Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  They went down three flights and then along a corridor. PO Patterson was about as chatty as Mal, but that didn’t bother Tommy. The screw opened the office door, stood back to let him enter and then closed it again, remaining outside. In the office, seated behind a wide oak desk, was another, more senior screw called Colby. He had a serious look on his face.

  ‘Take a seat, Tommy. Sit down, sit down. How are you?’

  Colby’s use of his Christian name set off alarm bells in Tommy’s head. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Sit down, please,’ Colby said again.

  Tommy pulled out a chair, mentally preparing himself for bad news. He sat down and immediately leaned forward. All kinds of scenarios were running through his mind: a car crash, a drowning, a rampant fire sweeping though the house near the beach in Malaga. ‘Shit, it’s not my girls, is it? Tell me it’s not my girls.’

  Colby gave a quick shake of his head before clearing his throat. ‘No, no, it’s nothing to do with your daughters.’

  Tommy sat back again, relief flooding his body. So long as his girls were safe, he could cope with anything else. ‘What then?’

  Colby picked up an opened envelope that was lying on his desk. ‘You received a letter this morning. The censor thought… well, he thought I should have a word with you first.’

  Tommy glanced at the handwriting on the front and recognised it instantly. Shelley Anne’s. ‘Ah,’ he said.

  Colby, who unlike some of the screws didn’t relish the prospect of passing on bad news, pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry, but—’

  ‘It’s a Dear John, yeah?’ Tommy couldn’t say he was surprised. He’d only seen Shelley Anne once since Christmas, and that had been an awkward visit. Despite her claims that she was going to stick by him, he could tell that she’d already started looking for a way out, that she wasn’t prepared to wait around for the seven or so years of his ten-year sentence that he would need to serve.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Tommy gave a wry smile and reached out for the envelope. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to top meself.’

  Colby gave him a long look, as if trying to assess whether Tommy’s response was genuine, or just the bluster of a man who didn’t like to show his feelings in public. ‘If you need to talk to anyone…’

  ‘I won’t,’ Tommy said. ‘It’s okay. There’s no problem. Me and Shelley Anne… well, it weren’t anything serious.’ And he wasn’t broken-hearted, that much was true. Faintly disappointed, perhaps, but he’d soon get over that. Anyway, it was probably for the best. If Shelley Anne had stuck around, the first thing she’d have expected when he got out of jail was a ring on her finger.

  ‘Would you like to read the letter here?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Tommy, standing up and preparing to leave. ‘I’ll save it for when I’ve got nothing better to do.’

  45

  As the weeks slipped into months, Helen gradually began to slough off Mouse’s old, oversensitive skin and to grow a harder, more cynical shell. If she was going to survive, then she had to adapt. There was no room for shame or embarrassment. There was no place in Soho for shrinking violets. Within a year, she was proficient at her trade and went up West with Lily three or four times a week, earning money when she needed it, spending it as quickly. She drank too much, took up smoking and learned to fend for herself.

  Her new life, although precarious, enabled her to survive. She had moved into the flat over the undertakers’ on a permanent basis and was sharing the rent and bills, as well as the double bed. On the odd occasions that Lily brought a man home, Helen would be consigned to the sofa. There, she would put a cushion over her head and try not to listen to the noises coming from the bedroom.

  The two of them, although they often travelled into Soho together, worked separately now. Tonight Helen was in Dean Street, smoking her way through her third cigarette while she scanned the meagre crowd for a likely punter. Since the beginning of February the weather had been icy, the rain freezing into slippery pools. She shivered, wondering if she was wasting her time. Anyone with any sense was sitting at home with the fire on full blast and a brew on the go.

  From across the road, one of the local toms was giving her evils. They didn’t like the corner game girls, who in their opinion wanted something for nothing and gave the rest of them a bad reputation. Helen could see where they were coming from, but she didn’t give a toss. She glared right back, narrowing her eyes.

