The Hostess

by L. P. Gibbs

  She stood up with her back to the door and surveyed the man for almost a minute, half laying back before her and shaking with fear, allowing an expression of disgust to show on her face. He made an amusing spectacle with his red and white, striped shorts on and his trousers around his feet. She returned the nail scissors to the side zip in her shoulder bag, unlocked the door and walked out, throwing one last distasteful sneer back at the man as she did so.

  When she regained her seat halfway along the carriage, she composed herself and made herself comfortable. At least five minutes passed before the barrister returned. With reddened face and shiny beads of sweat showing on his forehead, he didn't even glance at her as he retrieved his coat and case from his seat and moved away to exit the carriage, presumably to seek a seat in the next one. Samantha noted with some satisfaction the small, red blotch of blood on his white collar as she watched him move away and permitted herself a little smile.

  Just over two and a half hours later, the train arrived at Kings Cross Station in London. She got off with her small case and walked down the platform to the ticket barrier. As she went through, she turned and saw the barrister some hundred yards further back along the platform. He slowed as he saw her and waited for her to go through. It gave her some satisfaction to know that the man was obviously frightened of her and wanted to keep well away from her. Samantha walked with a jaunty step across the concourse and outside to the taxi rank.

  She alighted from the taxi outside the house in Camden Town and trudged up the steps with her case to the enormous, black front door. As she was about to put her key into the lock, the heavy door suddenly opened to reveal Arthur, the caretaker, about to leave the building. They were both alarmed and it showed on their faces. Neither expected to see the other standing there. The old man regained his composure first and held the door open for her.

  “Nice to see that you've come back,” he offered with an oily smile. “Been to see your little friend up North, have you?”

  “Yes, that's right, Arthur,” she returned. “I told you I would be gone for a couple of weeks, didn't I? I'm back now as you can see.”

  “And you're a bit overdue with your rent, young lady,” he scolded, wagging a nicotine-stained finger in her direction.

  “I know. I'll bring it down to you tomorrow after I've been to the bank,” Samantha replied, trying her best to be civil.

  “Just make sure you do then, or you might find yourself homeless. You know when the rent's due and it should be paid on time.” Arthur looked as if he would enjoy the prospect of evicting her. Samantha stared hard back into the little man's piggy eyes as she replied.

  “Then I'll just have to make sure that my friend Alan comes to help me to move my belongings out if that happens, won't I? You do remember Alan, don't you?” The caretaker actually took a half step backwards, his eyes wide as he recalled his previous encounter with Randall at the top of the stairs.

  “Err, … Just as long as it gets paid soon, dear,” he said with a slight stutter, reddening as he spoke. “There's really no urgency, you know?” She smiled sweetly at him and brushed past to go upstairs to her little attic room.

  It was just after four o'clock in the afternoon as she unpacked slowly then made herself a cup of black coffee, sitting at the creaking table with the cup cradled in her hands. She had neglected to bring fresh milk home with her. Normally, she would have popped downstairs and asked old Mrs. Postles for a cup of milk but, after such a long and tiring journey, she just couldn't be bothered. She ruminated over the events surrounding her visit to her mother.

  Norma Robson's hand had flown to her chest when she answered the knock on her front door to find her daughter standing there, her smile spreading almost from ear to ear. Her eyes filled with tears immediately.

  “Janet, hen,” she exclaimed. The old lady still only knew her by her birth name. “You should have told me you were coming, I'd have got something special in”

  “You don't need to do anything different, Mam,” she responded, “It's only me. I could murder a nice cup of tea and some hot buttered toast, though.”

  It was just after seven-thirty in the morning and she had eaten nothing since boarding the train not long before midnight, and that was only a cheese and pickle sandwich from the station kiosk and even that was nearing the end of its shelf life. She followed her mother through to the kitchen and sat at a small, Formica-topped table by a window that overlooked Pitt Street. She gazed out at the surrounding landscape and sighed. Everything was just as it had been before she left and as grimy as it had been in London. The difference was that this was home, the town she had grown up in.

  “How long are ye up here for then, lass?” her mother asked as she slid two slices of wholemeal bread under the hissing grill on the old gas oven. “I don't see you for a few years and then you're visiting here twice in a month.” The whistling kettle behind her started to boil with a noisy shrill and she turned to bring two large, white mugs down from a shelf and dropped three large spoonfuls of loose tea from a tin caddy into an old, chipped, brown teapot.

  “I'll probably stay for a week or so until just after the New Year, if that's alright with you, Mam,” she replied. Her mother looked over the top of her spectacles at her daughter and smiled.

  “Course it is, pet,” she told her warmly. “And divven ye worry aboot your Da, he's mellowed a lot since ye were last here. Given up on the drink too, so he has. The doctor told him that if he didn't give it up, he wouldn't be here this time next year.” Samantha was genuinely surprised at this news. “It's really shocked him into seeing sense about it. Mind you,” she continued with a frown, “he's not too well at present. He's had the flu again. That's twice this year he's had it, ye nah. He's still in bed. Doesn't get up much before ten o'clock these days, but I'd rather that than have him on the drink again.” She placed a side plate before her daughter with two slices of thickly buttered toast on it and poured tea from the pot through a metal strainer. Samantha wolfed the toast down greedily and then picked up the steaming mug.

