The Hostess

by L. P. Gibbs

  “You got anything to tell me, my son?” he asked.

  “It's got fuck-all to do with me, Len,” Randall responded, standing up. “I'd have told you if I had had a hand in it, as you know.” Randall figured that the fewer people in the know the better.

  “Just seems a bit strange that you and that young bird of yours were both off work last Saturday night and Sunday morning, is all.” The unspoken question hung heavy in the air between them like an early London morning mist. Randall lit a cigarette with a steady hand and let the Zippo lighter slide back into his jacket pocket.

  “Like I said, Len. Nothing to do with me, and Samantha's just a friend. Best we let it go at that, eh?” Harris nodded slowly and said nothing. But he knew, and Randall knew that he did. It was the unwritten rule. In Soho you didn't ask questions about something that didn't concern you.

  Samantha arrived for work as normal the following evening. Randall greeted her at the door. She smiled and he winked at her as she passed him. Later on, he went downstairs and beckoned for her to follow him. They went out through the fire exit that was positioned halfway up the staircase. It brought them out into Ham Yard at the rear of the club. There was only a few days to go before Christmas and Randall was concerned that Detective Inspector Colin Tiptree may come back again at some stage and start to ask her questions. He wasn't certain that she would stand up to an intensive interrogation from any of the experienced C.I.D. men like him. Standing outside in the cold near the rubbish containers, he voiced his concerns.

  “I think I'll go back up to Newcastle and see my Mum and come back after Christmas and the New Year,” she informed him after listening to his warning. Randall told her that he thought it was a good idea.

  “Well don't hang around,” he told her. “Get off now and get packed. I think there's an overnight train that leaves late from Kings Cross.” She readily agreed but said that she would wait until the next day to give her a chance to pack properly. There were some unsavoury types on the night trains at times, but that didn't bother Samantha too much. She had proved that she could handle herself.

  Going out through the main door, she kissed Randall and asked him to make her excuses to Harris.

  “Why don't you pick me up from my place on your way home?” she asked with a cheeky grin, flicking her tongue suggestively across her lips. “I feel I need you at the moment and if I'm going back to Newcastle, I might not see you for a while. I need my fix,” she whispered with a giggle. Randall told her that he would call by as long providing it wasn't too late. She said that it didn't matter how late the hour was and that she would be up, waiting for him. Randall watched her keenly as she walked off towards Shaftesbury Avenue in search of a taxi and turned just once to wave before disappearing from view on to the main road.

  At three thirty that morning, Randall pulled into the kerb outside Samantha's house. He revved the engine a little rather than blow the horn and bring too much attention. Having seen him from her window, Samantha tip-toed down the stairs and let herself out of the house. As she slid into the passenger seat her short skirt rode up her thighs a little. As he saw the brief flash of skin, Randall couldn't help noticing that she was wearing stockings for a change. That may have had something to do with the rapid speed at which he raced to his flat in Edmonton.

  They both started to undress as they went in through the front door and by the time they reached his bedroom mere seconds later, they were both naked except for Samantha's stockings and suspender belt. It increased her lust to know that Randall was turned on by the outfit. He lay beside her on the bed, caressing her breasts and kissing her mouth. Her arms automatically encircled him. Almost gasping for breath, she couldn't remember feeling as excited as this before.

  “Tie me to the bed, Alan,” she whispered softly into his ear as he nuzzled into her neck. He jumped from the bed and roughly pulled a purple tie from his drawer, wrapping it around her wrists. She was breathing heavier now as he then tied her to the metal rungs of the headboard. Randall smiled, bent his head forward and slowly allowed his moist tongue to travel gently across her breasts, then going further down before disappearing between her splayed thighs. Samantha felt his soft lips and hot tongue on her as his fingers went inside her in a circular motion and she groaned, knowing that she was going to come very soon. When she did, only seconds later, it was like a nuclear explosion inside her body. Samantha had to bite into her bottom lip to prevent herself from screaming aloud as her entire body jerked rhythmically to the sensation, hips rising and falling, her hands still firmly tied to the headboard so that she was unable to move. Being so powerless actually heightened the experience of her orgasm.

