But when Anderson got to the bit about the party, nothing sounded right. The emotion had gone from his voice, it sounded like a story he’d rehearsed. No unnecessary detail as there had been earlier. Like a journalist’s story in fact.
‘My wife had to go out you see,’ he kept saying. ‘I stayed downstairs because I didn’t want to spoil their fun. But I sensed something was going on.’
In one huge gulp he told the tale of how he saw her come out of the bedroom with her boyfriend.
‘I packed the kids off sharpish,’ he said. ‘Then I asked her what she thought she was doing. She told me to mind my own business and I slapped her. Next thing I knew she was coming up the stairs with a knife. She lunged at me, sticking it in my stomach. When I came round I was in hospital and I’d nearly died.’
There was the scar to back it up. A vivid red slash against his white belly, the skin puckered and wrinkled around it. But even as he looked at it, he wondered why she had hit her father so low. A frenzied attack was usually in the direction of the heart.
John wanted to go back over details. There was more, he knew it, but he was afraid to stop the man in case he dried up.
He could understand Georgia running away to escape punishment. But why did his wife leave? What had been left out?
If he was to believe everything Anderson told him, the man was a victim of not only his daughter’s cruelty, but his wife and employers too. Why should the bank sack him? It didn’t make sense.
Anderson was an alcoholic, that much was plain. His hands shook, his eyes constantly strayed around the room as if searching for drink. But was he already one when Georgia ran away, or was she the trigger that had started his downward spiral?
John Adams understood how bitterness could warp a person. A bright kid from the wrong side of the tracks who won a scholarship to public school, only to find he was a social outcast. Later at university he worked while everyone else enjoyed themselves. He got his ‘First’, but they got the girls, and later the good jobs.
Why did he end up in a laboratory testing paint while others less able set the world alight? All he had to show for his hard work was a poky one-bedroomed flat, a beaten-up Ford and no savings. Maybe he too could have turned to drink to cope with disappointment.
Brian Anderson lay on his bed shivering. He’d managed to get home without going in the pub and he’d paid Mrs Dooley what he owed, but it was a mistake to be sober in this room. The damp patches seemed to press in on him, and the sink full of weeks-old dirty dishes appalled him. He had to remain sober though; unless he did, John Adams wouldn’t help him any more.
This time with Adams’ help he was going to pull his life together. There was no way she could spoil things now, not like she had before.
It was November 1960 when he went up to the West End. The house in Blackheath was sold at last. The money safely in a bank until he decided what to do with it. A nice little flat in New Cross. A fresh start in a place where no one knew him.
He told his landlord he had retired early because of an old war wound. He liked the sound of that, it made him sound romantic, a man of action. He wasn’t going to drink again, not the way he had in those last dreadful months when everyone, Celia, the bank, friends and neighbours had turned against him. Maybe he would leave the country if he didn’t find a job that suited him, but that night as he went to the West End he was just looking for some company.
It had been some years since he last visited Soho. As he stood in Piccadilly looking at the neon lights flashing out messages and advertisements he felt charged with new life. He cut a smart figure in his new blazer, military tie and grey slacks. Somewhere in that square mile was a woman who’d share drinks and supper with him, someone to make him laugh and forget the past.
He found her sitting in the White Bear bar. Red hair curling to her shoulders and a vivid green dress that echoed her eyes.
‘Is there anyone sitting here?’ he said, pointing to the empty bench seat beside her.
‘Feel free,’ she said, moving up just slightly and crossing her long, slim legs.
He knew she was a prostitute, but that made it all the easier. She might try to con him out of a few bob but it was better than picking up a girl on the streets.
‘Hasn’t it changed around here?’ he said brightly. ‘Last time I came in here it was packed. Don’t people drink here anymore?’
‘It’s early yet,’ she said languidly, looking at a cheap imitation of a diamond-studded bracelet watch. ‘Are you from out of town?’
‘No,’ he laughed lightly, letting her know straightaway he understood the West End. ‘South London, just came up to have a little fun for a change.’
She was probably around thirty-five, though from a distance she looked nearer twenty-five. She smelled of apple blossom perfume that took him instantly back to a girl in Birmingham once. She wasn’t pretty, her face was too long and thin, her lips rather thin, but she had good breasts, pushed up to reveal deep cleavage.
The best thing about her was that she wasn’t obviously a tart. She could be a secretary or shop girl waiting for her boyfriend.
Her red hair was maybe a little startling, the dress a flashy cheap one, but then that made it more exciting.
‘I suppose you’re waiting for someone,’ he said as she picked up her glass and drank the last drop. ‘Can I buy you a drink while you wait?’
‘Okay,’ she flashed a brilliant smile at him, which sent shivers of delight down to his toes. ‘Gin and orange.’
Her name was Paula, she said she’d been a dancer and she had a flat nearby, and she was open enough to name her price immediately.
Ten months had passed since Georgia’s birthday and for the first time since that day he felt like his old self. Instead of gulping down drinks in an effort to forget, he found himself slowing down, listening to Paula’s chatter, enjoying the pressure of her thigh on his, his mind calm, his body relaxed.
