Contents
Title Page
Also by F.R. Jameson
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
A plea from the author
Ghostly Shadow series.
Ghostly Shadows Shorts
The Screen Siren Noir series
Get a free novel by F.R. Jameson today!
About the author
Death at the Seaside
F.R. Jameson
Also by F.R. Jameson
Ghostly Shadows
Certain Danger
Won’t You Come and Save Me, Oh Soldier
Call of the Mandrake
Ghostly Shadows Shorts
Foliage
The Strange Fate of Lord Bruton
The Widow Ravens
Algernon Swafford: Private Investigator
Sacrifice at St. Nick’s
Screen Siren Noir
Diana Christmas
Eden St. Michel
Alice Rackham
Other Short Stories
Confined Spaces
F.R. Jameson’s debut novel, The Wannabes is now available completely for free!
Click here for your copy!
To V and E, with love, always.
One
Lawrence ‘Larry’ Castle had packed a suitcase and gone to the seaside. He’d wanted a change of air, a different perspective. It had become clear to him that he should get out of London for a couple of days. Not just for the sea breeze but because he suspected he’d annoyed a few of the boys back there, and it was always best to give them a chance to calm down. Such hotheads, these young boys today. In addition, he had wanted to get away from Betty, even though he’d now arranged it so that Betty would be joining him shortly. But then, by the time she got there he’d probably have reached the point where he actually missed her. She could be a right pain in the proverbial could Betty, she could whine for England – but he couldn’t deny that he fancied her to crazy proportions nonetheless.
There was no denying the fact that Betty was a grand feather in his cap – an actress, a successful one. They’d met at a party, the same party where James Mason had made a beeline for her, but she’d chosen him. Now that was a coup which made his chest puff with pride, and since then whenever he’d seen a poster for a Mason movie he’d spat on it in triumph.
In that slightly breathless voice of hers, she’d tell him that he was the only man for her. The only man she’d ever really cared about. And once again she’d claim that she only stayed married to the good doctor because it looked more respectable for her career. Really, Castle was fond of her too. He enjoyed her company, it was just sometimes she got too much for him and he had to get away. Inevitably he always wanted her again, looked forward to her showing up. But for the moment he was on his own and was happy to be on his own. The sun on his back, he was down at the seaside and he was enjoying himself.
Castle was a big man, who with one glance could be spotted as someone who used to be handsome. Women sometimes sighed when they saw him, but it wasn’t for the reasons he thought. His ego told him it was because he still had it, that his roguish good looks were undiminished. Instead these women were sighing at what might have been. They could tell at a glance how handsome he was once upon a time, and they sighed because it had all gone.
In the years since the war he’d got – if not fat – then more rounded than any man can be whilst still claiming to make women sigh. His once defined features – looks that wouldn’t have disgraced a bust in a museum – had puffed out. These days his cheeks were chubby, his jawline – once so sharp – had grown itself some brothers and sisters. In a word, he was podgy. His backside was too big, his love handles barely concealed by his suits. That made women sigh too, as they thought of what he must have been like thin. They imagined back ten years to the war and how he’d have looked hard and dashing in uniform. And they couldn’t help but stare at him with a ‘if only…’ If only – instead of marrying Bill or George or Malcolm – they’d come across him. Oh, things might have been so different.
Most certainly, they’d have taken good care of him, kept him trim.
Of course he knew he’d put on some weight. At the end of the evening he’d sometimes stare in the mirror and realise his current face didn’t have all the charm of his former face. But then he was still in the game, remained lucky with the ladies. “Lucky Larry,” the lads sometimes called him, “he always has his pick of the skirt.” And he knew why. It was because he appeared to be exactly what he was – affluent.
These women in their dowdy clothes, scraping by on their old man’s wage, even now feeling a slight thrill at the end of rationing – they were bound to have their heads turned by him. Larry Castle was a man of money, a man of importance, a man of perhaps a little danger. He was a geezer who wore good suits and carried himself in a way that yelled out he wasn’t beaten down by the world. It showed in London, it showed even more down on the coast.
The men he saw down there, from the instant he got off the train, were working men. Salt of the earth and all that. They did a decent day’s work for a decent day’s wage, but now on their summer hols it was all catching up with them. Instead of being rejuvenated, they were tired. Despite the sunlight, they were pale. With their wives and children around, they gave every impression of rather being back at the coalface.
How could Larry Castle fail to impress in these surroundings? How could he not stand out from the crowd?
Look at him, with a face and body blown out by having too much (when was the last time you saw somebody who’d clearly relished having so much?) Look at him with his lovely bespoke suit and confident strut. What a man, ay? Here was someone who hadn’t had his knees buckled by the weight of a humdrum life, here was a man cut from a cloth not ordinary, here was a bloke you’d like to know. He was Larry Castle, and even in a little seaside town he’d never visited before, he could give a damn good impression of owning the place.
