The Hostess

by L. P. Gibbs

  She made her way back into the city centre to mingle with the throng of people scurrying along the pavements, all hurrying to get out of the rain that had now become much more of a torrent.

  She came across a McDonald's restaurant that had not been there the last time she was in Newcastle. At that time, this had been a large, double-fronted dressmaking shop. How things had changed in such a relatively short time. For a moment, she considered going inside for something to eat but recalled Alan's warnings about cameras everywhere and so decided to look elsewhere for food. Just around the corner from the main station, she came across a roadside snack bar van. Despite the obvious health worries, she ordered a double cheeseburger and coffee. Standing beside the van to eat her meal, Samantha dragged the time out for as long as possible with two further coffees and eventually left just before ten as the man behind the counter was starting to close his van up for the night.

  At a slow but steady walk and still with her head down and hood up, she reached The Albion public house at ten forty five just as she had anticipated. She stood almost opposite for a few minutes, trying to see inside through the misted-up windows. Unable to make out anyone's face, she went round the back and entered the darkened car park. Somewhere, not too far away, she heard a dog bark three times, ending in a howl that turned into a pitiful whimper.

  Samantha carefully surveyed all the outside walls of the pub and searched around the car park for CCTV cameras just as Alan Randall had instructed her. There were none. A single lamp standard offered some illumination for the car park but not enough to be a problem for her.

  Barry's old Vauxhall Omega was parked nose-on to the back wall. Ensuring that no-one was around to observe her, she quickly pulled on the Latex gloves she had been given, bent to the front wheel and stabbed the tyre with her little nail scissors from her cosmetics bag. The tyre let out a satisfying hiss and she stepped back into the shadows of the corner beneath the overhanging lilac bush. Having made it there only just in time, three men came out of the back door of the pub, laughing and talking loudly and went to another car further along. They got in and drove out, leaving just Barry's crippled vehicle and an old, dark red Transit van in the car park.

  It was just after a quarter past eleven before two men came out through the back door. They stood chatting, silhouetted against the light from the open door for over five minutes and then one of them climbed into the van, started it up and revved the engine unnecessarily before swinging it round at an excessive speed in a semi-circle and roaring out of the car park, its exhaust obviously in need of some repair. Samantha heard it pull noisily out into the street and race away, the sound of the engine fading quickly into the distance. She took the gun from her bag with the silencer already attached and waited in the dark.

  The other man lit a cigarette then walked across to the Vauxhall, fumbling and dropping his keys once and then got in, slamming the door as he did so. He started the tired old engine and began to reverse away from the wall, turning the wheel to his left. As he did so, he realised that something was wrong and stopped, getting out and looking accusingly down at the flat front tyre.

  Samantha stepped quietly out of the shadows with the gun held flat against her thigh. When she spoke, the man literally jumped into the air as he thought he had been alone in the car park.

  “Hello,” she said softly. “you're Barry, aren't you?” The man looked her up and down in the gloom of the car park and smiled.

  “Aye, that's right, darlin',” he replied, leering at her with a smile starting on his face. “Do I know you?”

  “No you don't,” she replied sweetly, her teeth gleaming from her smile. “I'm Janet, Sandra's best friend. We spoke once on the phone. She tells me everything, even what you did to her.” The smile that had been on her face gradually faded to be replaced with a contemptuous sneer. Barry noticed the look and fear started to well up inside him as he made to take a step backwards.

  Samantha said nothing more, just smiled again, smartly lifted the gun and squeezed the trigger once, just as Randall had told her. As she was standing less than six feet from him, the bullet hit Barry in his forehead just above his left eye, leaving a gaping, maroon hole and sending him flying backwards across the bonnet of his wreck of a car. Samantha watched dispassionately as the horrid man slowly slid from the bonnet to the cold, grey, damp concrete ending up lying on his back, arms at his sides, his unseeing eyes wide open in death.

  She quickly unscrewed the silencer from the gun and pushed both items inside one of the blue elasticated gloves, then wrapped the entire deadly package into the other glove, stowing it within her bag. Still ensuring no-one was around to see her, she pulled her hood right up over her head so that it almost covered her face then walked rapidly to the exit beside the pub and out into the street. As she passed the main door of the public house, the interior lights went out. She hunched her shoulders and continued walking until she reached Westgate Road. Turning to her left she came to a bus stop and took shelter under the dusty glass canopy. There was only ten minutes or so to wait for a bus and when she alighted at Grainger Street, she knew from past experience of the area that it was only a fifteen minute walk through the back streets to the Quayside and Hadrian's Wall Path that ran alongside the River Tyne.

