by Anne Coates
Hannah’s mind went back to Kathy Osbourn; she’d sensed the researcher had felt rather superior to print journalists, but if this was all she could come up with …
The whole programme was a dream come true for a certain type of viewer: voyeuristic. There were far too many shots of cleavages and stocking tops, women standing around under neon signs waiting for trade. Hannah wondered how these women felt when they saw themselves exhibited in such a way. Had they been paid for their time? Or rather had they been paid enough? It still galled Hannah that Princess had only been paid £100 for her story. She learned later that Kathy been paid for her time, although she didn’t know how much. That makes her no better than a pimp, Hannah thought. And what does that make you? asked a voice she would rather have ignored.
She was saved from answering her own question by the telephone ringing. Hannah picked it up. “Hello.” There was a long silence. “Hel-lo.” The line clicked and went dead. Hannah slammed down the receiver, her face flushed with anger. I hope all that business isn’t going to start again, it’s so bloody irritating – and alarming, she had to admit. She’d had a series of nuisance calls just after the baby was born. If the answerphone was on, the caller just let the tape run and Hannah would hear various background noises – other phones ringing, typewriters, sometimes traffic, a train station announcement. It was all so pointless. And then it stopped. It had crossed her mind that Paul was making the calls, that he hadn’t had the guts to talk to her. Surely even he wouldn’t be so crass? But Hannah couldn’t think of anyone else who might want to upset her.
In fact, she’d been surprised at how much the calls had distressed her. It was probably the relentlessness of them and the fact that she didn’t know why someone was making them. What possible thrill could be gained in making so many calls and saying nothing? Presumably these tactics gave a weird sort of power to the impotent.
Hannah shook her head and blinked as if to rid her mind of unwanted thoughts and turned her attention back to the programme she was now fast-forwarding. It had had a depressing effect on her. Prostitutes depressed her. She felt uneasy about her own role. And there was a sense of there but for the grace of God…
She stopped the tape where Princess had appeared. No one would have recognised her from this. Hannah had missed her on the first viewing. She was filmed in shadows. What you did glimpse of her was dull hair and listless eyes; even the gravelly voice sounded different, lifeless. Nothing of her appalling past had escaped the cutting room floor. She just came over as a girl who thought this was an easy way of making a fast buck. She looked so sullen, you wondered how she ever attracted clients in the first place. But this Princess was nothing like the raunchy blonde of the glossy newspaper supplement photos.
“No doubting who you are here,” Hannah said aloud as she glanced at the magazine before her, open at the double page spread of her article. She wondered, not for the first time, if the girl’s father or mother or any of her family had seen the interview. In a way she hoped they had. But what good would that serve? Maybe it would prevent them making the same mistakes with other daughters? No amount of remorse could compensate Princess.
The interview, Hannah was relieved to see, had been subbed sensitively. Nothing she had written had been changed drastically. It was a very sympathetic account of one girl’s personal tragedy. Except for the photos. Pictorially, Princess seemed to glory in her whoredom. In her mind, thought Hannah, she’s posing for “Playboy” or page 3. Christ, it’s so unfair. All that for a measly 100 quid and certain notoriety. Hannah couldn’t imagine that her “sisters” at King’s Cross would be too happy either. You could say that the photos were no more than free advertising for Princess.
Poor Princess. Hannah smiled at the irony of the name, as the sound of her baby’s cries imperiously called to her. She switched everything off and went upstairs.
“Here I am, baby,” she whispered as she entered the dimly lit room. Soon the infant was nuzzling into her neck, comforted and reassured. Hannah felt at one with her child. It was salutary to think that this was probably the same way Princess’s mother had felt when the girl was a baby. How could everything have turned out so badly? The little fist clutching her finger relaxed its hold and Hannah kissed the tiny fingertips. I hope I never let you down, darling. And for a moment she longed for her own mother, but couldn’t imagine Daphne ever having such overpowering maternal feelings.
TWELVE
The fingers around her neck pressed harder and harder. She could no longer swallow the bile rising in her throat. Her eyes felt as though they were popping out of her head. Her skin felt hot, dry, stretched as though about to rip open. She had given up struggling. “This is it,” she thought, just as a blow to her stomach shot a searing pain up through her body.
“Oh God, oh God,” the male voice rasped as the paroxysm of his orgasm swept through him leaving him utterly spent. For a few moments, he remained motionless. Then he rolled off the woman beneath him and lay on his back, eyes closed, until his breathing returned to normal. It was then that he noticed the body next to him didn’t seem to be breathing at all. Fuck.
He pressed a small button by the side of the bed and minutes later the door to the room opened and closed. Thank God he didn’t have to deal with this alone.
A lightly bronzed hand picked up a limp wrist and dropped it. “Not another one. This is going to an expensive mistake, you know.”
“I know, I know. Just get rid of her will you.” His voice was increasing in firmness and confidence. Then it faltered. “Oh for God’s sake, she’s haemorrhaging all over the place.” Disgust was paramount. There was no compassion. He walked over to the bathroom where he washed himself meticulously, taking his time. As soon as he was dry and dressed, he nodded to the other man and strode out of the room closing the door silently behind him.
