'Cold lager,' she said, limping to the bar.
'Hello again,' said the barman, as he poured the drink.
Virginia looked at him, looked at her surroundings; both were unfamiliar but she returned the greeting, said, 'Hello.'
'You don’t remember me? The pool cue?'
Pool cue? What was the idiot talking about? She took her drink from him and sat down on the far side of the room, gulping at the lager to stop her heart racing.
Who the hell had that been in the ‘Corkscrew’? Who was owed so much money that they would chase after her intent on murder?
From her corner of the room Virginia regarded everyone with suspicion. It was an unwarranted caution, her pursuer could not have caught up with her so quickly nor found her so easily, but still she searched every face for some glint of recognition, some hint of menace. And each time her sweeping gaze reached the bar the only acknowledging look came from the barman.
Surely he was not the one who had chased her from the ‘Corkscrew’? No, it was impossible, he had probably been on duty behind the bar for the past hour or two. In any case, the brief glimpse she had got of her pursuer had suggested lighter hair, a slimmer build.
Made thirsty by her exertions and her panic, she drained her glass. Still too rattled to venture out onto the street, she went back to the bar for a refill.
'Lager again?'
'Please.'
The barman’s head was bowed over the glass as he filled it, but his smiling eyes peered up at her. 'How did the dirty photos go?' he asked.
That was when they had met before; she had called in this same pub on her way to take the photographs for the jeweller.
Virginia laughed as she recognised him, said, 'They weren’t dirty photos.'
'You sound disappointed,' the barman remarked, passing across her drink. He waved away her offer of payment, said, 'It’s alright, I’m on my own tonight, acting boss.'
And he, for his part, sounded somewhat disappointed to be on hi sown. Rather than return to her seat across the room, Virginia pulled up a stool and sat at the bar; the barman was less busy than before, the bar was not as crowded as when Virginia had entered and they were able to strike up a conversation.
'You’re a photographer, then?' said the barman, and Virginia did not deny it. 'It must be exciting, glamorous.'
'Yes, I do glamour studies from time to time,' she said, stressing the word as though it was a euphemism for something more sordid. She leaned forward, inclined her head, said, 'Yes, indeed.'
'Yes indeed, what?' the barman asked, with a knowing smirk.
Now let’s not get too unsubtle about this, Virginia cautioned herself.
'I bet you’ve had many a snapshot taken of you,' she said. 'A muscular brute like you.'
'Oh, I’ve had snaps taken,' he said, swelling his chest, making the broad vee of hair expand as his shirt stretched. 'Never anything that you’d call glamorous, though.'
Virginia smiled to hear the word given its now customary emphasis.
'No?' she said, and then, 'No, I suppose not.'
'And just what do you mean by that?' he demanded.
'Well, it does take guts to strip off and bare all for the camera.'
'It wouldn’t frighten me,' he boasted.
'It wouldn’t?'
'No! It wouldn’t!'
'Well, if you ever get it into your head to, you know-'
'Have another drink,' he invited.
Willingly. She had another couple, customers came and went and she began to feel at ease, her early evening fright forgotten.
At one point the barman -he introduced himself as Mark- leant forward with an exaggeratedly confidential air and whispered, 'Dirty photographs, I’ve nothing against them you know. I’ll try anything once.'
His reek of aftershave almost made Virginia swoon.
He served a customer, quickly and sloppily, hurried back to her to add with a leer, 'In fact I’ve tried almost everything once.'
Virginia leered back.
'Stay a while,' he said, now passing her a double whisky as he called ‘last orders’ in a loud and commanding voice.
'You just try to stop me,' said Virginia.
Mark gave the remaining customers their last drinks of the night, urged them to drink up even as they were paying, then busied himself about the room, collecting their glasses.
'One more?' he offered Virginia, stacking empties at the bar while the more sluggish customers struggled to finish their drinks, returned to the tables, clearing them and wiping them, constantly casting quick glances back at the bar to make sure that she was still there.
