by Robert Lock
She rose from her position of prayer, knee joints cracking, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “There,” she said, and there was job satisfaction in that word, but also a concluding note, a reminder that their transaction was only half-finished. “Was that alright?”
Sammy replied whilst hoisting his underpants. “Not bad. I haven’t seen you here before, have I? What’s your name?”
“Debs. What’s yours?”
“Sammy.”
The girl clicked her fingers and pointed at him. “I knew I knew you! You’re the bloke on the pier, aren’t you? The comedian. I’ve seen you on posters and stuff.”
“That’s me,” he confirmed. Sammy reached down for his trousers and pulled them up. Their brief intimacy was at an end. He had no desire for it to be prolonged any further. “I suppose you’ll be after some free tickets now.”
Debs eyebrows lifted. “Can I?”
“I’ll sort something out.” He opened his wallet, counted out several notes and held them towards the prostitute, but when she reached for them Sammy withdrew his hand so that the money remained just out of her grasp. “How much did you say? Fifteen quid, wasn’t it?”
“Twenty-five! You said that was alright.”
His expression shifted to incomprehension. “Sorry, darling, I don’t remember that. I’m sure it was fifteen.”
Debs again made a grab for the cash in his hand, but again Sammy jerked it away. “Come on,” she pleaded. “Don’t fuck me about. You know we agreed twenty-five.”
The comedian laughed and shook his head, but this movement dislodged the white beads of light from the Christmas tree decorations, which began to float around the room like the smeared gobs of light from the lap dancing club’s glitterball, creating a similarly disorientating effect. Sammy opened his eyes wide, squeezed them shut, opened them again, but the phantom glitterball was still rotating, spinning faster and faster. “We agreed fuck all, darling. Now, are you going to take this fifteen quid or what?”
“You bastard,” Debs said vehemently. “I’ll put the word out about you… You won’t get away with this crap again.” He shrugged. “There are girls under the arches on west promenade that’ll do it for a fiver, love, so you can do what you fucking well like.” The comedian threw the three five-pound notes in her general direction, then watched in confusion as instead of fluttering to the ground the notes were swept up by the lights as though they had fallen into an illuminated tornado, and then a voice from many years ago, spoken less than a mile from where he was standing now, slipped through his head like a piece of debris spat out from the storm. ‘You always loved him more than your father.’
Sammy shook his head, glanced up at the ceiling and was astonished to see a Winnie the Pooh lampshade, laughed out loud at the incongruity of it, and when he looked back down the money was lying on the thin carpet amongst the cigarette burns and other stains, about to be picked up by Debs. When she scowled at him the shadows in her eyes had assumed the tempo of the spinning lights and were drifting across her pale blue irises like clouds in a November sky. “I bet the newspapers’d be interested in the sort of things you get up to… and what a cheating bastard you are,” she surmised. “I might just give ‘em a call tomorrow and tell them all about it.”
The lights were spinning ever faster, dragging the bedroom into their orbit. Sammy squeezed hard on the sides of his nose, fighting back a sudden wave of nausea; it felt exactly the same as that night in the lap dancing club, and for a moment he wondered whether this was some sort of divine punishment for a life of such blatant immorality. The prostitute’s narrow features metamorphosed into a skull-like mask which hung before him, malevolent and triumphant, a composite of all the people who had tried to take advantage of him over the years, their smug, contemptuous faces which regarded Sammy Samuels as though he were something they had found on the sole of their shoe, and now this whore, with her crude threats, thought that she too could treat him like a fool.
His hands flexed, contorted into fists, and before he really knew what he was doing Sammy flailed out, his left hand catching the girl on her temple, his right just below her eye. “Don’t fucking try to blackmail me!” She dropped to the floor and curled into a foetal position, her arms tucked around her head in an instinctive protective embrace. He continued to pummel at the exposed side of her body and hip, the blows timed to accentuate his words. “I know… everybody… in this… town! Everybody! You haven’t… got… a fucking… chance… of proving… anything! Don’t even… think about it.”
And then it was finished. His hands dropped to his sides, all the fury in them suddenly extinguished, but the swirling lights continued to cocoon him in his own personal galaxy, following as he turned and stumbled out of the room, clattered down the stairs, crossed the reception area without acknowledging the other girl, where the neon sign in the window, now brazen without its mitigating curtains, burnt its cryptic brand into his eyes. Out, out he went, his heart hammering, fear gripping his stomach as a tingle arced along the nerves in his left arm, into the night whose gloom only heightened the disorienting lightshow that Sammy could not shake off, could not even decide whether it was inside or outside his head. “What’s happening to me?” he asked silently once more, but the moon beamed down and remained silent, for it spoke only through the tide, which was diligently binding a dead seagull in discarded netting and would not be distracted from its task.