A manicured finger pressed another, hidden button by the bed and moments later two men in surgical green walked in and prepared to remove the body.
“Usual disposal, sir?” Their faces betrayed no surprise or concern. They were paid well not to question the morality of beating up prostitutes to within an inch of their lives and then dumping them back on their home beat.
“Hmm?” The man who had remained in the room seemed lost in thought. “Oh yes, usual place. Make sure she’s not found too quickly.” He left the room.
“Hoity, toity bastard,” said the younger of the two. “Who does he think he is? We are risking our bleedin’ necks for ’im.”
“Yeah, well…”
As they lifted the body onto a trolley, an arm moved slightly and a groan squeezed out between swollen and bruised lips. The two men looked at each other, each willing the other to forget any vestige of compassion that remained in them. They rearranged her clothing and made sure all her belongings left with her.
“Christ! I need a drink. Let’s get rid of her nearer to home. Knock off early for change.”
“Y’er on!”
◊◊◊
Lead weights had attached themselves to her eyelids or that’s how it felt as she tried to open her eyes. There was no part of her body that didn’t protest as she tried to move. It took every ounce of strength and determination to get up on her feet. When she did, her head reeled and she threw up. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned heavily against the wall. Her breathing came in shallow gasps. If she breathed any deeper, the pain got worse. But if she concentrated hard, she could just about put one foot in front of the other. She made for the streetlights and the sound of traffic.
Pausing every few seconds to catch a breath and lean against the alley wall, she made painstakingly slow progress. At one point her hands went to her waist. Her money pouch was still there. More importantly – her fingers slipped inside – so was her money. None of it made any sense.
She caught her breath; the pain was excruciating but she couldn’t stop now. At last she emerged into the street and, miracles, there was a black cab approaching with its yellow
light on. She managed to raise her arm and gasped out her address when the taxi drew alongside her.
“You sure you don’t want an ’ospital, luv?”
She shook her head. The driver tut-tutted but they were soon outside number 11. She got out and handed a £5 note to the driver. Leaning in close to him, she whispered one word, “Wait.”
“Right you are, luv. No hurry.”
◊◊◊
She was almost surprised to find the taxi still there when she came out of the house some minutes later, clutching a large bag. She had written where she wanted to go on a scrap of paper. The driver turned on the overhead light.
“Okay then, Dulwich it is.” And he said no more until they reached her destination.
She slipped in and out of consciousness during the early part of the journey. However, dredging up every ounce of strength from a reserve she hadn’t known she possessed, she was conscious when the taxi drew up outside terraced house.
Pain seared through her body with each movement, but she managed to get out of the cab and pay the driver, giving him way over the fare.
It was only when he picked up his next passenger, he discovered she had bled all over his back seat.
THIRTEEN
The incessant ringing on the doorbell gradually imposed itself into her consciousness. Hannah roused herself unwillingly. She’d fallen asleep in the chair with the baby slumbering in her arms. Very gently she placed her in the cot and tiptoed out of the room. Why she did she do that when the bell had failed to wake the sleeping infant, Hannah asked herself. Habit.
She looked at her wristwatch. Two in the morning. No one she knew would turn up at this hour. Her heartbeat quickened. Her hands were clammy. Disorientated she peered out of her own bedroom window which overlooked the street. The front gate was open but she couldn’t see who was ringing the bell. A fox was walking stealthily along the road. Nothing else in the street moved. Lights were on in other windows in the terraced houses opposite but that was not out of the ordinary. There always seemed to be someone awake, no matter what time she looked out.
The bell stopped ringing. The silence was infinitely worse. Pinpricks of fear crept up in her neck. Her hands trembled. She wondered if she should ignore the bell or even call the police. She knew she could do neither. She would feel stupid. In bare feet, she crept downstairs soundlessly and peered through the spy hole in the front door.
Whatever she had expected to see in her doorway it was not the crumpled figure of what she discerned must be a girl. She could hear her own heartbeat resounding in her ears and tried to slow down her breathing to steady her nerves. Hannah unlocked the door leaving the security chain on.
“Yes.” Her whisper echoed in the night. A moan was the only reply. For a moment Hannah hadn’t a clue what to do. Then, not pausing to think about the wisdom of her action, she unchained the door and watched in dismay as the body tumbled towards her.
Hannah stepped back and stared in horror. She couldn’t move. Seconds passed. Her pulse accelerated, thundering in her ears. She swallowed hard to quell the nausea. A hand grabbed her ankle with surprising force.
“Help me… Please help me.” The croaked plea, barely audible, brought Hannah back to her senses. She bent down and gingerly dragged the girl further into the hall, then shut and locked the door.
It was only when she turned on the light and stared into the swollen face of the body on the floor that Hannah at last recognised her visitor.
“Princess!” She felt her stomach heave again. She bent forward and cradled the girl to her. “Who on earth did this to you?” In her immediate concern, it didn’t occur to her to ask how the girl had managed to turn up on her doorstep.
“Throat,” Princess rasped; the single word caused her to grimace in pain. Her breath came in short gasps.
