Passion Killers

by Linda Regan

  The video played through her mind as it seemed to a hundred times a day: Katie lying across a wooden chair, not a stitch on and legs in the air; Olivia standing astride her, bending to suck her nipples. How could she have been that naïve? Her face burned; what would the prime minister say if he saw them? Or Katie Faye’s television producer? A hundred thousand pounds was a small price to avoid embarrassment of that order.

  The children were clattering around in the hall, gathering Ianthe’s riding things together. She called to Kevin and threw him the sandwich bag. “There’s money in there,” she said. “Buy McDonald’s for lunch and keep the change for petrol.”

  “Cheers, Mum.”

  “Just look after your sister.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Kevin? I could really do with a day to myself.”

  “Toy boy on his way over, is he?”

  She could never tell how serious he was. “Is that what you think of me?”

  “Chill, Mum. Just kidding.”

  Ianthe hugged her goodbye, and Kevin took the car keys off the hook. They left, squabbling good-naturedly, and Olivia sighed with relief. She massaged her temple points with her fingers, promising herself that after today she too could make a new start. It wasn’t as if it would be hard to decide which of them would take the money to Brian; it had to be Susan. Both she and Katie had to protect their public profiles; Kim’s other half was a copper; Theresa was too angry with Brian. Susan was the only one left.

  Susan had visited him often in prison, and she still worked in the sex industry. Olivia had visited too, but more out of duty than friendship; she had married Kenneth shortly after that fateful night, as soon as she found out she was pregnant, and when he became an MP she had to be careful. Then, when poor Theresa’s baby was born, just a month after Kevin, and they learned she was brain-damaged, the guilt kicked in. As if letting Brian serve a life sentence for their crime wasn’t bad enough, they had deprived that little girl of a father when she needed one so badly.

  So she, Katie and Susan had done everything they could to help; they kept in close touch with Theresa and supported little Bernadette financially, and even kept Theresa’s mother in gin, one thing guaranteed to make life easier for Theresa. Not that bitch Shaheen, though. She had moved back home to Leicester, married a plumber and had three healthy children. The only contact they had with her was birthday cards. Yet she thought she had the right to tell them they should go to the police with Brian’s demand for money. Not that anyone listened. It was her fault in the first place, and they had been clearing up her mess for the last nineteen years.

  Suddenly Olivia wanted to cry. That video kept playing through her mind: standing naked, stroking Katie’s nipples, then the agonising pain as Ahmed unexpectedly shoved that dildo into her. And all for a demeaning job in a filthy strip club, to make quick money to pay her way through college.

  Instead of crying, she burst out laughing. After all that she hadn’t even gone to law school. She’d got pregnant and married Kenneth instead. Not that she regretted it – well, not much. She had everything money could buy: a lovely house, designer clothes, an eighteen-year-old-son and a beautiful thirteen-year-old daughter, both healthy, if a bit unruly. Ken had a terrible temper and sometimes took it out on her, but she knew she annoyed him. He’d taught her the difference between politician’s wife and footballer’s wife and worked hard to give her the polish a junior minister’s wife needed; she did her best not to let him down, but the other wives’ posh style didn’t come naturally to her.

  All the same, whatever his faults, Ken had never been mean with money. Just as well, since she had none of her own, and without his she wouldn’t have been able to help Theresa.

  But when Brian had told them he was being released, and she had asked for one final lump sum, Kenneth had drawn the line. Enough was enough, he’d said; Theresa and her brat had had thousands out of him already. Why he should have to cough up yet another large sum just to give a pair of losers a new start?

  Olivia hadn’t lived with him for nineteen years without learning a thing or two; she’d be able to lay her hands on her share of the hundred grand and by the time he found out it would be too late. It would just take a couple of weeks.

  He wouldn’t be pleased, but the alternative was unthinkable. She sipped her drink and tried not to imagine what he’d do to her if those videos got in the wrong hands. He’d probably kill her, even though it was his own fault for not parting willingly with the money and driving Brian to desperate measures.