  As she gradually calmed down afterwards, Randall moved back up and knelt with his knees either side of her rib-cage, his erect penis laying naturally between her ample breasts. He started to move back and forth so that the tip touched her lips with every forward motion. After three or four movements like this, she parted her lips, lifted her head slightly and took him in her mouth. She drew it in as far as she could get it until it was against the back of her throat. His head went back and he placed his hands beside her head on the pillow as she sucked and let her own tongue go to work on him. Within less than a minute, Randall suddenly jerked backwards pulling it from her mouth and spurting forth all across her heaving breasts. She watched, fascinated as it lifted and lowered on its own, pumping, covering her upper body with his semen.

  When there was nothing left, he leaned forward and kissed her again as he untied her wrists. He almost fell to the bed beside her as he handed her a tissue from a box on his bedside cabinet. Wiping her beasts and shoulders dry, she pulled herself up on to her elbow, gazing down at his smiling face. She nibbled gently on his ear then lay beside him and they both fell into a blissful sleep.

  The following morning after a breakfast of crispy bacon sandwiches, she asked Randall to drive her home so that she could get ready for the trip North. He dropped her off outside her house just before mid-day, urging her to phone him when she arrived at her mother's house.

  That evening, she threw a few necessities and some clothes into a small, overnight case and went downstairs. Leaving her case at the bottom of the main stairs, she then ventured further down the narrow staircase to Arthur's flat in the basement. She told him she would be away for a few weeks and catch up on the rent on her return. He did not seem too happy about it and she left him muttering at his door. Samantha retrieved her case and took a cab to Kings Cross Station, catching the eleven forty-five night train that would arrive in Newcastle at six-fifteen the following morning. There were no worries on her mind and she slept most of the journey, her shoulder bag acting as a pillow and her small case in the rack above her head.

  Randall saw nothing more of her for almost two weeks. He told Lenny Harris that Samantha's mother had been unexpectedly taken ill and that she would be back at work just as soon as she could after the Christmas period.

  A few days later, on a very busy Christmas Eve just after ten o'clock with the club full of punters, D.I. Tiptree turned up once again. He appeared out of nowhere to stand at Randall's shoulder. He simply looked at the detective and raised a questioning eyebrow as if to ask why he was there, amazed that the man had managed to creep up on him so quickly, unobserved.

  “Lenny's already gone home,” Randall said. “I thought he gave you your Christmas Box last week?” The policeman shook his head.

  “It's not him I've come to see, my son,” he answered. After a short pause where he just looked up and down the street disinterestedly he continued. “That girl who lived with Carla in Camden Town, she about?”

  “You mean Samantha?” Tiptree nodded, eyeing him shrewdly. “No, she's gone off up to Newcastle for Christmas to see her parents. I'm not really sure if she's actually coming back,” he replied, nonchalantly lighting a cigarette as he scanned the street for prospective punters. Tiptree studied the doorman for a moment then seemed to make his mind up about something.

  �
��I've been chatting to a D.I. from Norbury, South of the river,” he informed Randall as he lit one of his cheroots. “They don't seem to have anything to go on regarding this Mark guy who got shot over there, only that a blonde woman went into the block at the same time as him but didn't come out via the lift. Apparently, the only other way out would be down the stairs.” He took a long drag on his cheroot and leaned against the door frame as he continued.

  “They think it might be a drugs deal that went wrong, especially as he had a small bag of coke in his jacket pocket. Or maybe he owed money to someone and didn't want to pay up.” Randall said nothing but just continued scanning the street for prospective customers.

  “The thing is,” Tiptree said, unable to let the subject drop. “Me, I'm not so sure. I reckon there's more to it. What do you think, Al?” Randall appeared to be thinking about the question.