  The pathway was deserted apart from a solitary dog-walker and his Alsatian who were way ahead of her and moving in the opposite direction away from her. He had not seen her. She stopped and looked cautiously around as she pulled the gloved package from her shoulder bag. Samantha stood absolutely still for a good five minutes, looking left and right from time to time. Casually leaning her elbows on the parapet, and with one last look around she allowed the package to slip from her hand and it was with more than a little satisfaction that she heard the splash way down below her as both items disappeared beneath the fast flowing water of the Tyne. Turning round, she retraced her steps and eventually came to the mainline station. With the hood turned up and still partially covering her face, she searched the timetable for the next London train. It was due to leave at four forty five a.m. Almost four hours to wait.

  A coffee machine opposite platform one offered a disgusting, watery brown liquid that although scalding hot, tasted very little like the coffee it was supposed to be. From the vending machine next to it she purchased two bags of cheese and onion crisps and a bar of chocolate and settled down on a wooden bench in the darkness of the far corner of the station to wait.

  Just before half past four, the train from Aberdeen via Edinburgh pulled slowly in at the platform and Samantha went through the barrier with her bag slung over her shoulder. There was no ticket collector on duty so she went straight through and boarded the train, easily finding a seat. Dead on time, she heard the powerful diesel engine of the locomotive increase its revolutions and the sound filled the station. It began to edge the carriages forward and slowly away from the platform. The gentle swaying of the carriage meant that she nodded off several times during the four hour journey South to London. The second bag of crisps was consumed as the train sped through Grantham, leaving her absolutely ravenous by the time it arrived at its destination.

  As the train was slowing down and pulling in to Kings Cross, just before eight thirty in the morning, she got up and went unnoticed to the toilets. Other passengers were also beginning to leave their seats in readiness to leave the train. Having entered the toilet and locking the door, she took her jacket off and ensured the pockets were completely empty. She hung it on the hook behind the door then unlocked it and went out again. Other passengers getting ready to disembark were too busy collecting their luggage and belongings and took no notice of her. They were wrapped up in their own little worlds, busy lives, places to go, people to see, jobs to be done. There would undoubtedly be traces of gunpowder on one of the sleeves and maybe on the front of the jacket and, very possibly, some minute blood spattering as well. Because of this, Randall had told her to get rid of it safely. They had decided that his way, the jacket would be f
ound almost immediately by the train cleaners at Kings Cross and would be handed in to the station's busy Lost Property office where it would remain until disposed of at an auction many months hence with no-one any the wiser. She got off the train and walked casually to the ticket barrier, making sure that she mingled with the other passengers. With her head bowed, she handed over her ticket and went unnoticed through without raising a glance from the collector or anyone else. Under two minutes later, she was walking out of the station and quickly away from the entrance.

  A bus from the stop on Pancras Road took her straight home, alighting at Camden Town tube station. She made the short walk to her home in under five minutes. Running up the staircase to her attic room, she slammed the door behind her and almost pounced on the small, table-top fridge she had purchased from the local Co-op a few weeks earlier to extract some cheese, roughly sliced it and rammed it between two slices of wholemeal bread and butter. She was ravenous. She devoured the sandwich straight away before even sitting down, whilst boiling the kettle at the same time. Samantha sat back on the hard chair at the small table and breathed a long sigh. A slight smile played on her lips. What would her Mam say if she ever knew that her daughter had become a three times killer? How long would it be before Uncle Bertie was found?

  The deeds were done, though, and hopefully, she had got away with it. She felt that, having followed Alan Randall's instructions, she had covered her tracks well and that no-one would be able to connect her to the death of Barry and certainly not that of Bertie Robson. Samantha drank her hot cup of tea and had climbed into her bed by nine thirty. Despite what had happened, she fell soundly asleep within minutes without the merest thought for her victims.

  When Samantha arrived at Silk's that night, she stopped outside and motioned Alan Randall to come out to her as she stopped on the other side of the street. He approached with that smile of his.

  “You weren't in work last night so I assume you've been up North?” he enquired, one eyebrow raised. She nodded.

  “Yes. Everything worked out just fine.”

  “And did you need to use my little present?”

  “I did, and it finalised everything for my friend; and I mean everything,” she told him. “He will never be bothering her or anyone else again.”

  “In that case, I hope there is nothing left to attach anything to you or me?” Randall asked. She leaned forward to whisper.

  “The gun and gloves went into the River Tyne and the jacket I was wearing is long gone by now. No-one saw me and anyone that did wouldn't be able to recognise me because the hood was always pulled up over my face.”

  “Good girl,” Randall said with a nod of his head. “Seems you've done everything right. What did your mate say?”

  “She doesn't know anything yet. All she will know is that Barry didn't come home last night. I expect that by now, he will have been found and she will have been informed. I'll give her a ring next week on Tuesday.” Samantha paused there for a moment and looked down at the damp pavement. Randall caught the look.

  “What else happened up there? He asked with a slight frown. She told him about her Uncle Bertie and what he had done to her as a child, culminating in her visit to him prior to looking for Barry. Randall nodded his approval.