'Now I think I deserve a drink,' he said, when he had ushered the last of the people from the premises, and Virginia produced money with a flourish, offering to pay. He refused, said, 'There’s no need for that. I’m the boss tonight, remember.'
'If that’s how you prefer it,' she said, feeling a shiver run down her spine.
Mark poured himself a large vodka and tonic, brought it around the bar and sat on a stool beside her. His trousers were tight, they stressed the bulge between his legs, and as his knee nudged hers it was assumed that they would leave together. When they finally did so, after he had locked up the pub and they had stepped out onto the street, he linked his arm through Virginia’s as if they were a happily married middle-aged couple. The street was empty and their steps echoed noisily in the night.
Hush, Virginia thought, though she was at a loss to remember why there should be any need for silence.
'Where do you live, Mark?' she asked.
'Not far, we don’t need a taxi. Just the other side of Duke Street.'
Walking distance, as he said.
There were people leaving public houses, places where the staff had not been as eager to close as Mark; some headed home, or to their bus stops, while others were obviously keen to go on to clubs. The city centre was quite busy at that time of night.
There were the usual police vehicles parked at strategic points, at the foot of Bold Street, at the corner of Whitechapel, and others cruising around, Transit vans with a clutch of constables inside and police cars with just two officers. Virginia thought nothing of the sleek white Ford which cruised slowly past, then turned into a side street ahead and parked. She was happily chatting with Mark, clutching him to her and giving him the occasional squeeze, when the two uniformed policemen walked across the road towards them.
'Good evening, boys,' said Mark.
He obviously knew them, and they him; they greeted him by name, but wasted no more time on pleasantries.
'We want you,' said one of them to Virginia.
'Me?'
'Her? Why?' asked Mark. 'What’s she done?'
Virginia was caught first by one arm, then the other, and Mark surrendered his hold on her quite freely.
'Soliciting, ripping off punters,' said the policeman who gripped Virginia the tightest, strong fingers painfully digging into her flesh.
'She’s a tart?' said Mark. 'But she’s such a looker.'
Flatterer.
'She’s a thief and a cheat and riddled with disease,' said the second policeman.
'And to think I might have taken her to bed with me.'
Might have? There was no doubt that he would have,, the dirty fornicator, that had been the only thing on his mind. It was immaterial now, though; for the moment the only thing that mattered to Virginia was the accusation.
'What do you mean, soliciting?' she asked.
'Come on.' She was tugged across the road. 'This isn’t the sort you want to pick up, Mark. You’ve just had a lucky escape, pal.'
Mark shook his head, was already walking briskly along the street and glancing around anxiously, worried that there might have been witnesses.
'But I’ve done nothing!' Virginia shouted out to him, and to people passing by, but though some stopped to stare curiously after her no one bothered to intervene as she was bullied across the street and down the darkened alley.
T
he patrol car was parked some yards ahead, in a deserted car-park at the rear of a block of shops. As she was pulled protesting towards it she saw a figure climb out. If this was also a police officer there was no sign of a uniform.
'Here she is, Wilkie, we’ve got the bitch,' said one of Virginia’s escorts.
Wilkie? Did she know the name?
As they neared the car she made out the silhouette of a woman, not a man; youngish, blondish, sort of sporty and athletic. In the weak lights of the car-park she saw the woman as a blur of a shape dashing across an equally dimly lit wine bar.
'So we meet again, Virgin-ya!'
The disdainful use of the name was familiar, Virginia recalled the only other person who had ever addressed her with such loathing, the WPC in the back of the Transit van wanting to arrest her for something she had not done, the constable who had pulled her up for drunken driving and taken such delight in her predicament.
'What’s all this about?' Virginia asked, as she was backed into a corner by Wilkie and her two uniformed friends. 'I’m no prostitute.'