“Look, don’t say anything more. Take some deep breaths. I’m going to try and move you into the sitting room. Help me if you can.”
The combined odours of Princess’s trade and Hannah’s fear collided in the warm air and permeated the narrow hall. Hannah closed her eyes for a second and wished the girl a thousand miles away. What in heaven’s name have I done to deserve this? she asked herself, heaving the girl into an upright position and nearly falling backwards in the process.
At last they were both upright. The limp, battered girl leaned heavily on Hannah whose eyes suddenly focused on this mess of blood on the carpet.
Shit!
“Lean against the wall for a minute,” Hannah said more calmly than she felt and, taking the stairs two at a time to the airing cupboard in the hall by her bedroom, came back with the plastic sheet she’d had on her own bed before Elizabeth’s birth and a bundle of towels and linen.
She turned on a lamp in the sitting room, covered the sofa with the plastic sheet and towels and threw a sheet over them. Very slowly and carefully, she led the girl into the room and lowered her on to the improvised bed. Princess winced as Hannah struggled to get her boots off and loosen her clothing. Angry weals on the girl’s neck glared at her.
“Princess…” The girl’s eyes strained to focus on her. “I’m going to call an ambulance…”
Terror filled bruised eyes. “No!” The word was no more than a croak but her face more than eloquently expressed her panic. As Hannah stared at the girl, she felt herself absorbing her alarm. Princess’s fear became her own. A world she’d been paid to wander into, a world of crime, drugs and violence, had now come crashing inexplicably into hers. Hannah felt both pique and panic.
She didn’t know how or why the girl had turned up on her doorstep but… suppose she had been followed? The thought of heavies perhaps beating down her door, her baby asleep upstairs…
Hannah was immobilised by fear. Terror gripped her heart. “The police. I’ll call the police.” She realised she said this aloud when the girl gave a blood-chilling cry and tried to struggle to her feet.
“Please…” The word escaped her like a hiss.
Extricating her hands from the girl’s surprisingly strong grip, Hannah felt a moment of utter despair. What have I done to deserve this? she asked herself again. She knew she should phone the police and have this girl taken to hospital. That was the sane, logical thing to do but looking at the gruesome figure before her, she knew she couldn’t betray the girl, as everyone else seemed to have done. There must be a reason Princess had sought her out and she felt she had a moral duty at least to hear what she had to say – if she could articulate anything, which Hannah seriously doubted.
With a supreme effort she willed herself to calm down, she took the girl’s hand gently in her own. “I’ll call a friend of mine. He’s a doctor –” Princess’s hand tensed in her own and she touched the girl’s face gingerly. “You need medical attention,” she said. “I don’t know how badly injured you are and I’m afraid of hurting you more.”
Almost imperceptibly, Princess nodded.
Hannah moved away to a table where the phone resided and pressed a preset number. The ringing went on and on. Please God let him be there, Hannah – who didn’t believe in the God she was exhorting – prayed ardently.
Come on, come on, answer it!
“3492.”
“James, I’m really sorry to wake you. I need your help.”
“Hannah! What on earth…?” James, used to being wakened throughout the night while he was on call, was instantly alert.
“Please come round. I’ve got a – friend – here who’s in a really bad way.”
“Hannah, it’s 2.30 in the morning. Can’t you call an ambulance?”
“No. I’ll explain everything later. Please James. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency.”
She heard James swear under his breath but knew he would be with her in minutes; he lived in street parallel to Hannah’s. She turned to say something to Princess. The girl looked only half conscious. Hannah felt inadequate and an overpowering sense of despair. She covered the girl with a large bath sheet and walked out of the room
.
FOURTEEN
Attacking the dark stain on the carpet, Hannah tried not to think of anything but the task in hand. Since having Elizabeth, she obsessed about keeping floors where the baby might crawl, clean. Now she worked to remove the blemish, concentrating on the spot rather than its author. She was in the kitchen, pouring bleach into the sink when there was a short ring on the bell.
Wearing a faded tracksuit and carrying a battered, bulging bag, James filled the hallway. He looked every inch the amateur rugby player he was and was very definitely not pleased. Hannah, who had known him since he moved into the flat she sold to buy her house, had never seen him quite so angry. On the other hand, she had never woken him at 2.30 in the morning either.
“Where is she?” He said abruptly and followed Hannah into the sitting room; she wondered why he’d assumed it was a woman.
“Jesus, Hannah! What’s going on?” James’s gaze took in the prostrate girl and the woman he’d grown to love like a sister and couldn’t begin to see a connection. He was tired and confused, but this girl didn’t look as though she’d be claimed as one of Hannah’s friends.
“I don’t know what has happened and I can’t explain anything. She turned up half an hour ago in the state. She is terrified and…”
“What’s her name?” James’s voice was resigned. He was already on his knees by the patient. His bag was open and he pulled on some latex gloves
“P…” Some uncanny inner voice urged caution. “Caroline,” she said after a momentary hesitation.
“Okay, Caroline, can you hear me?” Princess, eyes like muddied pools in her distorted face, nodded.
“Right now I want you to open your mouth as wide as you can…” James’s professional persona took over as he examined Princess expertly.