He told her he was a retired bank manager, hinted at wealth and encouraged her natural sympathy by telling her he was a widower and their only daughter lived miles away and never visited.
‘Well you aren’t alone tonight, love,’ she said warmly. ‘Come on, drink up, let’s find somewhere to dance.’
Even when she softly asked for the money up front she did it gently, winding her soft arms round him and kissing him outside the club.
‘Better to get it over first,’ she smiled, pressing herself against him. ‘I want all the guys in there to think you are a date.’
Brian had been in the Mandrake club before. A damp basement that smelled of mould and beer. Hot, stale air wafted up as they went down the dimly lit stairs. The music came from a juke box in one corner of the room, jangling and distorted. The seats were little more than wooden benches, the floor solid concrete and apart from a few candles spluttering in Chianti bottles, the only light came from the small bar. But with a pretty woman on his arm and the promise of a night of love, it could have been the Café de Paris.
It didn’t matter that each drink cost nearly a pound. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about money, right now he had a girl who cared about him. He was pleasantly tight, the club was warm and friendly. It had been so long since he held a woman in his arms, the smell of her perfume, the softness of her skin was like a soothing drug.
When they walked up the stairs after one, the fresh air caught them by surprise. Paula was staggering in her high heels and Brian put his arm round her.
At the end of St Anne’s Court they stopped for a moment in the shadows to kiss. It was quiet now, just the distant sound of music in another bar and fainter still the traffic from Piccadilly and Shaftesbury Avenue.
She kissed beautifully, slow, deliberate and sensuous, her tongue flickering across his, sending shudders of delight down Brian’s spine. In her arms he could forget the mean streets, the glaring neon signs, the overflowing dustbins and the smell of rotting rubbish. It looked almost pretty, an old street lamp sending a golden arc of light acros
s the road, Dickensian and quaint.
Further down the street the sound of high heels tapped out a staccato rhythm. As the footsteps came closer Brian heard a peal of laughter that made him stiffen involuntarily.
‘What is it?’ she whispered, her lips against his neck.
Brian didn’t answer but concentrated on listening as the feet came closer.
Two pairs, one with a bouncy young step, the other older, more plodding.
‘Did you see that old bloke? He must have been at least fifty.’
The woman speaking wasn’t the one with the laugh that jolted him, her voice common and rough. Brian shook himself and pulled Paula closer.
‘He was quite sweet though.’
This voice sounded exactly like Georgia’s. He’d heard it night after night as his eyes closed with weariness and now he was hearing it again only a few yards from him.
‘Shall we go now?’ Paula was saying, but Brian merely held her tighter, burying his lips in her neck as he watched over her shoulder.
The two women came under the yellow arc of light, their heads close together, blond against dark.
Brian saw only the black pom-pom of hair, the big eyes that looked right into the alley where he and Paula stood and his blood ran cold.
‘Don’t bite me!’ Paula’s squeal of pain made him loosen his grip on her. ‘What’s your game?’
The two women had passed the end of the alley. Brian ran forward, forgetting Paula.
The women stopped outside a door, standing close together whispering. Hearing his footsteps they looked round.
‘What’s up mate?’ the blonde one called out. ‘Isn’t one girl enough for you?’
The dark girl laughed, her hand poised to put a key in the door.
In profile Brian could see it wasn’t Georgia. She was white, at least twenty-five and she had thick legs.
He backed away, feeling shaken and foolish.
Paula was standing at the end of St Anne’s Court with a puzzled look on her face.
The short fur jacket she wore over her green dress hanging off her shoulders.
‘What is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I thought I had. I could have sworn that was my daughter,’ he said weakly.
‘That was Shirl and Denise,’ she linked arms with him, urging him along. ‘Nice girls don’t roam around here at night. Come on, let’s go back to my place.’
The small flat was just a block away. A door half hidden between two shops. They climbed up some narrow, grubby stairs and Paula opened a door on the first floor.
‘You did get a shock,’ she smiled and drew him in. ‘I’ll just light the fire and make you a drink. You’ve gone all pale!’
‘You’re very understanding,’ he said, looking all around him furtively as if expecting someone to jump out on him.
It was one room, the walls and floor uneven as if the house was subsiding. A cooker and sink were curtained off in one corner, through the other door he could see a bath and toilet.
She was a hoarder. Every shelf, every surface was full of ornaments. Even the wardrobe wouldn’t close because so many clothes were stuffed in there. The double bed was covered in red satin, a profusion of frilly pillows and soft toys arranged on it. Cheap prints hung over the bed, chosen for their garish colours rather than their artistic appeal. Behind the door hung a green silky dressing-gown with black lace and over one chair hung a red and black basque.
‘This is cosy,’ his spirits rose again as she switched on twin red lamps either side of the bed.
‘Relax dear,’ she said crossing the room to him. ‘Take off your jacket and make yourself at home. Would you like some whiskey?’
Never before had any prostitute offered him a drink. They took their money, did the business and then expected him to go. Maybe he was already special to her? Perhaps this could be the start of something good?
She poured him a large drink, dropped a kiss on his cheek and disappeared into the bathroom.
‘As they say at the movies,’ she shouted through the door. ‘Just slipping into something more comfortable.’