There were a couple of days before Betty joined him and so he determined to find himself a girl.
With the summer sun finally setting in the sky, he got one at the pier. A rosy cheeked Miss with dyed blonde hair and pigtails. She filled her red blouse quite pertly, but probably wasn’t as young as she was making out. Obviously though, she was willing to let anyone close their eyes and pretend. She was reasonably cheap – certainly by London standards – he could probably have haggled her down or looked elsewhere for a bargain. But once they got talking, he decided she was the one for him.
Acting like he was the gallant gent, he escorted her to his chalet. Took pride from the fact that he did it all properly, put his arm around her waist and whispered as if they were sweethearts.
She kept her side of the deal and giggled, cooed as if young love made firm pink flesh.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Cynthia,” she replied.
“How old are you, Cynthia?”
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen, Cynthia, really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“I like you, Cynthia.”
A blush. An honest to goodness blush. “I like you too.”
“What you like about me, Cynthia?”
“I like the way you look.”
“You like the way I look ay, Cynthia?”
“Yeah.”
“You ain’t seen me all yet, Cynthia.”
Another blush, a flirtatious giggle mixed in with it.
&nbs
p; “Do you want to see me all, Cynthia?”
“Yeah, I do.” More giggles
“I really want to see you, Cynthia. You can see me too. We’re going to have fun, ain’t we, Cynthia? Yeah, we are.”
They got to his chalet and with the door closed he discarded the great seducer act. She turned around as if expecting more, and her face may have dropped slightly when he just grabbed her polyester blouse before tugging it roughly over her head. Not caring that it got caught on her pigtails. He grabbed a big bruising handful of her arse as he spun her round to unzip her black pencil skirt, loudly smacking buttock as it poked out from under her knickers.
Professional that she was, she quickly remembered to smile at his attentions. To grin at him as if he was all her dreams come as one.
Her underwear was nothing to write home about, saggy and beige – probably hand-me-downs that her big sister wore during the war. He tore the knickers away and then manhandled her out of her bra. Giving her pert round breasts a hungry squeeze as they came free. The nylon stockings he left on, even as they squeezed against the flesh of her upper thighs. He always fancied a girl in stockings.
Nearly naked she was quite a piece. She’d looked after herself well, for a seaside hooker. Cynthia was firm and unscarred and he realised – in a better light – that even her eyes didn’t have the hardness of a normal whore. Maybe she was as young as she claimed, maybe this was her first summer’s work.
Taking a step back he stared at her in her near birthday suit, then led her over to the basin and washed her, giving between her legs a thorough clean. It was a habit of his every time. He despised the idea of being the second or third punter that night. No way did he want to be where some fat sweaty bloke had been at six that evening. And so he did what he did with all prostitutes, gave her a soap and a dry and sprinkled some Cussons talc there – so she was nice and fresh just for him. Then he laid her on the bed and went into her.
Maybe this wasn’t her first summer after all, perhaps she wasn’t an inexperienced little chit. Underneath him she was a fox, clutching and moaning and even biting if he’d let her. He was good, he always knew he was good – but so was she. Clutching her tight to his torso, he grinned.
He was glad he’d picked her. So many whores were sad and uninterested – even though he’d paid them to be happy and interested. This one was different. It seemed Cynthia enjoyed her work, got thrills from it. Clearly she was a dirty little girl.
Castle held her and he grinned and they came as one – or at least he came and she made the sounds of coming. They clung to each other, breathless. She arched her head into the pillow and then rose to – of all things – kiss him, and he pressed his hand tight over her nose and mouth.
His body was still on top of hers. One arm clamping her arms, her legs pinned between his. With a silent snarl, he watched her.
At first there was shock, a flicker in her eyes as she tried to figure out what was going on.
Then there was bemusement, a curious look that was sometimes there and sometimes not.
(There were girls who’d had this kind of thing before and so bypassed the bemusement. There were others who never knew such a thing existed.)
It was alarm, but it was amused alarm – like it was just one more part of the game and she’d soon figure out the rules.
But that amused alarm rapidly gave way to real alarm, as her heart and lungs sent out warnings that there was no air anymore.
Then there was panic.
At that moment of realisation, she’d stare scared into his face and try to move her head, to thrash her arms and kick her legs, to knee him in the balls, to get him off, to free herself.
But she couldn’t.
He was too big, too heavy, too well positioned.
Then there was the scream.
There was no actual scream as, of course, she couldn’t make even a muffled sound – but there was a scream in her eyes.
It was obvious her lungs were going for it, that they were pushing it out, letting it go, trying to save herself.
That was the bit he liked most, he thought.
He just enjoyed the sheer helplessness of her plight.
After that, well there was the odd tear, the appeal from way down deep in her eyes, then a flicker – her light dying away – and she was gone.
Her eyes would roll back in her head, her eyelids would droop and she’d be limp in his arms.