The comedian was expecting the police, and they duly came, a knock on the door waking him from a dreamless sleep. Their black bulk and crackling radio messages filled the doorway of Sammy’s flat with an unequivocal authority, but they were polite and non-judgmental, young men whose self-righteousness had been blunted by their work. Humanity is weak, the resort had taught them. It has constructed many gods in order that, once led into temptation, men and women can rail at these deities, crying out that they demand too much, and then blame them for their flaws. Terrible things are visited upon the good, while the bad prosper, and what most call morality is in fact a simple fear of anarchy. These were the resort’s lessons. Of course the resort attracted a disproportionate number of hedonists and drifters, whose weaknesses were more pronounced, but perhaps they were simply being honest; perhaps the resort was more magnifier than distorting mirror, a realm of indulgence bordered by the more unforgiving sea. And so the policemen disapproved of Sammy’s alleged unprovoked assault against a slender and vulnerable young woman, but it did not shock them. A far more profound level of violence was required to do that. What they had retained, however, was their faith in procedure. The resort might have broadened their minds, but they truly believed its excesses would always require the formality and structure of procedure to contain them.
“Are you Samuel Rosenberg?” enquired the older of the officers, whose eyebrows joined in the middle to form a black barrier dividing his face neatly in two and lending him a strangely pious air.
Sammy rubbed his forehead with the palm of one hand.
“Nobody calls me that. I haven’t used that name for years.”
The policeman glanced at his colleague. “We are aware of your stage name, sir.”
“Oh right. In that case, yes. That’s me.”
“Do you mind if we come in?” The policeman gestured, encompassing the whole of Carlton Apartments. “This isn’t very private.”
“What’s this all about?”
The policemen, taking this question as an offer of admittance, shifted their authoritative blackness into the flat’s entrance hall. As they did so the second of them, who to Sammy looked hardly old enough to be out at this time of night, said, “An allegation of assault has been made against you, Mr Rosenberg. We need you to come with us to the police station to answer some questions. It shouldn’t take too long.”
Sammy edged past the jacket and protective vest of the other officer and led them into the lounge. Both policemen cast a professional eye over the framed photographs depicting a fresher-faced Sammy Samuels mingling with ro
yalty and celebrities in a monochrome world that seemed to them utterly removed from the present; the couch and dining chairs draped with clothes, the plate with its smears of dried ketchup, the wooden fruit bowl containing two over-ripe bananas, and a copy of the evening paper lying next to the plate which together formed a sorry tableau on the dining table. They saw all this and understood how meagre the reality behind showbusiness’ dazzling facade could be.
“Assault? Who the fuck am I supposed to have assaulted?” Sammy enquired. “Jesus, it’s five o’clock in the morning.”
The younger officer brought out a small notebook from his breast pocket. “We know what the time is, Mr Rosenberg,” he said pointedly, opening the notebook. “Were you in the Jewels massage parlour on Edward Street at around 8pm last night?”
“What?” Sammy looked from one to the other.
“It’s a simple question, Mr Rosenberg.”
“Oh, I get it,” the comedian said, nodding slowly. “I don’t know what that stupid bitch has told you, son, but you should know what those girls are like when they don’t get their own way. She tried to get more money out of me than we’d agreed and when I refused she started screaming and shouting about going to the papers because she knew who I was, so I chucked some money at her and left.”
“So you deny hitting her?”
Sammy raised both arms in a gesture of incomprehension. “Is that what she’s saying?”
“She’s got a black eye and bruising.”
“So what?” A possible defence sprang into his mind, for which he gave silent thanks. “Anybody could have done that.” The comedian cast about for examples. “Another ‘customer’, her fucking pimp—”
The officer with the solid eyebrow reached for his radio. “Please don’t use language like that, Mr Rosenberg, we’re only doing our job. It might be acceptable on stage but I don’t want to hear it here.” He turned his head slightly and lifted the lapel of his jacket so mouth and radio were close. He pressed a button. “Sarah? We’re bringing Mr Rosenberg in for questioning. Can you tell DC McKenzie we’ll be there in about fifteen minutes? Thanks.” He turned back to Sammy. “Samuel Rosenberg, I am arresting you on suspicion of assault. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand everything I’ve just said?”
Sammy laughed in disbelief. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You’re going to believe somebody like her rather than me?”
“I haven’t said anything of the sort, Mr Rosenberg, and may I remind you that you have been cautioned. Any more abusive language and you’ll be leaving here in handcuffs. Is that what you want?”
He shook his head, suddenly subdued. “No, of course not.”
“Well calm down then and get dressed. Have you got a lawyer you can call to be with you during questioning?”
Sammy gripped the top of his nose with thumb and middle finger and closed his eyes. “I don’t believe this is happening to me. A lawyer?”
The younger officer flipped shut his notebook and managed to convey, in that small operation, a feeling of both disdain and condescension that his older colleague disapproved of but which was missed by Sammy, whose eyes were still shut. “Assault is a serious charge, Mr Rosenberg,” he advised. “You need to know what the implications are.”
Sammy opened his eyes. “Now you’re really shitting me. What d’you mean, the ‘implications’?”
“What he means,” the eyebrow interjected, the tone of his voice making clear that he had had enough of the conversation, “is that you need to get your clothes on, get yourself in the back of the car and tell someone where you’re going and what you’re being arrested for. I presume if you’re under contract with EuroEnts they’ll have a legal department who can sort out a lawyer for you. Tell them you’ll be at the central police station.” He fished in a pocket, brought out a bunch of car keys and tossed them to the younger policeman. “Go and open her up, will you?”