Brian took off his jacket and shoes and sat on the bed nursing his drink.
‘There, I wasn’t long was I?’
Paula was standing in the doorway, a black negligee open to reveal a bra, knickers, stockings and suspenders.
Her skin was very white, her thighs bulged at her stocking tops. Brian could say nothing, instead he reached out for her, putting his arms round her waist and buried his head in her breasts.
She smelt perfect, the perfume just a little too sweet and heady.
‘Let me undress you?’ she said, bending down to him and lifting his face up with one finger. ‘You’re shy aren’t you?’
As her fingers reached out to unbutton his shirt he felt restored. He pulled her down onto the bed beside him and covered her face with kisses. He could feel an erection starting and he knew she wouldn’t insist on turning off the light.
‘You’re lovely,’ she whispered, her tongue flickering over his, ‘Let me get your things off?’
As she slid his trousers down his legs she touched him lightly on the front of his white ‘Y’ fronts.
‘That looks very healthy,’ she smiled up at him impishly, her auburn hair tumbling round her face.
Brian could hear his heart hammering. She knelt up on the bed beside him slowly unbuttoning his shirt. As she undid the cuffs she kissed both his wrists and let her lips travel up the soft insides of his arms.
‘Now the pants,’ she said, gripping the waistband firmly and lowering them, moving her lips down towards his penis as she pulled the pants right off his feet.
He was holding his breath now, wearing nothing but his socks and his vest. Her lips were only an inch away from his penis and her hand was poised to grasp it.
‘What a lovely big one,’ she whispered, looking up at him and smiling. ‘I think I’ve just got to kiss it!’
Her tongue flicked over the end. He drew in his breath and watched her, leaning back on his elbows.
It was his favourite fantasy. A near-naked woman, about to take him in her mouth. Her breasts were full, spilling over the low cut bra, her skin very white and clear. The negligee had fallen off one shoulder and he could see a tiny sprinkling of freckles on her small shoulder.
Her tongue darted out, long and pointed, she ran it along the length of his penis one hand reaching out to cup his balls.
He could feel her breasts touching his leg and he was desperately afraid he would come before they even got started.
‘Not yet,’ she looked up and smiled seductively. ‘First we have to get that vest off.’ She gripped it by the bottom and quickly pulled it over his head.
‘Oh my God!’ she gasped, moving back from him. ‘What ever’s happened to you?’
Her remark was like a cold shower. His penis shrank back like a tortoise into its shell.
Brian had forgotten the scar. In the past months it had become just another part of him, but seeing it through her eyes he saw how fearsome it looked.
The original gash was only an inch and a half. But during surgery they had opened it wider. It was diagonal across the fat part of his belly and as it had healed it had puckered so it looked like a pair of pursed lips.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said too quickly. ‘I fell on a knife.’ He cursed himself for not remembering the old war wound story. Women had enough imagination to understand the thrust of a bayonet. She would have shuddered delicately and changed the subject.
‘When?’ her face was pale with fright now, the seductive look gone, replaced by morbid curiosity. ‘Does it hurt?’
As if it wasn’t bad enough her even remarking about it, she now reached out gingerly to touch it.
‘Don’t,’ he slapped her hand away.
‘Why not,’ her eyes opened wide. ‘Scars are interesting.’
Brian closed his eyes for a second.
It was Georgia again. Somehow she’d even ma
naged to spoil this night for him.
‘Don’t be like that,’ Paula wriggled up to lie beside him and leaned over his face to kiss him.
Brian grabbed her fiercely, thrusting his tongue into her mouth.
But he felt nothing. No reaction. She smelled too sweet, it made him feel nauseous and underneath that perfume he could smell sweat.
‘Let me lick your prick again,’ she said. ‘You liked that.’
She moved back down the bed and once again Brian watched, holding his breath as her tongue slid out, red and pointy.
But all he could see now was the wound. Even from the angle he lay at it looked evil, like the mouth of an old crone.
When she’d done this before it was sweet and exciting, but now he felt a sense of duty in her manner.
She took his penis in her mouth, sucking at it vigorously, but still it refused to grow. Her long red nails dug into his inner thighs and then she yawned.
‘Don’t bother,’ he said, pushing her away. ‘You ruined everything anyway.’
She moved back from him, her eyes startled.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said perching on the bed beside him. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.’
‘Yes you did,’ he said, getting up and reaching for his clothes. ‘You women are all the same. Always got to spoil things.’
‘Just a minute!’ she leapt off the bed and pulled her negligee tightly around her. She stood in front of him as he pulled on his shirt. ‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? I spent all evening with you because I liked you. I brought you back here for the same reason. I may be a tart but it doesn’t stop me having feelings.’
‘I paid you for a night out and sex,’ he spat at her. ‘I didn’t expect you to pry into my private life.’
‘You call asking about a scar prying?’ she sneered at him. ‘If you were like that to your daughter it’s no wonder she ran off.’
Rage welled up inside him. He saw only the thin pale face and the expression of aversion in those cold green eyes. One moment his hands were buttoning his shirt, the next his clenched fist shot out and punched straight into her face.
Georgia Page 44