  So she was sorting it. For all their sakes.

  Katie Faye fed coins into the studio coffee machine, and absentmindedly pressed the button marked Coffee Black No Sugar. Her figure was still reed-slim and her face was still line-free; no one would guess she was thirty-seven and counting. She had to work at it, watching what she ate and getting a full quota of sleep at night – which, with early morning calls when they were filming on location, sometimes meant going to bed at eight o’clock. But she was the nation’s pin-up, the much-loved Staff Nurse Penelope Diamond, in the hospital soap Screened. She had climbed to the top of the ladder, and was determined to stay there.

  She took her coffee from the machine and took a welcome mouthful. She had been up since five filming, and had lain awake most of the night. But today everything would be sorted.

  She was more than happy to pay the hundred thousand pounds Brian was demanding. If Olivia wasn’t able to come up with her half, she certainly wouldn’t hold it against her; poor Liv hadn’t said why it was going to take a while, but then she never did say a word against Kenneth. They all knew what went on, though, and Katie was pretty sure it was fat Ken who had pulled the plug.

  Olivia had already done her share. At first it had been mostly her money – well, Kenneth’s – which supported Bernadette; it wasn’t until the last five years Katie had been able to help out. Her life had completely changed when, after struggling for eleven years as a bit part actress, she had landed the role of Penelope.

  Since she had been in Screened she had never been happier. Penelope’s popularity had grown, and everywhere she went people flocked around her for autographs. When she drove along in her newly acquired BMW, other drivers shouted, “Hello, Penelope.” Fans came up to her in the street, requesting plasters, or asking her to diagnose their aches and pains. She loved it; the job was everything she had worked for, everything she had ever dared dream of. Her world had come up roses.

  But how she regretted the weeks in that seedy Soho strip club -and what had happened on that fateful Saturday night. Katie had never stopped feeling guilty about letting Brian go to prison – all the more so because Theresa had had to bring up a disabled child alone. No amount of money could make up for that. There was no question but that Brian should have the money; it was just sad that it had to be like this. Still, she had to have those videos back no matter what the cost.

  It was the guilt that had kept them together, the girls from the Scarlet Pussy Club. They’d remained friends ever since that dreadful night, supporting each other through all their ups and downs. All except Shaheen Hakhti. She was the only one of them that had a decent start in life, yet she had done nothing to help either Theresa or Kim.

  Poor Kim had gone into a depression and become addicted to tranquillisers; one thing led to another, and she finished up injecting heroin. It took three attempts at rehab to get her off the drug, and she was still fragile and in poor health.

  Not only did Shaheen ignore Kim’s plight as well as Theresa’s; she didn’t even write to Brian in prison. She just got on with her life and behaved as if the whole appalling business was nothing to do with her. And now she had the cheek to suggest they should go to the police. It wasn’t as if the selfish cow had anything to lose; she had made sure there was no video of her. She had really shown her true colours over this.

  Katie eyed the chocolate biscuits beside the coffee machine and debated allowing herself something sweet to keep her energy up. But s
he really had no appetite.

  Her thoughts ranged back over the past few years. After the drug phase, when Kim met her girlfriend Judy and made a supreme effort to stay clean, she had started a dancing school. It soon became successful – unsurprising, as Kim was a great dancer and knew how to motivate youngsters – and as soon as she had money to spare she started to contribute to Bernadette’s upkeep.

  Susan, too, had done her bit. She hadn’t changed one iota; she had put some weight on, but she was still the same cockney girl with a heart of gold. She had even carried on stripping right up until six months ago, when she was offered a job managing a sex shop in Soho, with a flat above it for her and her cat Tara. Not only had Susan visited Brian regularly; she also helped Theresa and Bernadette financially, and babysat so Theresa could have something of a life. Katie had a lot of time for Susan.

  She tossed her coffee in the bin, unable to swallow another mouthful. Her nerves felt like filed teeth. There were five more scenes to smile her way through before the meeting at Olivia’s with the other girls.

