The Business

by Martina Cole

  ‘Twenty quid to you.’

  He knew she charged forty quid a time, knew that all the girls did. Twenty quid was cheap and he knew that. But it was still a lot of money to him. He had it though, and he was willing to weigh it out to feel her firm tits, her soft flesh, and explore her tight little pussy.

  Ten minutes later they were parked up in a deserted side street and he was already gasping for air and fumbling with excitement as she climbed on to his lap. As he spewed his particular brand of pornographic filth into her ear Imelda was already planning her next score.

  Arnold was just another man in a long line of men who she saw as weak, as fools, and who saw her as young and innocent. Even her reputation and the stories about her didn’t stop men from wanting her, she knew that she had that edge, knew that her notoriety just added to her allure for some of her punters and, consequently, added to her earnings. Unlike most of the girls, she didn’t have a pimp as such, she looked out for herself. But unlike most of the girls in her business, she had no qualms about people knowing about what she did for a living. She was proud of it.

  Twenty minutes later she was knocking on a door in Hammersmith. A retired teacher with a bad back, bad breath, and a wife who was away for the night in Slough, visiting their first grandchild, ushered her into his home with a nervous smile and the guilty hope that she would make him feel twenty-one again. He had one eye on her, and one eye on what he saw as his valuables and, to make the night even worse, he was listening out for the phone call that would tell him his wife had arrived safely, and that his new grandchild had a look of him. He was like the majority of the men who asked for home visits, he had thought about it for so long, and dreamt about it for even longer, that when it finally happened he had not allowed for the guilt and the disgust at himself for bringing an actual prostitute into his own home. He would then worry that the woman he had fantasised about for so long now knew his address, knew where he lived. That she could come back at any moment, and blow his little world apart.

  It never occurred to the men that the girls concerned went to so many addresses around the Smoke that they didn’t take any notice of their surroundings any more. Didn’t realise that the man in question was of as much interest to them as a political debate on the health service and that all they wanted was to get it over with as quickly as possible so they could go on to the next punter, and the next, and the next, until they all merged into the same person. Guilt was a wonderful thing for prostitutes, it made their lives so much easier. That was always the problem with the cheaper end of the market.

  Michael Hannon was annoyed, really annoyed. He was not given to grandiose displays of anger or temper but, for the first time ever, he was very close to that now.

  Jimmy Bailey had offered him an in on a new business venture a while ago. He was a man of liberal tastes and he was willing to listen to anything that might afford him the opportunity to earn a crust but Michael had blanked him then, when he had asked him to front a brothel with him, because he was old-style and saw the procuring of women and girls as the domain of the foreigners, the Maltese, the Spanish, even the Jamaicans.

  But he had found out that, to his detriment, Jimmy’s brothel was now raking in fucking serious fortunes. So, in fairness, Michael Hannon felt he had the right to be gutted. To be wound up, to be aggravated and aggrieved.

  Now Jimmy was asking him, once more, if he wanted an in to his new business, and he knew that Jimmy Bailey, a lovely bloke when all was said and done, was relying on him to say as he always had, a resounding no. He was only asking him out of respect, and once he said ‘no’, as was expected, Jimmy would then be free to go to whoever he felt was up for his kind of business.

  Unfortunately for Jimmy Bailey, Michael had recently realised the error of his ways, had seen for himself how the eighties were turning out to be the new golden era for the oldest profession in the world. It had somehow been catapulted to the forefront of everyone’s minds and had been seen for the earner it really was. There was no stigma attached to it any more, people were realising that the money from it could be used for other things, to finance other businesses. Even hostess clubs were back in the running again, as were other aspects of the business.

  Thanks to new legislation, and some very old laws, as long as a woman did not solicit for sex on the actual pavement itself, and as long as she cabbed it to an address, she was not, in effect, breaking any laws at all. Once inside private property she was free to ply her trade, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

  The laws of this land had never seen fit to bring the buyer of sexual favours into a court of law and, providing the woman concerned did not solicit on a public highway, she was as safe as fucking houses. Bailey’s cab ranks were the tools that guaranteed him a serious wedge. And that wedge was now being talked about and discussed at length, by all the people in the know.

  So now Michael Hannon had decided that he wanted an in, and he wanted a serious in at that. He wanted it all, as was his prerogative. He would just take what he wanted in the end if that was what he felt was his only viable option.

  But at least he had the grace to admit to himself that he had been wrong in his previous assumptions, and that he had looked down on Jimmy and his selling of the female form, had seen it as a big negative. He’d seen the venture as something that was not an option for him, as something he had believed was only for men of a certain ilk, who had no respect for themselves, or the people around them. That was the old way of thinking though, he knew that now. That was for the old boys, the moustache Petes. They saw pimping as beneath them, and it was in their day.

  But Michael now saw the potential of it, saw that it was the best way of making serious money in the short term, and that he could carry on making it in the long term. It was the perfect way to earn a real wage, and he was then going to use that wage for other purposes.