'No? Then what do you call having sex with another woman’s husband?' asked one of the constables, pushing her roughly against the wall. He turned to Wilkie. 'We’ll just take a spin around the block. Okay? We’ll be five minutes.'
'Fine,' Wilkie nodded with a nasty smile.
'Here! Don’t leave me with her!' Virginia panicked, as the two policemen got into their car.
They paid no heed, drove slowly away. Virginia’s view of the departing vehicle was blocked by the advancing form of Wilkie.
'You know my name, don’t you, Virgin-ya?'
Virginia nodded. 'You stopped me for drunken driving.'
'You know my husband’s name, too?'
Your-?'
Sex with another woman’s husband is an offence, punishable by the law, if that other woman is an officer of the law.
'My husband, Josh.' There was an interminable pause, while Wilkie let the reality of the situation sink in. 'I knew he’d been having it off with someone, the cheating bastard,' she went on, in a frighteningly even tone. 'I didn’t know it was you, though, until a mate delivered your summons and saw Josh’s picture in your squalid little room.' She hit Virginia once, in the stomach, to take the wind from her. 'Pictures of my husband hanging over your fucking bed!”
*
It was surely more than five minutes before the patrol car completed its circuit of the block. To Virginia it seemed like an age. In her pain and her panic she stupidly called out for the police, screamed for them to help her as she sank to the ground, her arms around her head to shield her from the blows. On the ground, however, she was even more vulnerable, feet came in to accompany the fists and she felt a lip split, a tooth chip. When she heard voices she thought there were angels murmuring over her; when the blows stopped there was still no cessation of pain but rather a constant buzz of it, as if dentists’ drills were boring into every bone of her body.
'Okay, Wilkie, that’s enough.'
'Yes,' Wilkie panted, exhilarated by her violence. 'She’s in court in two days’ time. She has to be fit for that.'
'You get off home, then. We’ll see her to the Royal, have her stitched up.'
'Right. Thanks, lads. Just see to it that she’s stitched up slowly, eh?'
There were nasty chuckles, the sound of footsteps receding, and Virginia was bundled into the back of the patrol car.
'Don’t bleed all over the seats,' she was told.
'And don’t fuck a copper’s husband next time.'
The two policeman then chatted between themselves, one saying, 'It’s a nasty part of town to wander around late at night.'
'A mugging a minute some nights.'
'Or cruel buggers looking to kick the shit out of people just for the fun of it.'
'Right. There’s no way I’d wander around Toxteth on my own at night.'
And there was no way Virginia had been near Toxteth that night. She lived there, for God’s sake, and felt safe there. But who would believe her if she said anything to the contrary?
There was no wailing of a siren, no screeching recklessly around corners and through lights, no rush to get her to the casualty department. Instead she had to suffer a leisurely ride around the city, giving her time in which to fully appreciate her pain. When they finally reached the hospital and she was escorted into casualty by the two policemen one of them had a quiet word with the staff on duty. Virginia could not hear what was said, but she could guess, she was made to wait and it was morning before she got away, a full bright morning which hurt her bruised eyes. She had a stitch or two in her lip, two more above her eye, and it was suggested that she might be wise to visit a dentist, there were a couple of teeth which needed attending to.
'Thanks,” she said, sarcastically grateful. 'Thanks very much.”
She walked through the university grounds, the shortest route from the hospital to her flat, and the campus was swarming with students going from lecture to lecture. Young students, mixed students, girls in skimpy blouses and men in tight tee shirts. There were looks cast in her direction but she could guess that none of them were the ‘come hither’ looks that she usually hoped for; she had looked in no mirrors, she had no idea what her face looked like but she supposed that it must look frightful. She wondered where Mark might be, or Constance or Trev, and how they might react if they saw her now.
Josh?
Forget him!
