She's Out

by Lynda La Plante

  “Oh yeah, and I’m used to them. I’ve got younger brothers still at school.”

  Connie leaned in to John and gave him a long, lingering kiss. “You’d better check your face before you go in. Lipstick!” She giggled as he wiped his mouth. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  He watched her wiggle and sashay her way to the front door, then turn and do her Marilyn Monroe pout. He blew her a kiss, felt stupid and quickly put the van into reverse. He drove past Lennie, waiting in the shadows, without seeing him.

  “Connie!”

  She knew his voice immediately. “Lennie?”

  He stepped forward. “Surprise, surprise!”

  She began to shake with terror. “You stay away from me, Lennie. Don’t hurt me!”

  He walked toward her, his arms out wide, smiling. “I’m not going to hurt you, Connie. Why would I do that? I’ve just come to take you home.”

  “I’m not coming with you, Lennie. You got to leave me alone.”

  He came closer and now he wasn’t playing games. “You owe me, Connie, and you’re gonna pay it off or work it off. Suit yourself.”

  “I won’t go anywhere with you.”

  He lunged for her but she kicked out, screaming, catching him in the groin. He lost his footing, tripping over a plank left by the builders, while clutching his balls. “Don’t you dare fuck with me!” he snarled through gritted teeth.

  She was running in no particular direction, anywhere to get away from him, sobbing with fear. He started after her, yelling with rage, as she ran on, weaving her way erratically toward the woods.

  Dolly went rigid as the sound of screaming made them stop in their tracks.

  Gloria let go of the handles of the wheelbarrow. “It’s Connie.” She ran toward the manor.

  Dolly started to follow and then turned to Kathleen and Angela. “You stay put, the pair of you, until I come back and get you.” She tore after Gloria through the woods, hearing another high-pitched scream.

  Connie had run straight into Gloria and Gloria had to slap Connie’s face. “It’s me, Connie, it’s me, Gloria.”

  Connie clung to her. “He’s here. Oh God, Gloria, he’s here and he’s gonna kill me. He was chasing me, he’s going to kill—”

  “Connie, listen to me.” Gloria smacked her hard again. “Nobody is going to touch you, all right? We’re all here.”

  Dolly was breathless when she reached them. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s that bloke, her pimp. He’s come after her.”

  Dolly gripped Connie’s arm. “We won’t let him lay a finger on you. Gloria, go and get the other two. I’ll take Connie back to the house with me.”

  A terrified Connie clung to Dolly as they made their way cautiously, then ran the last few yards past the stables and into the safety of the house. Dolly quickly latched the door behind them but Connie still didn’t feel safe. “What if he’s here, in the house?”

  Gloria, Kathleen and Angela wheeled the rest of the guns into the stable yard and then carried them inside. Connie was sitting with a large brandy, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, as Julia sat with her head in her hands, so hungover she could hardly speak.

  Gloria held up a shotgun. “Right, we got enough of these. If that prick shows his face, I’ll blow it off.”

  “We’ll search the house,” Dolly said. “Some of the windows are out so if he’s here, we’d better find him. We’ll have a good look round, then, Connie, you lock yourself in a room with Angela.”

  Connie began to sob again and Dolly lost her patience. “Shut up, for God’s sake! And you, Julia, get some coffee down you and try and sober up.”

  Connie wiped her face with the back of her hand. “He said he’s going to take me back.”

  Dolly shook her by the shoulders. “Nobody’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, okay? We’ll sort it.”

  Gloria went over the grounds with the shotgun at the ready. She checked the stables, the outhouses and the yard, and even went up to the woods, but an owl suddenly hooting gave her the willies, so she quickly scuttled back to the front door of the manor. It was ajar and she pushed it slowly. “Anyone here?”

  Dolly stood there with her hands on her hips. “Yes. Me, you fool. Did you see anything out there?”

  “Nope. Maybe he saw us and decided to piss off.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Dolly said, shutting the door.