The comedian watched the policeman leave, waited until the front door closed and then turned back to the other officer. “He’s a bit up himself, isn’t he? Fancy himself as a bit of a tough guy?”
The eyebrow shifted upwards, a miniscule movement and yet more than enough for the comedian’s questions to be answered.
“Come on, Sammy,” the policeman sighed, “let’s get you down the nick. I’ve had enough of this fucking shift.”
“You and me both, mate. You and me both.”
The Spanish Carrot
The Bangles’ ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’ boomed out from speakers on either side of the stage, distorting slightly on the bass notes, whilst on stage five dancers were attempting, with varying degrees of success, to skip across the boards at the same time as holding their hands and arms in the favoured Egyptian dance cliché of straight lines and right angles. They succeeded in reaching the other side of the stage, but while spinning round to head back in the opposite direction two of them caught each other’s arms and lost the song’s rhythm.
Paddy McNeil, the summer show’s director, sprang out of his chair in the auditorium, waving his arms wildly. “Oh my God, what are you doing?” he cried, his high-pitched, soft Scottish accent overly dramatic and emphatically camp. “Can ye not just even turn around without crashing into each other?” He gesticulated to the sound engineer at the back of the theatre. “Stop the music! Stop the music!”
The song’s insistent rhythm came to an abrupt halt, leaving the girls stranded mid-stage.
McNeil edged along the row of seats and out into the centre aisle, then strode down to the front of the stage. “It isn’t difficult! Just keep the same spacing as you had when you’re coming across! Why do you keep bunching up? I know it’s a quick rhythm, but honest to God, girls, I’ve seen more grace and elegance in a post office queue.”
Sammy Samuels watched the director’s fit of pique with amusement. He had positioned himself some distance from the stage and its bright lights, comfortably concealed in the shadows from where he could observe the dancers and assess both their bodies and whether any of them appeared likely to be interested in a sexual encounter with the star of the show. The added allure of celebrity, even on his relatively minor scale, had never failed to surprise and delight Sammy who, particularly during his early years as a recognisable star, had taken full advantage of it. There had been a more than adequate supply of girls looking to claim either a vicarious trace of fame or a showbusiness opening from their liaison with the comedian, and if their illusions were shattered by the banality of the encounter or Sammy’s avoidance of them afterwards then in his eyes at least he had taught them a valuable life lesson, demonstrating to these innocent creatures that the magic of the stage began and ended in the spotlights. There seemed far fewer young women these days who possessed such a naive nature, which could of course have had something to do with his grey hair, yellow teeth and pot belly, but there were still one or two ambitious enough to ignore his physical shortcomings. Sammy had learned over the years to identify certain characteristics which implied such a charitable disposition. A liveliness, perhaps, or sense of humour, or even (and these were the ones that Sammy liked best, as they were the least complicated and understood his own requirements) a scalp-hunter with the unquenchable appetite of any avid collector. These attributes were what he had been looking for in the dancers, but all he had seen so far was a giggling infatuation with their own ineptitude.
The comedian was about to resume his appraisal on a rather more basic level — in other words, which of the dancers had the best legs — when David Clark appeared at the end of the row of seats.
“Sammy? Can I have a word?”
Samuels continued to watch the girls on stage as they prepared yet again to perform their Egyptian dance. “What is it? I’m busy here.”
“This is important.”
“So is this.”
“So is this,”
and on the last word the pier manager took the newspaper he was holding and threw it at Sammy. It hit him on the leg and fell to the floor.
Sammy turned and glared. “What the fuck?”
David pointed angrily at the newspaper. “Look at it.”
The comedian sighed, leaned down and picked up the paper, which he recognised as the resort’s local evening edition. “Injury woes for keeper?”
“The front page!”
The moment he turned the newspaper round to reveal its lead story Sammy understood the pier manager’s anger. ASSAULT ALLEGATION AGAINST STAR proclaimed the headline, under which was a stark photograph of the girl from the massage parlour, her bruised and swollen features accentuated not only by the harsh flash of a police camera but also by her neutral, even forgiving expression.
“Shit,” was all Samuels could think to say.
The pier manager sat down in the seat next to him. “Exactly. And when were you going to tell me about this?”
Sammy frowned. “I didn’t think she’d go to the papers. She got a thousand quid out of me. I thought that was the end of it.”
“Obviously not.”
“No. That fucking bitch. If I’d known she was going to do this I wouldn’t have coughed up so quick. Jesus.”
David exhaled. ‘Walk Like An Egyptian’ started up again. “This is all we need. God alone knows what Julian’s going to do when he sees this… if he hasn’t already.”
“I hardly touched her!” Sammy protested, staring down at the photograph.
“You hardly touched her?” The pier manager sounded incredulous. “For God’s sake, Sammy, look at her!”
The comedian lifted the newspaper out of the shadows, angled it towards the stage lights and peered closely at the picture. “They must have doctored it… you know, on a computer. To make it look worse.”
“You really are unbelievable,” David said. “You beat up a woman, a prostitute, and then accuse the newspaper of fiddling with the picture. Unbelievable.”