“A job?” She stared at him, trying hard not to show disgust. “Not a job, Jos... Joe! I am a partner in a boutique daddy bought for us.”
“Us?” That gave him a new line.
“Sandra...”
“She’s not your type,” he said firmly.
“She’s a bloody good saleswoman.”
Joe smiled. So she swore on occasion. That would make it easier when he slipped back into the old mould.
They were now at the Bayswater Road with the pub to their right, crowds everywhere as the afternoon rush for bargain oils got under way. Artists no longer sat in their parked cars but mingled with the outspoken tourists and tried to cadge a quick sale once they heard a favourable comment on a specific work.
Joe had not experienced this seemingly positive urge to own an original oil but then, Joe Hawkins came from a home which had not been noted for its cultural belongings. The closest his family ever came to brushing against creative talent was the infrequent romance story borrowed from the public library and even that was usually a lesser work by a sausage-machine writer. Anything deep would have sailed above the heads of his parents. One head for two... Funny how he always thought of mother and father as a single unit! Perhaps it came from his own detachment from them both.
“I bought a landscape here once,” Lois remarked acidly as he took her hand. She did not like having people guide her across busy streets. Without appearing to tear herself away she skillfully manoeuvred free and darted between moving vehicles until she stood waiting for her escort as he struggled with the traffic alone.
“You could get killed doing that,” Joe panted as he joined her.
“If I do it shall be my fault, nobody else’s,” she replied with characteristic stubbornness.
Joe didn’t quite know what to make of the girl. She had seemed docile, ready to be shaped for his passion. Now, he wasn’t so certain. She had an iron will and a determination that society background and money in the bank made all the more frightening. He admitted that women like her scared the hell out of him. He preferred the little tarts utterly dependant on their menfolk. With them a man could get what he wanted without the bother of battling for mental supremacy.
“My place is along here,” Joe pointed in the general direction of Devonshire Terrace.
Her face expressed concern. “A room?”
“A flatlet.”
“Is there a difference?” she asked snootily.
God, I’d like to smack her ass, Joe thought.
“I’m not sure this is wise,” Lois said, holding back at the corner.
“Look,” Joe said in exasperation, “I’m not going to rape you.”
“Bloody right you’re not. I’m a virgin!”
“You mean...?” Joe asked in amazement.
“I’ve never been to bed with a chap!”
“S’truth!”
“Sorry you’ve spent money on me now?” the girl asked with a touch of sarcasm.
“Not at all.” Joe attempted to put on a brave front. He cursed inwardly. Just his rotten luck. Of all the birds frequenting pubs he had to pick the only virgin left in the Bayswater district.
“You expected me to undress for you, though.”
He nodded. The truth could not hurt. “Why not?”
“It’s not being seen naked, Joe. It’s what nudity arouses I worry about.”
“Are you afraid to make love then?” He was getting lost in the quagmire of her purity.
“Yes – I suppose I am. One hears so much about venereal diseases these days.”
“I haven’t anything wrong with me,” he said quickly.
“You may not have, Joe – but there’s no medical certificate to say a doctor has examined you this morning.”
“Damn! I’ll wear...”
“Sorry. Not today, Joe.”
“Don’t you want to see my flatlet?”
“Can you promise not to start mucking around with me?”
“Yeah!”
“If you do I shall scream,” she threatened.
Joe felt defeat heavy on his urges. He had gone too far to turn back. So what if she didn’t let him. He’d scheme for the future. He badly wanted to bed her. A day, or two would still taste as sweet. If he played his cards right she would weaken until she begged him to strip off her garments and treat her as he had all those others.
“Lois, I promise there won’t be any nonsense today. Okay?”
She took his arm, felt the hard muscles ripple. She liked Joe, wished there was some method for sharing a mental passion without the absolute necessity of physical contact between bodies.
“I’ll bet lots of guys have tried to get you into bed,” Joe said with a grin. He had decided on his campaign. Talk about love-making. Get her so excited at the prospect of being naked in his arms that she would be unable, unwilling to forego the ultimate pleasure when he made his big play.