  Ester drove into the underground car park of the Club Cabar. She’d been to three other clubs and this was her last hope: it was Steve Rooney or back to the Grange. She locked up the Range Rover, checked her hair and make-up, pulled her black dress down a bit further to show off her shoulders and tits and changed her driving shoes for spiked heels. “Right, gel, let’s do the business.”

  She walked in casually, full of confidence, toward the private lift to the club. The car park was used by a number of offices in the day but taken over by the club at night so they had their own small lift leading directly to their reception. As the grille slid back, a muscle-bound bouncer in an ill-fitting evening suit nodded at Ester.

  She gave him a cursory wave. “Is Steve in?”

  “Yeah, he’s wiv someone. But I’ll tell ’im you’re ’ere.”

  “Thank you,” she said crisply, heading toward the main room of the club. Its small sunken dance floor was empty but you could hardly see your hand in front of your face for the blinking neon strips. At least the ornate, over-brassy bar was well lit and the row of red velvet-topped high stools had only one male occupant: a swarthy, fat little man, drinking from a long glass with a profusion of fruit and paper umbrellas sticking out of it. He was surrounded by a gaggle of sexy blondes with tight mini-skirts and tied blouse tops showing a lot of cleavage, tottering on heels even higher than Ester’s. They were giggling and whispering to each other as the poor sucker with the paper umbrella almost up his nose slurped a drink that had probably set him back a tenner. The girls would make sure he was parted from a lot more than that before the night was out.

  Ester perched on a stool as far away from the fat man as possible. The barman was doing an impressive performance with his Martini shaker to the deafening, thudding rock music that made it impossible for anyone to have a conversation.

  “Hi, Eth-ter, how ya doin?” the barman lisped.

  “I’m doing fine. Gimme a Southern Comfort, lemonade, slice of lemon and crushed ice, easy on the lemonade.” She lit a cigarette as she spoke, but he knew what she liked and was already searching through the array of bottles. He shimmied up and down the bar and then whisked out a paper napkin and a bowl of peanuts before placing her drink down with a smile.

  “On the house.”

  “Cheers.” She sipped, then winced. He’d overdone it with the lemonade. In the mirror she saw Steve Rooney talking to the bouncer, who gestured toward the bar. Ester turned and Rooney held up his hand to indicate five minutes.

  A few more punters arrived and wandered around. Ester signaled for a refill, then grabbed a handful of peanuts. It was strange. She’d been out of the business a long time, and didn’t know any of the girls now. She hated the whole scene, which was why she’d moved to the Grange, but for a while she had been coining it. Rooney tapped her shoulder and pointed at his office, interrupting her thoughts. She slid off the stool, drained her glass and followed, shooting a look at the little fat man. “I’d get out while you’re still on top, fella.”

  Rooney perched on his fake antique desk. “So, how’s tricks, darlin’? I just hope you’ve not come to touch me for a few quid. As you can see, it’s Friday night and we’re not exactly filling the joint.”

  “It’ll pick up, it always used to.”

  His polished Gucci loafer tapped the side of the desk. “What do you want, Ester? I know you’ve schlepped round a few places tonight.”

  “Warned off me, were you?”

  He smiled. His eyes were pale blue behind tinted glasses. “You’re not still wheeling around in that Range Rover, are you?
”

  She flicked her lighter and lit a cigarette.

  “You really are stupid, you know that, don’t you? You tried it on with the wrong people, Ester. They got a lot of dough and they’ll use it to find you.”

  “No kidding. Doesn’t scare me.”

  “It should. That was a stupid move. They paid out a lot of cash for you, and what do you do?”

  “I did three years and I kept my mouth shut. They ripped me off.”

  “No, they didn’t. How were they to know you had a string of offenses as long as both arms? They paid your taxes and your lawyer, and you come out, try to nail them for more cash, then nick the kid’s motor.”

  She stubbed out the cigarette. “They got enough of them. What’s one little Range Rover?”

  “It wasn’t what it was, it was you doin’ it. It was stupid.”

  Ester shrugged. “You seem to know a lot about my business.”

  Rooney sighed, picking a bit of fluff off his Armani jacket. “Because I supply them now, okay? I’m not gonna hide anything from you. It’s not as if I nicked your clients. You were inside.”