  And, even though he still had a genuine distaste for it all, he was shrewd enough to know that if he didn’t jump on this particular bandwagon there were plenty of other people who would.

  As Jimmy Bailey sat opposite him, Michael smiled what he hoped was a real friendly smile, and he wondered at how Jimmy was going to react to his complete turnaround. Because he knew who Jimmy was going to offer the in to next, even though the man had turned him down before, and Graham Parker already had too much power as it was. Michael also knew that Parker was going to snatch Jimmy’s hand off this time.

  So Michael Hannon knew that he had to make it clear to everyone involved that he had been the recipient of a complete change of heart, and that he was now willing to go into this new enterprise with all his considerable strength behind him.

  He knew that Jimmy Bailey was expecting his usual ‘thanks’, but ‘no thanks’, and that Jimmy might not be that enamoured of his sudden agreement to the deal. He also knew that Jimmy Bailey was shrewd enough not to let his disappointment show. So, providing they played their parts properly, everything should be hunky-dory.

  Imelda was gone, she was so out of it she was unaware of where she was, how she had arrived there, and who she was supposed to be with.

  As she looked around her at the flickering darkness of the discotheque, she could feel the music washing over her, it was loud and it was funky, and she was rocking along with its beat. The flashing lights were really making her feel a part of it all; as she watched them change colour and sequence she felt as if she had been born for this moment. It was always the same with her, she lived from one day to the next, one experience to another and she had never once thought about the future. Drugs were the only reason she felt capable of joining in anything that consisted of people. Without the drugs she knew she wasn’t capable of connecting with others. She liked the heroin because with it she could just drift out of the world around her, and she had a bona fide reason to be alone with herself and her thoughts. With LSD though, she could do what she was doing now, she could actually enjoy being with like-minded people. She could experience being in a crowd
without her usual feeling of detachment. Imelda liked hallucinating, liked the whole concept of it, liked the knowledge that the other people around her were feeling the same thing. It was the only time in her life that she felt she belonged. That she felt she was a part of something bigger than her.

  As she pulled herself together, she looked at the people she was with and, sighing heavily, she was pleased to note that she knew the majority of them. She was also a teeny bit disappointed that they were all people she knew only on a peripheral level, knew them only through other people.

  They were youngsters who, unlike her, were not really that experienced where tripping was concerned. But she was OK with that, she had accepted many years before that, unlike her, most people went home at some point. Had accepted that most people had jobs and lives that they returned to at regular intervals. That, unlike her, they didn’t see their world in all its terrifying reality from their drug-induced haze and, unlike her, they couldn’t function in that world in a drug-induced haze.

  But she could, she functioned better in fact, because she could see the world as it really was, she saw the real world, and she knew that the people around her took drugs to access a pretend world that they enjoyed for a short while, and then exited. She didn’t do that though, she only really felt normal when she was out of it, then she felt as if she had come home, felt that she understood the people around her.

  Without the chemicals, she had nothing to offer anyone, she had no feelings or care for anyone else. But with the opiates, or the LSD, whether it was Californian Sunshine or the real thing, Microdot, which was getting harder and harder to come by thanks to the advent of blotting paper and its obvious merit where sales were concerned, she always felt that she was coming to life at last. She had tried to explain it to the psychiatrist when she had been in prison, had tried to make him understand why she needed the drugs and how they made her finally feel something.

  But it had been a waste of time. Even though he had wanted to understand her, had been fascinated by her. In fact, she had known that long before he had. It was her looks, no one ever wanted to believe that someone who looked like her could really be bad, could truly be devoid of any emotions or feeling.

  Imelda knew that even the judge at Snaresbrook Crown Court had been dazzled by her beautiful face and her wonderful body.

  A few days in her company and they would realise that she was a few paving slabs short of a patio. But, where first impressions were concerned, she always had the edge.

  She had been put into Holloway Prison after Lance’s death, and she had been approached by all and sundry within hours. Her looks always guaranteed her people’s interest, and she knew that better than anyone. When it was necessary, she was sensible enough to gauge the mindset of whoever she was with at any particular time, and she would then become the person they wanted her to be. She knew that about herself. Had known it for years. She knew that she pretended to feel things, that she copied emotions from the people around her, copied their reactions and their feelings so that she could blend in. She had learnt what the appropriate reactions were to certain situations and had learnt that her instinct to obliterate anyone who stood in her path would only get her into trouble. She knew that she did not have any feelings for her family, even her own children. She liked Kenny Boy because he was a male, and she had only ever really got on with men. She had something they wanted, and she was quite willing to let them have it for a price. She understood now that her way of living was not the norm, but she didn’t care about that as such, she cared about nothing.

  As Imelda picked up a vodka and tonic from a nearby table, she knew without any doubt that it was her drink. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she knew it was true. She loved the feeling of being completely out of the game, yet knowing what was going on around her at the same time. Gulping the drink down quickly, she felt the first initial rush of the LSD slipping away from her. She was now just entering the tripping stage, she felt the chemically induced heaviness envelop her as it attacked her body, and then five minutes later she felt the explosion of colours and sound that heralded what was, to her, the best twenty minutes of the whole experience. After this, it was still a great feeling, but it wasn’t as intense, didn’t have the same resonance. It was like anything in life: once the initial feeling was over with, it was never the same again.