  As she headed for her dressing room to change for the next scene she took deep breaths to calm her nerves. Shaheen wasn’t a problem, and nor was the money. They just had to get it to him and make sure he gave those videos back, then it would all be in the past.

  Susan would do it. They could all rely on her. Katie took out her mobile phone and began to dial.

  The sign outside the shop door flashed red in a steady rhythm. It read SEX AND THE TITTIES.

  Susan kept the door wide open, to let any passing trade know they were welcome to come in and browse around the sex aids. She reckoned it helped to sell a few extra bits each week; she worked on commission and needed to boost the takings in any way she could.

  It was a cold morning in Soho. Susan had the heating on, and Barry White blared out of the radio. She was standing just inside the open doorway dusting the mannequin dolls that displayed crotchless knickers in a variety of colours and designs.

  Her long, over-bleached hair used to hang to her waist, but had recently been cut short and permed, giving her a poodle-like appearance. She wore a red imitation leather jacket with the collar turned up, and fluffy grey earmuffs to keep the wind out of her ears with matching gloves to protect her fingers against the cold. Under the jacket she had two jumpers on, neither of which reached the imitation snakeskin belt around her hipster jeans; the snake and rose tattoo decorating the base of her spine was in full view. She held a cigarette in one hand and dusted with the other, happily singing along out of key with Barry White’s deep bass tones, totally oblivious to the expressions of the passers-by as they stared at her bare skin, tattoo and the edge of her purple tiger-print thong.

  The phone started ringing. She threw the stub of her cigarette down and ground it with the toe of her shabby red stiletto before walking back to the counter. “Sex and the Titties,” she said in her best upmarket accent.

  She relaxed back into her native cockney when she heard Katie’s familiar voice. “You sound worried, darlin’. Shaheen ain’t rang, has she?”

  She listened as Katie explained. Brian could have the money, but she wanted Susan to be the one to take it to him. Susan was flattered. She adored Katie; fame hadn’t changed her a bit, and no matter how busy she was, Katie was as generous with her time now as when she was working as a waitress and touting for small breaks.

  “’Course, darlin’, that ain’t a problem. ’E’s back living with ’is mum. I’ll give ’im a bell and drop it round there. I won’t ask for a receipt, under the circumstances.” She roared with laughter, and was relieved to hear Katie giggle. “It’ll be over soon,” she reassured her.

  “You don’t think Shaheen will really go to the police?” Katie asked.

  “I don’t think bloody Shaheen is even gonna turn up,” Susan said quickly. “I’ve left messages and messages on ’er mobile, and she ain’t so much as rang back.”

  There was no answer from Katie.

  “Look, she doesn’t want to know, she told me so ’erself. If she didn’t turn up two weeks ago to meet me, she won’t come today. It’s not as if we need her permission.”

  She pulled a cigarette free of the packet on the counter and struggled to light it with a green throwaway lighter. The flame wavered and died in the icy breeze blowing through the open door; Susan stretched the phone cord as far as it would go and toed the door shut.

  Over the phone she heard the tannoy in Katie’s dressing room.

  “It’s gonna be OK, mate,” she assured her again. “You go off and shine like the star you are, and I’ll see you at Livvy’s later.” As an afterthought she added, “How about a present for Bernadette?”

  “Good idea.”

  “Theresa said a toy would be good. What d’you think about a Roger Rabbit vibrator? She is eighteen after all…” Katie’s famous giggle sounded down the phone. “That’s better. You sound like your old self again.” She tapped ash into the cheap saucer by the till. “It’ll all be over in no time and life’ll be back to normal, you’ll see. Brian’s not a bad bloke. I’ll give ’im the money, get the videos back, and that’ll be an end to it.”

  “I just hope you’re right.” Katie sounded despondent.

  “He ain’t a grass,” Susan pointed out. “’E proved that by doing nineteen years and saying nothing. ’E he wouldn’t give them videos to the press.” She stubbed her cigarette out. “Yes, I agree, prison does change people. But if he was gonna stitch us up why wait till he’d served ’is time?”