He was still promoting verbal emotion as they climbed the stairs to his room...
CHAPTER FIVE
Entering the offices of Stanman, Pierce & Solley the following morning, Joe became immediately aware of a nervous silence. Three girls with heads together suddenly stopped chatting and gazed at him coldly. A young man carrying a tray full of letters already opened, briefly halted in mid-step before shrugging a casual welcome as he pushed into an inner office. In a far corner of the main reception area a balding, aged man rose to his feet and motioned for Joe to approach him.
“I’m Totter,” the man said when Joe was a few feet away. “You’ll be working directly under my supervision. Remove your coat, lad. We begin promptly at nine here.”
Joe slowly took his coat off, wishing he could tell this grim-faced old bastard where to stick his promptness. Inside the space of two minutes he was already sorry he had taken Pierce’s job. He had an idea there would be no joy working for this firm.
“I understand from Mr. Pierce you’ve never been engaged in stockbroking before,” Totter said, not bothering to show Joe where the cloakroom was. “We demand a high standard...”
“Do I drop it on the floor?” Joe asked sarcastically, gesturing with his coat.
Totter glared. “Your attitude is abominable, lad.”
“Sorry, sir!” Joe compelled himself to make the apology and call this man sir.
“I should think so. Hang it on that peg.” Totter pointed firmly at a row of pegs holding a variety of male and female coats, umbrellas and shopping bags. A nearby hat rack held a collection of spotless bowlers and one lonely fedora. Joe wondered which member of staff dared to go against the grain and come to work sporting a normal hat. He would make it his business to become acquainted with the rebel.
Carefully, Joe hung his Crombie, brushing a speck from the sheening velvet collar and returned to face the indignant Totter.
“You will, I presume, wear a hat tomorrow?”
Joe shook with silent laughter. This could be fun. He would make it his business to rile the old bastard at every opportunity. The man was a granny – one of those male wonders married to a position. Joe doubted if he had ever known the exquisite thrill of belonging to the human race, of sharing passions with a woman.
“I asked you a question, lad,” Trotter said.
“I suppose so, sir,” Joe replied lightly. “Now where do I start?”
“Take this ledger into Mr. Solley’s office and have him sign the last page.”
“Which one is Solley’s?”
“Mr. Solley to you, lad!”
“Which one, sir?” Joe ignored the correction.
Totter pointed again. Following the long, almost skinless finger, Joe entered a sumptuous room containing a massive desk, a teleprinter machine, a well-stocked bar, several comfortable leather chairs and shelves lined with large bound books. Although it was relatively warm outdoors, a small fire burned in an Adam grate immediately behind the huge man seated at the desk. Lifting a shaggy head, the man stared at Joe quizzically; allowing a flicker of a smile to soften his lined feat
ures.
“Mr. Totter wants your signature, Mr. Solley.” He set the ledger on the desk and stood back waiting.
“You’re new,” Solley said with a resonant voice.
“I started this morning.”
“Having trouble with our Totter, eh?”
Joe liked the other. He grinned. “A bit.”
“We all have problems with old Totter. Be kind to him, boy. He’s a genius with figures and we couldn’t afford to lose him.” It was a gentle way of warning Joe whose services could be under the hammer should trouble arise.
Flourishing a pen, Solley made a hasty assessment of the figures prepared for his signature, and scribbled his name right across the page. That done, he closed the book and pushed it across the desk. “Are you a football fan?” he asked.
“Yes, sir!” Joe rose to the question happily.
“Like a couple of tickets for Saturday’s match?”
“Which team?”
Solley grinned. “Tottenham. Is something wrong?”
“Those f...” Joe lapsed into silence, face tense. It had been a near thing. He did not imagine Mister Stockbroker Solley swore as expertly as he could.
“Those what?” Solley asked, bending over the desk with hands clasped.