  She closed her eyes and let the feelings overwhelm her, she could really feel the music now, as if it was emanating from her skin. As the DJ put on Average White Band’s ‘Play That Funky Music, White Boy’, Imelda felt as if all her Christmases and birthdays had arrived at once. As she danced to the music alone, in her own private world, she was unaware of the two men watching her closely. The people she had attached herself to earlier in the evening were quite happy to revel in her company. She afforded them a measure of respect that, as youngsters, they had not yet garnered for themselves. They made sure she had a fresh drink when she needed one, and were thrilled if she acknowledged them in any way, shape or form. They were still so young and naïve they thought that Imelda Dooley was someone of note, of renown. Her reputation was seen by these children as something to admire, and they were still stupid enough to be thrilled to be seen in her company.

  Imelda knew all of this on some unconscious level and, like most people with an ounce of brains inside their heads, she was also baffled by their complete admiration of her. All she was ever interested in was getting wasted, she had only hooked on to this lot because she needed people to hang out with. She was quite capable of getting off her face alone, but experience had taught her that, like animals in the wild, she was much better off if she was seen to be part of a crowd.

  Imelda was over the best of her trip within the hour, and she made her way towards the exit. As she walked out into the cold night air and hailed a black cab, she was already more than aware of the two men who had been watching her for most of the night. When she drove away she stared at them both so she could file them away for future reference. Still tripping, that might be harder than she thought.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jimmy Bailey could not believe what he was hearing. He had been royally blanked by Michael Hannon when he had offered him an interest in his business months before and, truth be told, it had fucking smarted, it had really hurt him that Hannon had all but dismissed him and his seriously lucrative and constantly expanding businesses out of hand. He would never have admitted that out loud, of course, but because of Michael Hannon’s refusal the last time and, let’s face it, that refusal had been quick and abrupt, he had been pissed off. It had been a calculated refusal, it had been delivered in such a way as to let him know that, even though Michael might like him, and work with him on other interests, where Jimmy’s personal businesses were concerned, he had no interest whatsoever as he saw them as beneath him.

  Because he was involved in prostitution Michael Hannon had more or less insinuated that Jimmy was beneath his fucking contempt. He had not said anything like that outright, of course, he had not wanted to cause a rift between them, but Jimmy had sussed out the gist of what was going down. Hannon thought he was above the skin game, saw it as something to be ashamed of. Something to be looked down on.

  Well, for Jimmy, that had been a real learning curve, one of many he had experienced over the years. He had swallowed the veiled insults and the outright jokes about his chosen profession, mainly from his peer group. He had made a point of laughing harder than any of them at their jokes. In effect, he had swallowed their derision, but at the same time he had also expanded his empire quietly and confidently, and he had always offered his boss an in. His boss had refused, but at the same time, he had given Jimmy his personal permission to expand and was always appreciative that Jimmy saw fit to let him know what was going on. Jimmy was not a fool, he was a realist, and that was why he was now in a position to buy and sell the fucking lot of them if he needed to. And why Graham was so eager to join forces with him.

  Now, when Jimmy had gone t
o Michael with his latest plans for expansion, as a courtesy, and also as a necessary formality, he had expected the big ‘no’ as per usual, and he would have smiled and acted as if he understood Michael Hannon’s reticence at what he was doing, and that should have been that. But that had not happened this time around.

  Michael Hannon had informed him that he was sorry for his earlier refusals and, on reflection, he was willing to become his partner. Not a silent partner either, even though that was all Jimmy had ever wanted from anyone. Oh no, Hannon wanted to be a full-blown part of his business. In effect, Michael wanted to come in as his boss. The business he had built up all on his Jack Jones, because no one wanted to get involved with brasses, toms. After the sixties, and the decline of the clubs, the skin business had become the domain of the foreigners, mainly the Maltese and the West Indians, and as such, it was still seen by many of the men he dealt with on a daily basis as beneath them.

  Jimmy had shrugged his shoulders at their apathy, as he had shrugged off the opinions of the people around him for years, and he had kept his dealings quiet and very confidential. He had eventually earned the respect of his peers and he had also pocketed a large and regular wedge of Herculean proportions. It meant that he was earning too much for his own good, and that Michael Hannon, albeit a good mate when needed, now saw his success as a threat to him personally.

  Jimmy knew that his purse was filling up faster than anyone’s because he had tapped into a business that was not only classed as the oldest profession in the world, it was also the only business that was not affected by recessions, trends, fashions or anything external. It was a business that was always in demand because the people who used the services provided had always used them. Would always use them because they always had to explain away the money they spent on their entertainment anyway. He was dealing in what was, in effect, dead money, it was all in cash. Jimmy was more than aware that prostitution was the only industry that was always in demand, no matter what was happening in the real world.