  It was at times like this, when nothing much was happening, that Helen’s mind would start to wander. She would think of Tommy and Frank and a small ache would blossom in her chest. Where were they now? She had no idea which jail they were in, or whether they were together or apart. She should have tried to find out, although she had no idea how. Perhaps someone at the Fox would have known, but she hadn’t been back there since Yvonne had kicked her out.

  Helen reached into her pocket, pulled out the bottle of vodka and took a few welcome swigs. The bottle, she noticed, was already half empty. Jesus, it was cold out here! The icy air stung her face, making her wince. She turned up the collar of her jacket but it made little difference. A man walked past and gave her a furtive sidelong glance. Helen smiled back at him. He carried on walking.

  ‘Sod you,’ she murmured.

  She thought about calling it a night – she’d already been standing around for a couple of hours – but funds were low. If she was to leave now, she’d be going home empty-handed. Half an hour more, she decided, and then she’d quit before she froze to death. Looking around, she noticed Rixy walking by on the other side of the street and gave him a wave. He crossed over and came to speak to her.

  ‘How’s it going, hun?’ she asked.

  Rixy shook his head. ‘Fuck all. How about you?’

  ‘The same.’

  Rixy was in his late twenties, a tall, skinny guy with dark Brylcreemed hair and a narrow moustache. He made his living from a blue film racket where he tempted punters with postcards showing scenes from a sex film, took their money to watch the film and then directed them up to the second floor of an empty building before hightailing it with the cash. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  Helen dropped the butt of her cigarette and ground it into the pavement with her heel while she thought about the offer. It would be good to get out of the cold, but she needed to make some money. ‘Nah, I think I’ll walk over to Greek Street, try my luck there.’

  ‘I’ll be at Leila’s if you change your mind.’

  ‘Okay.’ Helen watched him go with some regret, a part of her wishing that she’d taken him up on the offer. At least she could have got her circulation back for a while. She rubbed her hands together, trying to generate some warmth. Leila’s was a bar in Old Compton Street, a gathering place for the local toms, the pickpockets, the grifters and drifters and all the other lost souls who hovered on the edges of society. It was a good place to hunker down, exchange gossip and relax.

  Helen knew that she hadn’t refused Rixy’s invitation just because she had to work. There was another reason, too. Although she’d got to know a lot of the faces around Soho – and was happy to have a drink or share a smoke with them – she remained reluctant to form any deeper friendships. Even with Lily she was careful not to get too close. After that first evening, she had never again spoken about the past. They had a laugh together and shared their grievances, but that was as far as it went.

  Helen was about to set off for Greek Street when a man in his late thirties, wearing a smart navy blue suit, walked past her, stopped and then retraced his steps. There was nothing distinctive about him; he was an average-looking man, neither ugly nor attractive.

  ‘Looking for business, sweetheart?’ he asked with a smile.

  His voice was softer than she’d expected, but the smile didn’t quite extend to his eyes.

  ‘Maybe,’ she replied, doing her well-worn routine of glancing towards the club across the road. Even as she was doing this, she
was in two minds as to whether she should give him the brush-off. There was something about the guy she didn’t like. Always follow your instincts. That was what Lily had told her, and her gut feeling was saying no. At the same time, she was aware of her almost empty purse.

  ‘Maybe?’ he repeated. ‘What does that mean?’

  Helen looked at him again, her gaze taking in the expensive suit, the polished shoes and the gold wedding ring on the third finger of his left hand. There was nothing to worry about, she told herself: he was just a married man looking for a quickie before he went home to the boring routine of the missus and the kids.

  She tilted her head towards the club. ‘My boss is over there. I’m supposed to be working for the club, aren’t I? I’m not allowed to… well, I’ll have to go over and sort out a break. I’ll be ten, fifteen minutes at the most. I’ll meet you in Bateman Street. Number sixteen. I’ve got a flat there.’

  ‘How much?’ he asked.

  ‘Thirty. I’ll need the cash up front.’

  The man hesitated, but only for a second. After a quick look around, he took six fivers from his inside jacket pocket and handed them over to her.