  “Yes, I was, and now I need a job, Rooney.”

  “Well don’t look in my direction. I’m not going to put myself out for you, Ester. You never gave me a leg-up when I needed it.”

  “But I sent a lot of clients your way, you cheap shit.”

  His face tightened and Ester would have liked to smack him. Rooney had once been a barman she’d hired for special parties, back in the old days when she ran a house for two major club owners. They’d have the clients drinking and eating at their respectable joints and when they wanted a girl Ester supplied them. She kept ten good-looking tarts, and they were always busy. There were private parties for movie stars, MPs, titled perverts; in fact anyone the club owners gave membership to would at some time or another end up at the Notting Hill Gate house . . . until it was busted. Ester had served a few years back then, and when she came out of prison she had been determined that the next place would be her own. So she turned tricks solo for four years, working the main hotels until she had enough to put down on Grange Manor House. Rooney had learned fast, and soon after her bust, which he was never questioned about, he had gone to work for the club owners.

  It had been Rooney who had sent her the Arab clients for the manor, and he’d taken a cut. But, just like her bust at Notting Hill Gate, when it went down at the Grange, Rooney’s name was never mentioned. Rooney had even suggested to her that, if she played her cards right, she might even earn extra by making a couple of videos of certain clients at the manor. He had sold a few for her, just light porn stuff, but when she told him about the tape she’d made of his Arab clients’ kids, he had walked away. He told her that if she had any sense she would as well. A couple of movie stars caught with their pants down was one thing but not the so-called flowing-robed royalty: that was asking for trouble.

  “You don’t know how to say thank you, do you?” she said curtly.

  Rooney leaned close. “Sweetheart, I owe you fuck all. You done nothing for me. Whatever I done, I done all by meself.”

  She laughed. “You’re still an illiterate shit.”

  “Maybe I am, but I’m a fucking sight richer than you are and I don’t look for trouble. That’s why I’m in business and you’re nowhere.”

  She was about to remind him who gave him his first job, but there was a rap at the door and Brian, the bouncer, appeared.

  “There’s a party of six kids, they said to ask for you. None of them are members but they look as if they got a few readies.”

  Ester stood up, smoothed down her dress and saw the car keys on the desk. She whipped them up fast and then picked up her handbag. “Well, I’ll be going.”

  Rooney asked her to go out of the back entrance. “I don’t want any aggro, Ester. I’m sorry.”

  She pushed past him and he looked at Brian. “If she’s in that fucking Range Rover, get it.”

  Rooney closed his office door and headed into the club’s reception.

  Ester went out through the kitchens, down the fire escape and into the car park. She was searching in her bag for the Range Rover keys when she saw Brian stepping out of the lift, accompanied by another equally heavy-set bouncer. They walked nonchalantly toward the Range Rover and leaned against it. “This isn’t yours, is it, Ester? Give me the keys, darlin’.”

  “Piss off.”

  Brian made a grab for her but she quickly twisted the keys into her fist, jabbing hard at his face. She caught his right eye a beaut, and he backed away. Ester felt her hair being torn out by the roots by his friend and screamed, hurling the keys at him. But Brian was back, slapping her hard across the face. Ester fell onto the dirty garage floor and tried to crawl away, but they kicked her in the head, the ribs and the groin. She curled up in a tight ball to protect herself, but they kept on kicking until she half rolled beneath a car.

  She stayed there, wedged under it, as they threw her belongings onto the ground before driving the Range Rover out of the car park. She moaned, gingerly feeling her ribs and her face before searching for her handbag. Finally she pulled her body upright. It was agony.

  When she pressed the alarm on the keys she’d taken from Rooney they lit up a brand-new Saab convertible and, as sick as she felt, she couldn’t help but smile. It was beautiful. She was just about to drag her belongings together when she heard the lift opening. Rooney slid back the gate. “I’m sorry about that, Ester, but I’ve got to take the Range Rover back and if you’ve got any sense you’ll take that tape back as well.”

