that you? It's me, Janet …. Janet Robson, Jim's daughter, your niece,” she said in her sweetest voice. He took the chain off and allowed the door to swing further open as a toothless grin spread across the wrinkled face, recognition finally dawning on him.

  “Oh, my goodness,” he said, straining to catch his breath, the disease of his lungs getting the better of him. She thought there and then that she would like to see him take his last breath. “The last I heard, your Da told me ye had gone down to London looking for work, lass.”

  “Yes, that's right,” she replied, still smiling. “I'm just back up for a while and thought I'd look up my family.” Bertie opened the door wide and stood with his back against the peeling wallpaper in the hallway.

  “Ye had better come in then, pet,” he said turning and dragging his slippered feet back along the short hallway before entering the living room. She followed, closing the front door behind her. As he gingerly lowered himself into the well-worn armchair that had some of the pale yellow stuffing spilling from a rip in the arm-rest, his breathing was laboured and heavy from too much smoking over a period of more than sixty years. “It's certainly a nice surprise to see you after all this time,” he told her. She put her bag down on the floor and stood in front of him looking down dispassionately at the sick old man that she loathed so much. She noted that the curtains were drawn closed.

  “Yes, I'll bet it is a surprise. I expect you're hoping that I've forgotten what you did to me all those years ago?” The old man gazed fearfully up at the young woman before him, his rheumy eyes squinting at her.

  “Did to ye? What d'ye mean, hinnie?” He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, trying to move his bulk.

  “Oh, I'm sure you do remember what you did, Uncle Bertie,” Samantha continued, her eyes burning down into his and a wicked smile on her face. “You must remember making me touch you when I
was a little girl aged ten, you filthy, disgusting, old bastard.” She spat the words out and her ageing uncle recoiled from her and frowned slightly as if recalling his deeds and it was obvious from his pained expression that he disliked the distant images that he was recalling.

  “I …... I divven nah what ye're talkin' aboot, Janet,” he said shakily. “I did nowt to ye, lass.” She leaned forward menacingly, her hands on her knees as she responded, her snarling face mere inches from his, that old familiar stench of stale beer and tobacco on his putrid breath which made her hate him even more. She stood back, her eyes scanning the room.

  “I think you do, Bertie,” she said venomously . “I have certainly never forgotten, but I'll bet that back then you didn't give a thought to the fact that the little girl you were abusing would grow up and come back for you one day, did you? Well now I am fucking back and you're going to wish that I wasn't.” As she said this, she picked up the heavy cushion she had spotted on the other, similarly worn armchair. In that split-second, he understood what was about to happen and put his hands on the arms of the chair in an effort to push himself up. Samantha's movement was so swift that he never had a chance to move. Using both hands, she pushed the cushion hard down onto his upturned face and put all her weight behind it. Uncle Bertie, now frail and elderly stood absolutely no chance at all. He tried his feeble best to push her away by trying to grab at her arms but there was no way he could compete with her adrenalin-fuelled strength. His flailing arms gradually slowed, his muffled cries ceased and his legs stopped kicking. Within forty-five seconds, his body had become completely still but Samantha continued to keep the cushion in place for at least another minute, holding it down forcefully. She wanted to make sure that this evil old man was dead.

  Going back to see her uncle had never been Samantha's intention when she started her journey back in London, but returning to Pitt Street and seeing her mother stirred up the memory. It was on her way back down the stairs that she thought about going to see the old pervert. Initially, she had decided just to confront him, shout at him or slap him and make him feel ashamed of what he had done to her as a schoolgirl, but when he had said that he didn't know what she was talking about, it made her think differently and changed her plans. Now it was done, the wicked old man who abused her was dead and she was glad that her distant nightmares of her past were now over. Someone would no doubt find him eventually, hopefully not for a long time. He now lived the life of a recluse. Or did! Let the flies and maggots deal with his rotting, over indulged corpse so that there would be no trace of him being suffocated. He had never had any friends to call on him, only his brother, her father, and he was none too keen on the man, either. There would be no-one to mourn his passing.