  ‘Ta,’ she said, slipping the notes down the front of her blouse and into her bra. Then she strolled across the road, watching him from the corner of her eye. She was aware of him watching her too, but then he started walking towards Bateman Street. As soon as he’d turned the corner, Helen set off in the opposite direction. She would head for Oxford Street and catch a bus home from there.

  She walked as quickly as she could on the slippery pavements. It had started to snow again, fast flurries of flakes tumbling from the sky. The tip of her nose felt numb. She was aware of having drunk too much on an empty stomach; her head was feeling fuzzy and her balance wasn’t all it should be. A couple of times her heels slid on the ice and she almost fell over.

  Concerned that she was making slow progress, that the man might realise what was happening and try to catch her up, Helen decided to stop walking in a straight line and instead veered right into Carlisle Street. She would go via Soho Square and that way reduce the chances of being found. Or would it? She was finding it difficult to think clearly.

  As she walked, she kept getting a curious pricking sensation on the back of her neck. Again and again she turned to look over her shoulder, but there was no sign of him. It was just her imagination playing tricks. She heard the distant laughter of girls, the swish of a car going by. She glanced at her watch; it was almost nine o’clock. The streets were quieter than usual, the cold keeping people away. Maybe she should have stuck to the more direct route.

  Helen was approaching the square when she sensed rather than heard the movement behind her. She whirled around, but already it was too late. As the man’s strong hands clamped down on her shoulders, her heart almost leapt out of her chest.

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something, love?’

  Caught firmly in his grasp, Helen stared briefly into his hard, cold eyes before quickly looking around. Her gaze slid frantically to the left and the right.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said softly, moving his hands closer to her throat. ‘I could break your fuckin’ neck in a second. Now where’s my money?’

  ‘I’m s-sorry,’ Helen stammered. ‘I’ve got no food or anywhere to stay. I didn’t…’ She reached into her bra, retrieved the notes and held them up. ‘Here, have it back. I’m really sorry. Honestly I am. I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t desperate.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, moving his face close to hers and breathing the word into her mouth.

  Helen gulped hard as his fingers tightened around her throat. Should she take the risk and try and shout for help? There were a couple of young blokes passing on the other side of the road. All she had to do was yell and they’d come and help her… or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they’d just think it was a lovers’ tiff. Maybe they wouldn’t want to get involved. All these thoughts ran through her head in a matter of seconds. Her pleading eyes focused on the man again. ‘Really. I swear to God. I’ve never done anything like this before.’

  He removed his left hand from her neck, snatched the money from her hand and shoved it into his pocket.

  For a moment, Helen thought it was over, that he’d been placated and now he’d let her go. But instead he put the hand back on her throat, leaned forward again and hissed into her face. ‘You and me, sweetheart. We’re going for a little walk.’

  ‘No,’ she said, making a futile attempt to struggle free of him.

  ‘Don’t make me angry, love,’ he said, shaking her so hard that she gasped with pain and fright. ‘You really wouldn’t like it.’

  Helen stopped struggling. Panic was coursing through her veins, her heart thrashing. She had to figure out a way to escape, but her head was spinning so fast that she couldn’t think straight. He grabbed hold of her arm and started dragging her along the street. Someone will see, she thought. Someone will notice and call the cops. But then again, this was Soho. It was no rare sight to see a pimp mistreating one of his girls. And she looked like a tom. She was even dressed like a tom. As if reading her mind, he turned and glared at her.

  ‘You think anyone gives a toss about what happens to a cheap little tart like you?’

  ‘N-no,’ she stuttered. ‘But I’m sorry, really sorry. Please let me go.’

  He gave a snort, his breath coming out like steamy cloud. ‘You’re not sorry. Your sort are never sorry.’

  Before she had a chance to respond, he had yanked her off the street and into a dark alleyway that ran down the side of a row of sex shops. He slammed her up against the wall, the force of it sending a jolt down her spine. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the expression on his face.