She stopped at ‘Otty’s Cafe’, just around the corner from home, thinking that some breakfast was the thing to strengthen her. Even here she was regarded suspiciously and all she could work her mouth around was a mug of sweet tea. The hot sugary liquid bit into her gums where teeth had been loosened, nagging at the nerve ends, and the woman in the kitchen regarded her more warily than she ever regarded the seediest of her customers.
Pain! Everything was pain and bed was the only place to be!
Her bones ached as she got to her feet, her knuckles hurt as she spread her fingers on the table to heave herself upright. Limping like a rheumatic, squinting against the glare of the sun, she went outdoors and down the street to her flat. She had to fight with both hands to turn the key in the lock. The rope ladder was totally out of the question. The stairs were difficult enough, she had to take them one at a time, resting both feet on each step to stop her pummelled thighs from protesting. It took her minutes longer than usual to reach her floor and she turned down the hall just in time to see two black polythene rubbish bags being hurled out of her room.
Her landlady followed immediately after, snapped a padlock shut on each of the doors and then turned to see her.
'You!'
'What are you doing?' asked Virginia.
'You’re out! Evicted! Persona non grata!'
The smart arse quoting Latin when she was probably the most uneducated of all the landlords that Virginia had ever had. Her only talent was her numeracy, her ability to count the money which she made in rent every month.
'What do you mean?'
'I mean you need somewhere else to live. This is no longer your flat.'
'But-'
'But, nothing. I’ve seen what you’ve done to the place. Count yourself lucky I’m not suing you for the damage you’ve caused. I would do, only I guess you haven’t got a penny to your name. And where did you come by that rope ladder you’ve got slung out the window?'
'I-'
'Forget it, I don’t want to know. You probably stole it so I’ve thrown it away.'
Virginia worked her mouth slowly, like the punch-drunk boxer she must resemble, but it was too painful to form any words. What she needed was an oration, when it was all she could do to spit out a single syllable. Her landlady had the advantage.
'Your clothes are there,' she said, kicking the two polythene bags. 'I’d have taken them in lieu of rent but I doubt even the Oxfam would want them.'
Virginia thought about the bags, about her bruised hands which had difficulty in gripping, and s
he nodded to her door, said, 'Do you think I could just leave them-?'
'Out! Go on! Piss off!'
Virginia went.
To look on the bright side she did not have to cover the costs of the repairs to the flat, nor pay the rent which was overdue. And that was the bright side? Christ! It just showed how bleak and dismal her life had become!
She struggled downstairs with the two bags. They were not heavy, they held nothing more than a few clothes, but they were still an encumbrance she could do without. Lime Street station was the place to leave them, she decided, and she caught a bus into the city; it was only two stops, a twenty five pence ride, but in her condition she did not feel up to walking.
There were no lockers at the station, the place was being modernised and there seemed to be no room for the old fashioned lockers where you slipped in a coin and pulled out the key. Too easy a target for terrorists, lockers, a BR man told her, a place to stash bombs, though why anyone should want to blow up Lime Street station escaped her. There was only the left luggage office, she was told, and she toted her bags, her worldly possessions, over there.
'Let’s see what you’ve got inside,' said the man on duty.
'Do you have to?' Virginia asked.
'Usually we only take suitcases and trunks.'
'Do I look like the sort who’d have Louis Vuitton luggage? I only want to leave this stuff here until tonight, tomorrow at the latest.'
'They could be bombs for all I know. Open up and let’s see.'
Paranoia rife at Lime Street station.
Virginia untied the neck of each bag, opened them to show the crumpled jeans and skirts, the shirts and blouses and soiled knickers.
'See? Clothes, like I said.'
The chap looked, said, 'You’d be better off taking this lot down to Oxfam rather than paying good money to leave it here.'
'Don’t be so bloody cheeky! Give me the ticket!'
Virginia snatched the ticket and stamped from the office. Her face hurt after snapping at the attendant. She needed to see a dentist. She needed to see her face, for God’s sake, to see what damage had been done to it. Most important of all, though, she needed a place to stay for the night.
The Art School Dance Page 46