  She picked up her case. “Thanks for the advice.”

  Rooney peeled off two fifty-pound notes and tossed them toward her. “Take a cab.”

  She wouldn’t let him see her grovel and pick up the notes, so she stood there until the lift had disappeared, then picked up the money, wincing in pain, and opened the boot of the Saab, tossing in her case.

  “Fuck you, Rooney.” She got in and drove out fast, smiling.

  Gloria had all the guns laid out on the kitchen table, and it was a formidable collection. She was in her element as she handled them expertly, showing them off as if they were fashion accessories. Kathleen hung back, eyes popping. She wouldn’t go near them. But Julia was brave enough to reach out and touch the barrel of the Hechler and Koch machine gun. “My God! You had these stashed in the house?”

  Dolly wasn’t happy having such heavy-duty weaponry in the house, but at the same time knew she was looking at cold, hard cash. “What are they worth, did you say?”

  “Thirty grand at least,” Gloria said, beaming.

  Dolly nodded. “Well, the sooner they’re out of here the better. You tell that husband of yours I want a cut, fifty percent. If he doesn’t like it . . .”

  Gloria sniggered. “He can’t really do a lot about it. He’s doing eighteen, Dolly.”

  “I know that,” Dolly replied. “I just don’t want him sending any goons round. So get a contact and get rid of them—fast.”

  Gloria began to roll up the shotguns in their padded cloths. She obviously knew what she was doing and Julia couldn’t help but be impressed. “Do you know how to use them?”

  “Course I do. I belong to one of the top gun clubs in the country. You got to know what you’re sellin’ or buyin’.” She picked up a .45 and held it out in front of her at arm’s length as if she was about to take aim.

  Dolly turned on her angrily. “Just put them away, Gloria!”

  “Right, right.” As Dolly walked out, Gloria grinned at Julia. “You know, they say Hitler’s mistress never died in the bunker with him. That one, dead ringer for Eva Braun.”

  Julia smiled, and put the kettle on.

  Angela was sitting holding Connie’s hand. She was still scared, jumping at every creak in the house, and sprang up when Dolly walked in.

  “I’m going to bed. Julia will stay downstairs just in case he comes back but I think he’s gone.”

  Connie stammered, “He’
ll be back, Dolly. He’ll never leave me alone.”

  Dolly didn’t want to hear it all over again. “How did he know you were here?”

  Connie paused. “I might have mentioned it, I don’t remember.”

  “Well, then, you got nobody else to blame, have you? Goodnight, Angela love.”

  Angela shut the door and went back to sit with Connie. “Why don’t you tell the police about him?”

  Connie sniffed. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Well, he can’t just knock you around and get away with it.”

  “He can’t? Who’re you kidding?” Connie wiped her nose with a sodden piece of tissue. “All my life I’ve been on the end of a fist. First my dad, only he did a lot more than knock me around. My poor mum was so scared of him she used to lock herself in a cupboard. Even when she knew what he was doing to me, she didn’t stop him. It meant that it wasn’t her getting a beating and . . . Every man I’ve been with has been the same. I dunno why but I always thought Lennie was different. I really thought he loved me.”

  Angela slipped her arm around her.

  “Can’t hide out here forever though, can I?” Connie continued. “Because he’ll come back. He thinks I’m his property.” Angela did sympathize with Connie’s situation, but to be honest, she was getting bored with Connie going over and over the same ground. “If I could get an agent, a decent one, I know I could make a living doing proper modeling, I know I could. I can’t do anything else, that’s for sure.”

  “How old are you?” asked Angela innocently, and was taken aback when Connie turned on her.

  “Mind your own fucking business.”

  Ester kept her foot pressed to the floor. She hit a hundred and twenty, passing everything on the road, and then suddenly felt sick and quickly veered over onto the hard shoulder. She only just got out before she vomited, sitting with head bent, the driver’s door open, as she waited for the dizziness to pass.

  Julia saw the headlights and went to the window, wishing she had one of Gloria’s guns. But then she heard the clip-clip of high heels coming toward the back door.