  Katie said nothing.

  “I’m just glad you and Liv have got the money,” Susan went on. “I sure as fuck couldn’t get a hundred K together. Listen, mate, I can hear you being called again. I’ll see you later.” She paused. “And don’t worry about Shaheen. She’s not going to make any trouble.”

  Theresa McGann was dressed in a worn grey tracksuit and shabby trainers that owed nobody a thing. She walked from the kitchen through to the tiny lounge and turned the television on.

  Bernadette gurgled happily as the colours and movement appeared on the screen. Theresa heaved her daughter up from the floor, manoeuvred her into the chair and tied a bib around her thick neck.

  “Lunchtime,” she said cheerfully, pulled a stool in close to the chair.

  “Ung-hi,” Bernadette echoed.

  She ate noisily, spraying half-chewed cauliflower cheese all over Theresa and the threadbare carpet. “Was that good?” Theresa asked.

  Bernadette gurgled her approval. Cauli cheese was one of her favourites.

  “Just you wait. Things are going to get even better. Your daddy’s coming home and we’re getting out of here.” She gave her daughter a kiss on the top of her head and used the bib to wipe her cheeks and chin.

  Eighteen years of caring for a handicapped child and a violent alcoholic mother had taken its toll. Theresa’s hands were covered in red rings of psoriasis that crept up her arms like a map of the world. Her nails were short and bitten, the skin around them raw.

  She took the bowl back to the kitchen and poured milky tea for her daughter and black coffee for her mother. What would it be like, she wondered, to have a dishwasher? Could they find one to fit this tiny kitchen? Maybe when this business was sorted out and Brian came home they would move out of the high rise council flat. There wasn’t really room for four of them, and it was time he got to know his daughter.

  She picked up the coffee to take it through to her mother, and caught sight of her reflection in the glass panel on the kitchen door. She wore no make-up and her face was a network of lines.

  Things were going to change.

  Her mother’s voice booming from the bedroom brought her back to reality. “Theresa! Has my giro has arrived?”

  Theresa closed her eyes and didn’t answer.

  “Bring it in here if it’s come. I can sign it, and ye can cash for us both and pick up me shopping.”

  Theresa still didn’t reply. She put the coffee down on the table and went to the fro
nt door. A few envelopes lay on the mat. Thank goodness, the giros were there. But so was the gas bill: a red one.

  “Theresa, a woman could be dying in here of a thirst. Have you made the coffee?”

  The flat was cold; the heating was set to come on for a couple of hours in the morning and the same in the evening. Yet she still dreaded the gas bill. And she hated having to ask Olivia to pay it. Well, not for much longer.

  “THERESA, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, ARE YOU DEAF?” Her mother’s voice boomed so loudly the entire flat seemed to vibrate. “Will ye tell me, do we have our giros yet? Or is it to be another dry day for your poor pain-ridden mother?”

  Theresa’s voice stuck in her throat.

  “THERESA! Theresa, if I have to get out to ye now, I’ll give ye such a fucking slap, you’ll not know if it’s Christmas or Easter.”

  Theresa swallowed hard. “It’s OK, Mother, the giros are here. One minute now and I’ll be there.”

  She walked back into the lounge and picked up the phone. She thought for a moment, then punched some numbers into the keypad. After another second she changed her mind and put the phone back on its cradle.

  PC Judy Farmer stooped over the work surface in the small kitchen she shared with Kim Davis. Her large hands held a flat knife, smoothing butter back and forth across thick slices of bread. “Kim,” she called, “do you want hummus in both your sandwiches?”

  There was no answer. Judy put the knife down and walked out of the neat kitchen into the dining area, then up the narrow stairway to the bedroom.

  Kim was there, packing a large holdall with her dance gear. She was thinner than nineteen years ago, tall and willowy, and her dark brown hair was cut short in a boyish crop.

  She opened drawers and threw tights and leg warmers into the bag, took a couple of leotards and a pink nylon dance bodice from another drawer, and bundled them in all in.