“Fools,” Joe replied lamely. “I’m...” he thought fast. He couldn’t say West Ham and deny all knowledge of the East End. Chelsea went against the grain, just as Spurs did. “I’m an Arsenal supporter myself.”
“One man’s meat,” the man laughed as he reached inside his immaculate jacket. “Here – have all the fun of watching next year’s champs.” Two tickets floated down on to the desk.
Joe picked them up. “Thanks Mr. Solley. Don’t the other guys watch soccer?”
“I’m afraid they consider me a traitor to rugby. What’s your name, son?”
“Joe Hawkins.”
“Well, Joe – don’t let me hear you refer to our staff as guys. They are chaps, or fellows, or if the mood merits, rotten bastards. Never guys.”
“I’ll remember, sir.”
“Do you wear a hat, Joe?”
“I shall, sir.”
“Make it a bowler. I alone break the rules.” He chuckled. “I look damned silly in a hard hat. That’s all, boy. Back to the grind.”
As he took his departure, Joe dropped the notion of cultivating the fedora owner. He thought Solley a decent bloke but hardly one to call “mate” as they swilled pints together. It was a perk getting the football tickets but not one to make him a solid citizen in anybody’s eyes yet. Given time, he’d qualify for a higher position. The burning ambition to succeed was in him. All he needed was a chance for some fast lolly, a few birds to make his evenings worthwhile and a gang to bolster his ego. Not a bunch of yobbos. That was out. He wanted some “chaps” willing to commit mayhem under cover of respectability.
*
He was eighteen, tall, not bad looking. In his City suit, the Crombie coat with velvet collar, his furled umbrella and the new bowler perched cockily on his head, he was enough to make silly little birds take a second glance and get their hormones working overtime. Every night as he travelled home from Bank on the Central Line he could feel those hot, passionate eyes seek to catch his attention. It was some strain to ignore each and every one of them but somehow he managed. Lois first – then the world of pearl-glistening oyster-birds.
Even Totter had praised him that day which was a change. Usually the old bastard screamed and threatened when he made the slightest mistake. But today Joe had reaped rewards for spotting a glaring error in Totter’s addition. Something was worrying the old man. Joe could tell. More than once he’d caught Totter peering out of the window with a vacant expression on his tight, parchment face. The fact that the firm’s oldest, most trusted employee had faltered proved Joe’s suspicions – Totter was having family troubles. Still, it was Friday and the office could go to hell until Monday.
Brushing a loose hair from his forehead, he caught sight of the man seated across from him. There was that pathetic desire of the homosexual about to smile in search of a mutually inclined soul about the man. Joe froze. If he made the slightest... He unfroze quickly! Deliberately he yawned and smiled at nothing.
The man inched forward on his seat, returning what he thought was Joe’s opening gambit.
The dirty old bastard, Joe thought. He looks like he has a fat wallet. I wonder... At Holborn the train stopped and another seething mass of humanity shoved and kicked into the carriage. The man rose, giving his seat to a young girl. Joe wanted to laugh. He knew what came next was “standard procedure” and waited until the man sidled to a strap hanger directly in front of him. Their knees touched, pressure increased.
“Sorry...” the man said with an almost feminine voice.
Joe gestured expansively. “That’s alright.”
The knee assaulted anew.
God, it’s too easy, Joe told himself.
By Lancaster Gate the man was mentally raping Joe. There was no pretence now. It was a plain case of “wait until we get to my place, young lad”.
At Queensway the man smiled and said softly: “This is where I live,” and headed for the open door. Joe followed.
On the station platform the man took Joe’s hand and squeezed.
“Do you...?”
“Anything,” Joe replied with a return squeeze.
Joe wanted to vomit. As a skinhead he would have kicked the bastard in the balls and hoped to ruin his love life forever. But that was not how the new Joe Hawkins operated. Not how a neophyte suedehead got the wherewithal to continue as a member of a decent community. The take home pay from Stanman, Pierce & Solley did not begin to pay for his clothes, flatlet, food or entertainment. It was a hand-out to keep him fed and sheltered so that he could slave his guts out preparing statements and tax returns. Only that.