  “You didn't tell anyone I was here recently, did you, Mam?” she asked with a certain amount of anxiety.

  “Of course not, pet. You told me not to because of that money business so I kept it quiet. Didn't even tell your Da.” At that moment, the kitchen door opened and her father came in, holding the front of his navy blue dressing gown together with one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other.

  “What's all this noise then,” he asked, suppressing a yawn without even realising that his daughter was there. When his eyesight eventually returned to normal he saw her. He stood still, his mouth agape in surprise.

  “Janet, pet,” he said as he advanced towards her, his arms spread wide. There were actually tears in his eyes as he embraced her warmly. She could smell the pipe tobacco smoke in his greying hair as he held her tight. At length, he stood back and gazed at her, still resting his hands on her shoulders, gazing down at her. “You're a sight for sore eyes, and no mistake. I'm really sorry for how I used to be,” he told her and meant it. She realised there and then that even after everything that had happened in the past, she still loved him despite all of that.

  “It's nice to be back, Da,” she told him. “But it's only until after the New Year. I have to go back to work then, you see.” He nodded.

  That evening, her father treated them all to fried fish and chips with mushy peas from their local chip shop. Her parents, wary of her living alone, questioned her out of interest on her work in London. She didn't want to alarm them unnecessarily and so came up with the idea that she worked as a waitress in a high-end wine bar in the West End of Central London. She told them that the pay was good and her wages were supplemented with any tips she received so she was never short of money. No mention was made of Soho. Everybody knew what happened in Soho.

  They appeared to accept her version of events and settled down. After a few hours of watching television, she bade them a goodnight and retired to her little bed in her old
room. Nothing had really changed much in there since she left all those years ago. There were still some ancient, fading posters of The Monkees and David Cassidy stuck to her wall although the Sellotape was beginning to give way now and they drooped in places. It appeared that the room had been stuck in a weird time warp and she was fifteen again. The little bed looked exactly as it had done when she left home. She was surprised to find that there were still some of her old clothes in the small wardrobe. None of them would either fit or suit her now, though.

  She closed the flimsy pink and white curtains and undressed, slipping into the warm, velour nightdress that she had brought with her. Winters in the North were a lot colder than in London and she was grateful for the two thick, pink blankets her mother had thoughtfully draped across the single bed.

  The next morning over breakfast, her mother told Samantha about the unusual events surrounding the death of Sandra's boyfriend. Her mother also brought her up to date with family news, such as the sudden death of Uncle Bertie. Samantha feigned shock and sadness, tutting in all the right places. Appatently, her father was not too bothered about the event.

  Samantha said she would go round to see Sandra. On arriving at Sandra' house, her old schoolfriend squealed with delight when she opened the door. She almost tugged Samantha through the door. They sat at the kitchen table, and Sandra wanted to know everything about her working in London. Samantha told her all about the Lenny Harris and hostessing at the club, Alan Randall with whom she was deeply in love, escorting for Michelle Allman, Carla and their on/off semi-lesbian relationship and even about the kidnapping that Alan had rescued her from. They had been chatting for over an hour before Sandra asked the question that had been in her mind for the whole time they had been talking.

  “Janet,” she said, thoughtfully, looking down at her clasped hands. “Please just tell me that you had nothing to do with Barry's death in that car park and we'll leave it at that, alright? I'll never mention it again, I promise.” Janet smiled warmly and assured her friend that she did not have any dealings with Barry's murder at all. The lie tripped easily from her tongue.

  Christmas Day was a happy affair in the Robson household and the New Year's celebrations also. Surprisingly, Mr. Robson drank only dandelion and burdock that evening. Sandra Tullen and Gail Stebbings came round soon after ten o'clock on New Year's Eve having been informed by telephone that Samantha, or Janet as she was still known in Newcastle, had arrived and the three girls dressed up to the nines in their finery and went giggling out into the city centre to one of the many new night clubs that had sprung up since her younger days.

  They saw in the New Year on the dance floor, drinks in hands and Sandra became the more drunk of the three. They took a taxi back to Pitt Street and Gail left them there to go back to her own house just two streets away. Thankfully, the lift was working so Samantha slipped her arm around Sandra's waist to hold her upright as the lift ascended and virtually dragged her into the living room of the eighth floor flat. Sandra ended up sleeping on the sofa in the living room.

  It was with more than a little sorrow that Samantha packed her meagre belongings into her small case and shoulder bag two days later. Although she was so sad to be leaving her mother and now sober father as well as her old home town, she had missed the bright lights and the noise of Soho and, if she was honest with herself, she missed Alan Randall more than anything.

  Samantha snapped out of her reverie and shook her head to bring herself back to the present. Her coffee had cooled considerably, stone cold in fact while she had been sitting there deep in thought, and looking at the small alarm clock on the upright chair beside the bed, she was surprised to find that she had been sitting there for over two hours, daydreaming. She made herself a fresh cup of instant coffee and sat at the window looking out to drink it.