  “I dunno, Colin, do I? You're the copper, you're supposed to know all about these things. You tell me.” Tiptree laughed then the smile gradually faded as he became more serious.

  “One thing I do know, old son, is that if I were Samantha,” and at this point he paused imperceptibly and looked directly at Randall, “would just plead total ignorance if anyone did happen to ask her any questions on the matter. Know what I mean, son?”

  The wily old bastard was certain that Randall and Samantha were involved in some way and was simply giving him an advance warning, a heads-up just in case questions were asked at some point in the future.

  Randall was grateful for the information and nodded his thanks. The two men stayed at the door for a further ten minutes or so, chatting about nothing in particular. Eventually, Tiptree buttoned up his overcoat, adjusted his trilby hat, stepped back out on to the pavement and turned.

  “Have a good Christmas, Alan,” he said with a smile. The doorman returned the smile and nodded.

  “Yeah, I will,” he replied. “You have a good 'un too, Cole.” The detective walked off in the direction of Old Compton Street but disappeared into one of the many porn bookshops along the road. Presumably he was expecting his Christmas 'drink' from them as well. He would probably visit every establishment along the street on his way back to the nick, including the strip shows and the young Indian brass in her tiny, rented room above the Pink Panther.

  Rocky came out through the curtains from the bar and stood at Randall's side in the doorway.

  “What did that slimy git Tiptree want then?” he enquired, his nostrils wrinkling in distaste. Randall laughed.

  “He just wanted to chat, I think, Rock,” he replied. “He probably doesn't have too many friends to talk to, eh?” Rocky nodded in total agreement. Policemen, particularly those like the D.I. were tolerated. Not liked, but simply tolerated as a necessary evil that had to be endured in order to get by. There were a few from Vine Street as well as West End Central police stations. They knew what went on but allowed it to happen as they were earning well from the enterprises.

  After five minutes standing there, Randall turned and accompanied Rocky back inside. He helped himself to a very large measure of Lamb's Navy Rum. Adding a dash of hot water from the constantly boiling kettle behind the bar, he settled on to a stool and sipped it.

  “Hot rum?” enquired Rocky with a frown. “That's unusual for you, Alan. Have you got the flu coming on or something? Your tipple is usually Black Jack, one rock and a threat of lemonade.”

  “Yeah, …. well, ….” he replied, inclining his head towards the door. “It's colder than a witches tit out there, mate.”

  * * * *

  BACK TO WORK.

  Samantha left her mother's flat in Pitt Street, Newcastle at eleven o'clock in the morning on the third of January to make the return journey to London. She was not looking forward to the tediously long journey alone and her sadness at having to leave her mother again weighed heavily on her mind, which did nothing to alleviate her bad mood. She also actually felt sorrow at leaving her father too. He gave her an extra large hug before she left, urging her to come back home to visit more often in the future. He had changed considerably since she had left home for London several years previously. Gone was the violent, swearing drunkard who would think nothing of giving her a beating for back-chatting him or coming home late, and back was the loving father she remembered from her distant childhood.

  Forty-five minutes after leaving the flat, she was reluctantly boarding the train. Walking through the carriages with her case banging against the seats as she passed, she found an almost empty section. She put her case on the rack above her head and sank back into the seat with a glum expression on her face. She looked out of the window at the platform, wondering when she would see Newcastle again.

  As the train began to move away from the platform, an overweight man in his late fifties came along the gangway and sat down in the seat opposite her. Without even looking up, Samantha could tell from past experience that the man was studying her figure, but she steadfastly refused to meet his gaze and continued to read her Woman's Realm magazine that she had purchased from the station kiosk while waiting for the train to arrive from Edinburgh. Being a solo traveller, she needed something to occupy her mind and ease the boredom of the journey. Eventually her fellow traveller spoke in a clipped, upper class Southern accent.

