The Sister

by China, Max

  As Marilyn, she acquired a number of very rich and powerful customers - she called them boyfriends - who lavished her with cash and gifts in exchange for favours.

  Most of her boyfriends loved fantasy role-playing in varying degrees. Some took it further. There was one guy who liked to dress as Tony Curtis, another who used to croon Sinatra to her and of course Jack Kennedy himself, who loved nothing better than to hear her breathily singing: Happy Birthday…Mr President . . . as he lay waiting, expectant and naked on the bed while she strip-teased seductively. She'd slowly make her way to him, pausing only to pose provocatively, timing the words of the song, Happy Birthday, to end just as she went down on him, whispering to his cock. "Oh, Jack . . . what will Jackie say . . .?"

  In a case of life imitating life, she also had an affair with a well-known gangster - Danny Lynch - who was under observation by the Serious Crime Squad

  It was in this way that she first came onto the police radar. She came from a good background, and the DCI thought she was just a casual girlfriend of Lynch's.

  She kept a secret file on her clients, a diary or dossier, in which she recorded names, dates, times, secret photographs, films and physical details that only close intimacy would reveal. It was her insurance policy.

  Once she had enough money behind her, she intended to write her memoirs, she'd change the names of those concerned, and she would sell it to the papers. It was her pension. The way she spent money, she would need it.

  Melissa always kept Thursdays free. She'd spent the day doing absolutely nothing but pamper herself. She watched daytime TV, read magazines and dozed on her bed. She wouldn't have planned her life this way, but she wasn't unhappy.

  It was early evening before she finally rose. She cleaned the make up from her face, then showered, afterwards walking naked into the kitchen, where she poured herself a generous shot of gin and popped a couple of Mogadon. After all the dozing and sleeping during the day, she knew she'd be awake half the night, and tomorrow was Friday, her busy day. She wouldn't want to spend it looking a wreck. She decided to pop another one; just to be sure, she caught the sleep train first time around. The bitter aftertaste made her grimace. She padded barefoot back to the bathroom to clean her teeth.

  In the morning, she wouldn't even remember getting into bed.

  Chapter 50

  March 1st 2007

  Eilise Staples was groggy from the night before. It was still dark as the clock turned 06:30 a.m. Most of the camp were still sleeping; a few early birds had their lights are on. They bumped along, in and out of potholes, down the track, away from the camp. In the darkness, the headlamps played off rippling puddles, reflecting the light, sending it down the lane at crazy angles, in all directions. Her head still felt spaced out and woolly from smoking weed and heroin.

  Wild bursts of wind drove staccato rain that spattered heavily against the tin walls of the white transit van. Watery machine gun bullets drummed in waves of sound that overwhelmed the creaking and banging of the metal body, masking the steady drone of the engine. The bodywork sounded as though it might twist off its chassis at any moment. One badly out of line headlight cut through the morning darkness, blinding the oncoming traffic. It attracted the occasional retaliatory flash from an angry driver.

  On her last night in the camp, they were talking about the future. No such thing as forever, nothing is forever, we won't be here forever . . . so you might as well enjoy it while you can. They were always telling her that, and in the end, it was what made up her mind to move on.

  Eilise packed up her life into two heavy-duty black bin bags. They sat next to her in the van, on the seat and the floor between her feet.

  Strawberry had left the camp a couple of days before. The driver was a friend of his. He too was a traveller; he had an interesting take on life; he seemed to know where he was going, he had it all mapped out in his head. "I'm doing the markets up to next Christmas, going to save the money I make; get myself some better wheels . . . maybe a camper. Then I'm going to take a long slow drive. France, Spain, Morocco . . . Wherever I want to go, anywhere in between, end up in Goa, always wanted to go there. Do a bit of work on the way…" Without taking his eyes off the road ahead, he directed his voice at her from the corner of his mouth. "What about you, Eilise, you going home?"

  Eilise wondered whether Strawberry had told him anything about her. She decided he wouldn't have. "I'm going to meet my mother."

  "That's good. Do you get on with her and all?"

  "I don't know…" She said, trailing off, uncertainty giving way to nagging doubt. She would deal with that when it came to it.

  "You don't know! What kind of an answer is that, to a question about your mother?" She wasn't sure if his apparent dismay was serious.

  "I haven't seen her for a while, that's all."

  "How old are you, Eilise?"

  " Eighteen," she lied. At only fifteen-years old, it made her feel safer to say she was older.

  "Well, best you get on back to your ma, then, it's about time. I'd take you all the way, but I'm doing the market this morning. Why don't you come with me? I'll drop you off after."

  " That's sweet of you, but no. If you drop me by the station, I'll be there by 10 o'clock I reckon."

  The brakes squealed in the dampness as the van pulled to a halt.

  She opened her door; he came round from the other side and reaching in, grabbed her bags; they were surprisingly heavy, but soft and full of clothes.

  Through the taut polythene sack, he saw the shape of a teddy bear straining against it. If it wasn't for that, she could have been going to the launderette.

  She pulled the fur-lined hood up over her head, over black hair already wet with rain. Light from the street lamps pooled on the pavement and under-lit her features, revealing a strong chin and soft brown eyes that peered down the slope of her nose. She pressed her lips together against the cold.