“I’ll follow you,” Joe said in a whisper. “I wouldn’t want my neighbours to know...”
The man trembled. “Yes... yes, of course. That will be better for both of us. I live with Auntie... she’s a darling but so possessive. She’s away in Bristol for the weekend, you know!”
Joe didn’t know but he nodded sagely. “Lead on, McBent.”
The queer giggled girlishly and hurried along the platform. He was delighted, intent on a weekend spent in this young man’s company.
Poor Auntie, Joe thought. She must be a right bitch. Stupid, to boot. Anyone could tell he’s round the twist.
Surprisingly, the man guided Joe into one of those sedate, family hotels catering for permanent guests along the Bayswater Road. Once inside the suite of rooms allocated to Auntie and her bent nephew, Joe found himself confronted by blowing curtains as a breeze wafted in from the park. One glance and Joe knew the bastard was well-heeled. Antiques galore dotted Victorian what-nots and Georgian sideboards, and the silverware displayed on a dresser had cost a bomb way back when men toiled for a pittance per year.
“Take your coat off and relax,” the queer said. “Like a drink first?”
Joe kept his coat securely buttoned. “How much, pal?”
The man paled perceptively. “What?”
“How much?” Joe repeated.
“I... I thought...”
“Free love?”
“Er, yes.”
“Sorry, luv – good times come expensive these days.”
“Would five...?”
“I’m going!” Joe announced indignantly.
“Ten?”
“That depends on what you want, doesn’t it?”
The man’s fingers shook as he extracted a wallet from inside his jacket. He peeled off five fivers and offered them. Joe caught sight of tens and at least one twenty. Greed gnawed at his guts.
“I’ll have a large Scotch first,” Joe announced, ignoring the money in that trembling, eager hand.
“Certainly...” The twenty-five pounds lay on a sofa within reach as the man hurried to a cabinet and began pouring drinks.
Two drinks a
nd then, Joe thought.
“You’re sweet,” the man said as he handed Joe the glass.
“You’re dirty, “Joe laughed.
“Ohhh,”the man laughed, too.
“Don’t you like it with women?”
A shudder raced through the man. “No! They’re... they’re–”
“Like Auntie?” Joe suggested.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Are you one of us?”
Joe finished his drink. He’d overplayed his hand. The next glass of Scotch would have to be taken, like this creep and his loot.
“You’re not...”the man started to say.
Joe’s toe caught him in the groin and, as the pathetic creature staggered back with hands flying to protect – and sympathise with – his injured manhood, Joe followed in with hard fist. All the fury, all the hatred went into those vicious fists. Slowly, steadily, Joe beat the man to a pulp until his whimpering ceased and he collapsed to the floor.
Working fast, Joe counted what was in the wallet. One hundred and seven pounds. Not bad! Leaving the man where he had fallen, Joe searched the entire suite. He discovered another thirty six quid and a small suitcase which he packed with silver objects he reckoned would bring the highest resale price.
As a final gesture of defiance he stole the man’s Omega watch, his solid gold cuff links and tie clip and added insult to injury by appropriating a Sanyo global transistor radio which he liked.
A groan echoed from the depths of the man’s chest.
“Tough luck, mate,” Joe snarled and grinding his heel where the pain would be most acute, he bent over and belted the man again. “That’ll keep you cold until I make my getaway...”
CHAPTER SIX
“This is The Voice of America coming to you...”
Joe smiled indulgently and flipped through the pages of his magazine. He adored his Sanyo transistor. With it he could catch up on world trends and dazzle his fellow workers with his global knowledge. He required very little sleep. After all, he was young, strong and healthy. Not one of those crusty old men the firm usually employed. If he got to sleep by three a.m. he could rise by seven-thirty and be at his desk promptly at nine – something Mr. Totter insisted upon each and every morning of the week.
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