  “Okay, but say nothing about anything you did, even to your friend up there. It's only you and me that know, and it's best to keep it that way. Every other person that knows increases the chances of it all coming to light. You do understand that, don't you?” She assured him that she did, smiled, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and went inside to start work.

  At the end of the night, Randall drove her home once more. Carla had gone back to her own flat and when they were alone in her room she gave him the full details of what had transpired from the moment she left London on the overnight train, smothering Uncle Bertie, waiting for Barry in the pub car park, right through to her getting rid of the jacket on the train and returning home. He listened attentively without interruption and squeezed her hand.

  Alan Randall spent the night with her again and, unusually, stayed right through until after breakfast.

  The next Tuesday, she telephoned Sandra as was her habit. Her old friend sounded anxious when she answered the phone.

  “Sandra? It's me.” There was a gasp at the other end.

  “Janet! Oh I'm so glad you called, pet. You'll never guess what's happened. I just can't believe it.” She went on to relate how she had been woken from sleep by two police officers, one of them a woman, at seven o'clock on the Saturday morning. They tenderly informed her that Barry, her live-in boyfriend had been found shot dead in the car park of his local pub by one of the cleaners who had arrived in his car for work at five o'clock that morning. Barry had apparently been shot at close range. Although there was no apparent motive, detectives were working on the theory that he may have been targeted by the husband or boyfriend of another female. Barry was well known within his circle of friends for his womanising ways.

  “You must be devastated, Sarn,” Samantha said. There was silence down the line for a moment or two.

  “Well, …. Not really, I suppose.” came the retort. “I've been wanting to leave him for a while now but couldn't go anywhere that he wouldn't find me. He knocked me about terribly, Jan,” she said. “I used to dread him coming home from the pub. He was usually drunk and would lash out at me for nothing at all. I wanted to call an ambulance once but he stopped me.”

  “You could always have come back down here and stayed with me. From what you tell me though, it's a good job he's out of the way, isn't it?” She heard Sandra sigh at the other end.

  “I think you're right.” There was an ominous pause at the end of the line. “You don't sound very surprised, Janet,” Sandra said at last. “This wouldn't have anything to do with your visit up here last Friday night, would it? Because that's when they say he was killed. Late that night after the pub closed.”

  “Sandra!” she exclaimed, but with lightness in her voice. “How can you think such a thing of a good girl like me?” There was silence again, this time for a much longer period. The other girl was obviously in deep thought. Eventually, Sandra uttered the words that she didn't really want to say.

  “It was you, Jan. I just know it! That's why you didn't want me to say anything about you being here, wasn't it? And you told me to go round to me Mam's house and to make sure I was seen there by Betty next door. I did, too. I stayed there until well after midnight. It all makes sense now.”

  “Don't think about silly things like that, Sandra,” Samantha told her firmly. “I'm just glad you don't have to put up with that bully any more. You deserve someone much better than that long-haired pig.” After another long pause Sandra spoke again, this time more softly.

  “How did you know he had long hair, Jan? You've never met him and there are no pictures here of him that you could have seen.”

  “As long as you're happier and a lot safer without him, that's all that matters.” She continued, not allowing Sandra the chance to speak. “Anyway, I'll call you again next week on Tuesday, alright? I've got to go now, they want me into work early today. Bye, love.” She hung up the phone and leaned back against the smeared glass of the telephone box, breathing in deeply, an act she instantly regretted as all she could smell was the stench of stale urine.

  Sandra had guessed that she had been involved but she knew her friend would never divulge what she suspected. She realised that she may have said too much but was confident in her Sandra's loyalty. There was no reason to think otherwise. Sandra would definitely lead a better life from here on without the presence of that violent man. Nodding vigorously to convince herself she was right, she pushed the heavy door open and stepped out on to the pavement of the busy Camden Road.

  Samantha slowly walked the two hundred yards back to her home with a wide smile on her face.

  * * * *

  ESCORTING

  Time passed quickly and a year or so later Samantha began to f
eel bored with the same routine, night after night. Any thoughts of what had gone on in Newcastle had long since disappeared from her mind.

  She mentioned her misgivings to Carla in the early hours of one Thursday morning when they had finished work and were enjoying a real drink in one of the illegal drinking houses in Frith Street. Carla understood and told her that she had been having similar thoughts herself of late.

  “But the money can be quite good sometimes,” Carla responded. Samantha agreed with her friend. There was no way she could earn that sort of money in a normal job and she knew it.

  “There must be something else we can do?” she ventured. Carla appeared to be thinking as she sipped her watered down gin and tonic. She wrinkled her nose as she looked accusingly down at the glass.

  “I think that bastard Callum behind the bar has diluted this way too much,” she said. “It's almost like drinking nothing but tonic water, the greedy git. I know he needs to make a profit but this is taking the piss.”

  “I know, in fact it tastes like piss, too.” They looked at each other for a couple of seconds then burst out laughing.