  Because her face was wet with rain, he couldn't tell if she was crying. He wanted to squeeze her in his arms, but he didn't. Instead, he stood awkwardly silent as he realised how small and young she looked. She didn't look at him.

  After a few moments, he finally made a move, gently touching the underside of her forearm. "You take good care, Eilise," he said.

  She nodded. Unable to speak or look at him, she heard the van door boom shut and then he was gone.

  Lifting her bags clear of the wet pavement, she put them on the bench and sat next to them.

  With no one else was waiting at the stop, she'd obviously just missed the bus. She knew that with her luck the next one wouldn't be due for a while.

  Looking around, she noticed the steamed up windows of a café across the road. Picking up her bags, she crossed over.

  A man watched her at the counter of the Station Cafe. What first drew his attention to her was the way she rooted through the pockets of her army jacket to find enough coins. A moment later, he recognised her. He couldn't believe his luck. He'd seen the runaway girl on Crimewatch. She was alone and desperately short of cash. Holding her coffee with one hand and bending at the knee, she gathered her two bags with the other. She reached the door and hoped someone would open it. Just as she was putting the coffee down to do it herself, a young builder scooted away from his table to do it. "There you go, love."

  "Thanks," she smiled and walked out.

  The man observing her wiped the steamed up plate glass window and watched her struggle. She pulled her hood up over her head with the hand that held the polystyrene cup and waited to cross over to the bus stop.

  She hadn't looked around in the cafe at all. The man was sure she'd not seen him.

  He returned to his car and sat watching her, revving the engine to keep warm.

  A small queue formed waiting for the bus.

  Someone had smashed the glass panel at the end of the shelter, so it now caught the brunt of the wind funnelling down the slope, around and under the bridge. Hunching her shoulders, she turned her back towards the bitter b
last and cupped her drink with both hands. She was sorry when it had all gone.

  The dirty white baseball shoes did not have any heels, not like her old shoes; the hems of her jeans were wet and frayed from dragging on the ground. She'd stopped turning them up a long time ago.

  The tea had cost part of the bus fare, as soon as it stopped raining; she would walk a few stops up the road. She thought about asking one of the people in the queue if they had any change, but not one had a sympathetic face. Not one of them even looked at her; all of them too wrapped up in their own little worlds, to care about a homeless kid. The bus pulled up; the rest of the queue disappeared onto it. The driver called out to her. "Are you getting on?"

  She shook her head and took a step back. The bus pulled away, allowing the wind to blast at full force once more; it was getting stronger.

  She couldn't have felt more alone.

  A car pulled alongside her. The driver wound the window down; the wind dragged a cloud of cigarette smoke out, it hovered by the car for a millisecond, before it was snatched away as completely as if it were never there.

  Leaning over, the driver asked if she wanted a lift. Eilise thought he looked about sixty years old; if he was younger, she might have thought twice. Still a bit fuzzy from the night before, she squinted, looking him over. He seemed okay, but something niggled at her.

  I can't believe I'm thinking about getting into this rubbish bin! The biting wind and lashing rain narrowed her choices.

  "What shall I do with these?" She held her bags up to show him.

  "Shove them on the back seat."

  She ducked into the back of the car with her bags.

  Chapter 51

  Even before she'd shut the door properly, he started moving off. From behind, his hair looked like a haystack, thick, pale yellow. Eilise studied it. It can't be his natural colour; the hair was too coarse to be blonde. It's an age thing. Men… These days, they can't face up to the fact they're getting old. The combined smell of stale cigarette smoke and damp was overpowering.

  "You going far?" His hips were off the seat, and his hand was deep in his pocket, looking for something. His voice sounded flat and bored. Finally, he pulled out a packet of chewing gum. "Want some?"

  "I don't thanks."

  The state of the back of the car was like nothing she'd seen before. It was worse than Strawberry's caravan at the farm.

  She decided to come forward from the back seat, slipping between the seats quickly.

  "Need some help, yeah?" He put his hand under her backside as she squeezed through; she pushed down on it with her hand.

  "Thanks." She frowned. In the front, black cigarette boxes were crammed into every available nook and cranny, in the parcel shelves, door storage compartments, everywhere; not one of them crushed, they looked like new, and there were dozens of them. There was a layer of dust on the dashboard so old in places; it had thickened into a semi solid state, disturbed only by the tracks left by fingers pulling cigarettes from the box on the dashboard, which was currently open, revealing three cigarettes.

  She remarked dryly, "Worried about running out?"

  His thoughts - evidently on something else - jumped back into the present with a jolt. "Huh?"

  "I said are you worried about running out?"

  "Got three left," he said, fingering the box as he reached for another one.

  "I was talking about all those," she pointed them out with a broad sweep of her hand.

  "No, they're all empty!" he said it without humour, just a matter of fact. Lighting it, he drew on the smoke as if his life depended on it.

  She sat quietly, looking out of the window, listening to the hiss of wet tyres and swishing wiper blades above the drone of the engine. The set of his face was grim; he seemed to be deep in thought. Finding the lengthy silence uncomfortable, she volunteered, "I'm from Nottingham."