  “Are you going right through to London, too?” he enquired with a smile. She looked up at him and answered with a bored sigh.

  “Yes, that's right.” She turned her eyes away from his to look out of the window at the countryside through the slight condensation that had started to form, indicating that any further conversation was not invited, but the other passenger persisted despite the dour expression on her face.

  “I've just spent the entire Christmas and New Year period with my son and his family in Bellingham, a little way outside Newcastle,” he told her proudly. “My boy Archie was at university in Edinburgh, you know, studied medicine.” He sat back with a self-satisfied, smug expression. “Oh, he's a qualified doctor now, of course. I myself actually went to Cambridge, you know.” He took a linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose rather noisily before returning it to his pocket. “I'm a barrister with chambers at Lincoln's Inn Fields in London. I expect you've heard of that.” The man ended the sentence with a slow, nodding motion of his head as if to assert to himself that he was someone very special indeed. Samantha assumed she was meant to be impressed by his credentials, but she had met many men just like him at Silk's, boasting of their successes and prowess so she ignored the remark and lowered her head to read through her magazine. The articles within were far more interesting than listening to this bore. After a further half hour of silence he spoke once again.

  “We are both making this long journey, it would help pass the time if you could be a little more amicable,” he said, raising his eyebrows a little in a questioning manner. Samantha slowly raised her head from her magazine to glare fiercely back at him, her head tilted slightly to one side looking thoroughly bored, not a sign of amicability on her blank face. She slowly folded her magazine and replaced it into her shoulder bag and then returned his stare.

  “I'm not really in the mood for friendship with anyone,” she informed the man. “So kindly shut up, read your newspaper and leave me alone.” She turned her head to look out of the window at the passing countryside. Silence ensued for some time after that, for almost an hour in fact. She was still looking through the window when suddenly, she felt his hand on her knee, squeezing gently. She turned sharply to glare at the loathsome person sitting opposite. He was grinning at her as his hand moved around her bare knee, his eyes searching her face to gauge her reaction. She allowed the faintest trace of a smile to creep across her lips.

  “Tell you what,” she whispered, leaning forward so that only he would hear her words. “Let's go along to the toilets.” The barrister's face beamed with joy as he anticipated what was to follow. The man stood up abruptly and took off his overcoat, laying it across his case and newspaper on the seat
beside him. He led the way along the gangway and Samantha followed, her small bag slung over her shoulder. As they went, he looked back just once with a lecherous smile. She returned his smile as she slid her hand into the side zipped pocket of her bag.

  When they reached the toilet at the far end where the carriages were coupled together, he opened the narrow door and squeezed himself in. She followed and locked the door behind her. Cramped close together in the small space, he turned to her and started to undo his trouser belt, almost drooling at the prospect of what he envisaged would happen next. His trousers fell around his ankles to the floor. That was when she made her move. Pushing the man violently backwards and down on to the plastic toilet seat, she pulled out her sharp little pair of nail scissors from her bag and, with her left hand still on his right shoulder, thrust the scissors towards his neck, allowing the points to only just penetrate the flabby skin, causing a tiny rivulet of bright red blood to trickle slowly down to his starched, white collar, the stain beginning to spread outwards. His eyes were wide with disbelief and his voice trembled as he spoke.

  “Wh …. what are you doing?” he asked, almost on the point of tears, his voice now at a higher pitch than before. “Are you mad? I thought you wanted this.”

  “Why would you think that, you perverted, slimy, fat fucker,” she spat, specks of her spittle hitting his rotund face. “I gave you no reason to think like that, did I?” The man wanted to shake his head but dared not move because of the scissors. Samantha continued her rant at him. “If I killed you right now you wouldn't be the first filthy, dirty old man that I've killed,” she said. “Do you understand what I'm saying?” Still no movement from the petrified man. “Just consider yourself lucky this time. The next girl you try it on with might not be so lenient.”