Swiftly he’d move off her, roll to his side so he could cradle her. She’d be breathing, but it was shallow – so he’d lay her head back and let the air flow in. As gently as he could, he’d hold her and whisper appeals to life. And gradually her breath would get deeper, become more substantial and her eyes would slowly open.
That night, Cynthia stared at him with horrified shock.
Some, he thought, had already blocked it from their minds and so had no idea what happened. Others clearly thought they were already dead and so were amazed to find themselves brought back to life. Others were just stunned to find themselves revived by him.
Cynthia’s eyes blinked and after a few seconds to reorientate herself, she stared at him with unvarnished terror. Amusingly, she tried to wrestle from his arms, but wasn’t strong enough. So instead she had to lie and be held by him, have sweet nothings whispered to her. The tears ran down her cheeks but she didn’t cry out or make a sound. Castle appreciated that.
Her strength returned and she started to push herself away. Tentatively, conscious he might still hold her down. He didn’t. The stronger she got the more freedom he gave her. Eventually she sat up and put her feet to the floor. She buckled over and he thought she’d scream or wail – but instead she rasped.
She was grey now, shaking. They almost always were. When she stood she nearly collapsed to the floor, as if she was that stupid cartoon deer. Sat on the bed watching her, he gave her the space she needed. Clearly she was trying to be brave, to be the big girl she always told herself she was. So she haltingly moved over to her clothing, trying to avoid his eyes and his smile and the hard-on which itself had been reinvigorated.
It was strange, she looked older and wrinkled by experience, but also seemed younger, like she was a little girl trying to be a grown up. He watched her put on her bra, her fingers shaking, and then she stared at her now torn knickers, before shoving them into her handbag. The skirt and blouse went back on almost as quickly as they’d come off. She stumbled slightly as she tried stepping into her shoes.
Of course he’d paid her already, but just before she left he offered her a quid note – for luck, as a tip, to say thank you. They always took it. Even if they were trembling and weeping, they always overcame their fear at that moment to grab the note from his hand. No matter what he’d done to them, they always managed to find the strength to turn and greet his sparkling eyes and winning smile if some extra money was involved. Some even gave him a smile in return, though not our Cynthia. She snatched the note, turned on unsteady legs and bolted from the room. He stretched out on the mattress with a grin and reached down to himself.
Two
The following evening, Larry Castle got chatting with the Montgomerys in the dining room.
They arrived at the adjacent table to his just after Castle had sat down, with the gentleman of the party seemingly going out of his way to give him a man-of-the-world smile. Castle grinned back. It always paid to be courteous to the neighbours, no matter how temporary.
Very clearly a family, with buxom mother and thin father and a chubby son who had the blond hair from the maternal side and the wan features of the father. They all had soup to start. As did Castle. Tomato was the special of the day. It was average, but what can you expect from a holiday camp? The couple ate politely and made chit-chat to each other, while their son after a few slurps just concentrated on his model spitfire, still giving Jerry a good hiding after all these years.
Castle gazed around the restaurant and amused himself giving the glad-eye to every attractive woman he saw. He offered
a wink to the daughters, to the mothers, to the spinster aunts if they were the right side of thirty-five, to the women just walking by in their summer dresses. Enjoying himself, he grinned at the waitresses, ate them up with his average – probably from a tin – tomato soup. Betty would be there the next day and he thought he could slip in some fun before she arrived. On the next table, the wife clearly noticed his eye for the fairer sex and recognised the approving glance he’d given her. The saucy minx did her best not to flush as red as the soup.
As it happened, the husband and Castle finished at much the same time, and – with the kind of unsubtle gesture that was clearly his wont – the husband pushed his bowl forward, stretched out his arms and turned to his companion at the next table.
“Hullo,” he said. “How are you? I’m terribly sorry about this, but have we met before?”
Larry Castle stared at him. He recognised a conversational gambit when he saw one. Christ, he’d used that particular line on enough birds. He didn’t believe they’d met before for a second. Didn’t believe that this bloke thought they had either, but he had nothing better to do and was happy to play along. “Well,” Castle said, “if we have I’m sorry, I don’t recall it. Apologies and all that.”
“Well, you’re meeting me now. I’m George Montgomery. This is my wife Helen and this little scamp is Jeremy.”
Mr Montgomery reached across and gave a handshake that was firm and business-like. Castle recognised him as a never-quit salesman. The annoying, badgering kind.
Following suit, Mrs Montgomery offered her own hand – which was surprisingly soft for a busy mother. As he let go, he stroked her fingers gently just so he could see if there was any expression of curiosity. He wondered, if her husband and son went on a long bike ride somewhere, whether she’d actually go for it.
Castle introduced himself and smiled at them. The thin faced and eager salesman, the pretty and plump wife, the little brat lost in old war stories. He always enjoyed company, liked the way it sought him out.
Death at the Seaside Page 1