  "You could have fooled me; you talk like a Londoner," he said, and then not wanting to give away that he knew her identity, he asked, "What did you say your name was?"

  "I didn't," she decided to choose another name. "My name's Ellen."

  "Eliza . . . I like that name."

  Is he for real? "It's not Eliza, it's Ellen!"

  "Is that right . . .?"

  After that, he continued calling her Eliza. Even after she corrected him, he carried on doing it and because he had one of those deadpan faces, she couldn't tell if he was having a joke at her expense.

  "What did you say your name was?"

  When he didn't answer, it prompted her to guess. She was renowned among friends for the accuracy of her guessing.

  "William . . ." she whispered to herself.

  Although her whisper was barely audible, he heard her, and even though it was a name, he never used, the mention of it sparked paranoia in him. His fists tightened on the steering wheel, causing the knuckles to whiten. They reminded her of the fists of an old fairground boxer, back at the camp, who must have been in his seventies; his hands were gnarled and misshapen. One day, when he caught her looking, he examined the front and back of them, in a kind of awe at his own limbs. "I used to pickle 'em in vinegar, I could still knock a nail in with 'em!" After that, whenever he saw her, he would grin toothlessly at her.

  The driver pulled the car over abruptly. He looked angry. She was scared of him. For the first time, she had an inkling that she could be in danger. She was fascinated at the way his moustache grew down, over his lips. There was a boy at school with a cleft palate, who spoke with a dull clunk in the enunciation of his words; she saw him just a few months back, and he had the same type of moustache. This guy has a harelip. She just knew it.

  "How did you know my name, Eliza?"

  "Whoa, just a lucky guess, that's all." she assured him.

  "Is that right - Oooh, just a lucky guess?" His mimicry was faultless, but cruel.

  A familiar hurt rose inside her; she moved to get out, but the onslaught of the continuing rain made her hesitate.

  The man examined her expression, and not wanting her to leave; he softened the tone of his voice. She did a double take, to see if it was the same man talking.

  "Out of all the names you could have guessed, you get it right, unbelievable…"

  Before she had the chance to reconsider her decision, he pulled out quickly, without looking properly, into the path of another car. The other driver blasted his horn. William put two fingers up to the rear view mirror and spat curses at him.

  The coffee cleared her head a little, and it occurred to her he never asked where she was going. Maybe he thought she'd no place to go. A fragment of a song Strawberry was always playing drifted into her mind.

  Like a memory in motion,

  You were only passing through . . .

  That's all you've ever known of life,

  That's all you'll ever do.

  The first time she heard the song, she asked Strawberry the name of the band, "It's Concrete Blonde," he said. It could have been composed especially for her, so strongly did she identify with it, but this time, she was headed somewhere. Should she tell him where she was going? She decided she wouldn't.

  Cold right through; she stared out at the grey streets passing by; glad to be out of the wind and water.

  "Where you going, Eliza?" This time he sounded genuinely interested.

  "I've got friends in Romford, they're expecting me." It was a lie, but she wanted him to believe that someone, somewhere expected her. It made her feel safer.

  "Hey, it's 9:30 in the morning, and my day off. I'm not doing anything else. Why don't you let me take you there, yeah? First I have to go home, you know, freshen up a bit." He winked at her. The way he changed from a few moments ago, into someone who now almost seemed friendly, sounded alarm bells. It was a bit too Jekyll and Hyde for her liking . . . She dismissed the thought, wondering if she might be able to cadge some money from him.

  "Well, what do you say?"

  She nodded; she was glad just to be out of the rain. If the atmosp
here was strange, it was because she was coming down from last night. She robbed Peter, now she was paying Paul. She'd see what she could steal, do it at the first opportunity, and then be gone.

  Turning the radio on, he tuned in to a station he thought she might like. It was trance or techno, either way it was too loud. She couldn't be bothered to say anything.

  She shivered. "Can I turn the heater up?"

  "I'll do that for you, love," he said.

  He cranked down the window a crack, and lit the third smoke he'd had since she'd entered the car. Tiny white flecks floated around, and she realised that the dust everywhere in the car, was probably composed almost entirely of ash.

  His window was open, but only enough to push out the cigarette end to flick the ash off, which he did frequently; he didn't seem to notice that most of it came back in.

  Apart from the incessant smoking, something else struck her as odd about him. He was wearing sunglasses in the rain.

  Chapter 52

  Sunglasses in the rain? Eilise didn't attach too much importance to it. Maybe the light hurt his eyes, or he didn't want to be recognised. More likely, he just thought he looked cool.

  "Undo those for me," he said, handing her a pack of cigarettes.

  "Do you mind if I change the music?" she asked.

  "No, go for it!"

  She found a station playing alternative country music, turned the volume down a notch and closing her eyes, she drifted off. Occasionally, she was aware her head was lolling from side to side, but she was too tired to do much about it, other than rest it up against the window, where it drummed and jarred her into a semi-relaxed state of dreamless sleep, until, on the verge of slipping deeper, a warning whispered in her mind. Something's wrong.