  Time to get something substantial to eat, maybe chips and a pie from along the road, and then get ready for work at Silks Club. On her way to the fish and chip shop, she went in to the phone box on the corner and rang Michelle Allman to let her know she was back from Newcastle and now available for any work. Michelle told her that there was nothing for her at that point in time but that she would let her know if anything came in that would be suitable for her.

  Dressing herself in one of her usual club outfits, skin-tight black leather mini-skirt and red sequinned boob-tube with her shiny black high-heeled stiletto shoes she took the bus to Piccadilly Circus and walked round the corner. The bright lights that surrounded the area reminded her how happy she was to be working there. Back in Soho, London's own tiny village within a city.

  When she arrived in Great Windmill Street at almost nine fifteen, her face lit up with pleasure on seeing Randall standing casually at his usual position in the doorway of the club. He hadn't been expecting her that evening as she had not telephoned to say she was coming home. He gave her his warmest smile as he saw her approaching and nodded in satisfaction at seeing her.

  The world was as it should be. She walked lightly across the road and entered the club, squeezing Alan's arm as she passed him.

  * * * *

  INTENSIVE CARE

  She was jolted out of her reverie, brought back to the present by the stretcher tilting slightly as they lifted her into the ambulance then the vehicle sharply pulling away, its siren wailing above her head, clearing a path for them. A needle went in to the back of her right hand as she was connected to a drip of some kind and she felt the sting of another injection in her upper right arm as a young woman in a green uniform shone what she perceived to be a blinding light in to her left eye.

  “Step on it, Kev,” the woman called out to the driver through the communicating hatch. “This one's in a really bad way, I'm afraid.”

  The whole of Samantha's left side was completely numb. To her, it felt as if that side of her body had been completely taken away. The rapid journey to University College Hospital took just under five minutes at high speed with the blue lights piercing the darkness and the high-pitched scream of the klaxon clearing their path between cars. A police squad car and motorcycle out-rider went ahead of them, urging traffic to one side to allow the ambulance to pass unhindered.

  Upon arrival, a team had been prepared in advance to expect the casualty and she was quickly propelled on the trolley stretcher straight from the ambulance, through the transparent rubber swing doors and into the emergency resuscitation bay. A number of nurses and doctors in differing coloured uniforms were expecting her and waited patiently as the ambulance crew handed the casualty over to them, informing the trauma team of her so far determined injuries, her vital signs, blood pressure and what medications had already been administered en route.

  The casualty was carefully and tenderly transferred by willing, expert hands to a larger hospital trolley and someone, a male nurse she thought in light blue overalls and gloves, quickly cut away her sparkling boob-tube and leather skirt using blunt ended scissors, throwing the shredded, blood-soaked material to one side on the floor to be disposed of later. In that brief moment in time she felt somewhat annoyed at this action as she had only bought both items two days earlier from Marks & Spencer's in nearby Oxford Street on one of her shopping expeditions.

  She must have blacked out again at that point as she looked up and suddenly became aware that she was now being drawn slowly into the tunnel of one of the hospital's M.R.I. scanners. There was a lot of noise from the machine, loud humming and banging sounds filling her ears and Samantha began to feel the searing pain before she passed out once more.

  When she was eventually returned to the Emergency Department, they now had a better idea of her injuries as a result of the scan. Not only was the left side of her face and head missing but also, her left breast, shoulder and upper arm had received horrific shotgun injuries too. Her blood had been cross-matched and the team were frantically trying to replace some of what she had already lost since being taken from the floor of Silk's Gentlemen's Club.

  Doctor Anthony Quastel barked
out his orders to all the members of his experienced team as Samantha was hooked up to wires and tubes from different machines and he constantly studied one of the bleeping monitors that stood to one side, his brows knitted together in concentration. As a regular Accident & Emergency doctor with twelve years of experience on the night shift, he had seen many gunshot wounds from the unruly streets of the capital but nothing had prepared him for what he now saw before him. This young woman had obviously been a real beauty before this terrible incident. Not any longer, he thought.

  He looked back down at his frail charge, her long, straight, black hair matted with her own blood that had now congealed, plastering it to what was left of her head and she opened one tearful, bloodshot eye to stare hazily back at him. A young nurse tenderly dabbed at the dried blood with a medicated cloth.

  At that moment, Samantha regained consciousness again, looked up at the kind face of the man in pale blue scrubs beside her and then closed her one good eye against the agonising pain that was beginning to overtake her once more. 'What,' she thought, 'have I done to deserve this?' Through the haze she could hear voices but only managed to make out some of the jumbled words.

  “Blasted with a shotgun,” …..... “Fifteen feet away,” …...... “Loss of blood,” ….... “Touch and go,” …... “More blood, please,” …... “Adrenalin.”

  These were just some of the whispered phrases she could just about make out but her confused mind gave her the impression that they were talking about someone else. She thought to herself that whoever it was must be in one hell of a bad way. She silently thanked whichever god that may be listening that it was not her being talked about. Thankfully for her, she didn't know.