  ‘Look at me!’ he ordered.

  Helen reluctantly opened her eyes and peered at him through the gloom. Her back was hurting and her legs had turned to jelly. ‘Please,’ she whimpered. ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t do this.’

  ‘You don’t even remember me, do you? And I don’t mean tonight. I mean the first time you conned me out of thirty quid.’

  Helen shook her head. Of course she didn’t remember. After a while, all the faces became the same, hungry and eager and disgustingly pathetic.

  He gave a nasty laugh. ‘Well, why the fuck should you? I’m just one of hundreds, aren’t I? Just another poor sucker who had the misfortune to cross your path.’ He slapped her hard across the cheek, a stinging blow that sent her head flying back against the wall. ‘Well, darlin’, I’m going to make sure that you never forget me again.’

  Helen, still reeling, instinctively raised her hands to try and cover her face, but he pushed them roughly aside. The next thing she knew, he was dragging her further into the alley, away from the faint orange glow of the street lamps, away from the curious eyes of any passers-by. She opened her mouth, intending to scream, but his hand instantly clamped over it.

  ‘You make a sound, bitch, and it’s the last one you’ll ever make.’

  He pushed her down on to the frozen ground and she fell hard, her legs twisting beneath her. One of her shoes came adrift and skittered across the ice. She tried to scramble to her feet, but in a second he was on top of her, his hand across her mouth again. She could feel the weight of him on her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs. He slapped her again, and then again, each blow more ferocious than the last.

  ‘Fuckin’ bitch!’ he spat. ‘Bitch! Bitch!’

  ‘Please,’ she begged, through his thick, clammy fingers.

  But nothing was going to stop him now. She could taste blood in her mouth. Bad blood. Joe Quinn’s words rose into her mind, accusing her, mocking her. And soon, like Joe, she’d be cold and dead, feeling nothing, knowing nothing. This was where it was all going to end.

  She could smell the man’s sweat, and the faint, sickening scent of a musky aftershave. She felt him fumble for the zip on his trousers.

  Helen lashed out, a primitive will to survive over
riding her sense of fatalism. But this only infuriated him more. Grabbing her right wrist, he slammed her hand down hard against the ice. And then, before her brain had even properly registered the vile cracking sound, he was brutally pushing her legs apart. She heard his grunting breath, felt the ripping pain between her legs as he forced himself into her. She twisted her head to look at him. His eyes blazed down at her. Then he raised his fist and smashed it hard into her face, the force of the blow bringing with it an oblivion that she was grateful for.

  46

  Helen drifted in and out of consciousness, sounds clashing and colliding, dreams mingling and merging with a fuzzy, confusing reality. She was faintly aware of people coming and going, of footsteps on lino, of day turning into night and back to day again, but none of it made much sense to her. She was more vividly aware of pain, general pain, and then more specific agonies in her jaw and chest and stomach.

  With a groan, she blinked open her eyes and saw the walls of a cool white room. She turned her head to find Moira sitting beside the bed. For a moment, fearing it was the remnant of yet another dream, she said nothing. Moira leaned forward and smiled at her.

  ‘You’re safe now, love. You’re in hospital. You’re going to be okay.’

  Helen peered at her. She could not be real, could not be Moira, because Moira had left a long time ago. She had gone along with Helen’s mother and her father and her grandparents. Tommy had gone, and Frank had gone too. There was no one left. Still, even if the woman was imaginary, she remained a comfort, a warm presence in an empty space.

  Helen blinked, feeling a new throbbing pain in her eye sockets. She stirred a little, shifting as much as she dared. Each time she moved, a different part of her sent out a protest. Even her right hand felt heavy and strange. She gazed at the white plaster cast encasing her fingers. A memory was suddenly triggered in her brain – a man’s mouth spitting out obscenities, the weight of his body on hers, the sharp cracking sound as he smashed her hand against the icy ground. No, she could not, would not remember these things. She would close her eyes and make them go away.