Curtain Call

by Anthony Quinn

  Rita was looking over her shoulder at someone, and muttered, ‘Talk of the devil . . .’ Madeleine turned, expecting to see Alice, but it was only Roddy, who plumped himself down at their table.

  ‘Ladies,’ he said by way of greeting.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Rita, with a slight curl to her lip.

  ‘Just keeping an eye out,’ he said. He was always keeping an eye out. With his cowlick oiled back and a paisley tie that didn’t match his shirt, Roddy looked very much the spiv this evening. He gave Madeleine a little pat on the knee. She had noticed him making a greater effort at friendliness towards her recently – a look, a wink of complicity – which she found rather unnerving. He was now holding his cigarette case out to her.

  ‘I don’t, thanks,’ she said.

  ‘I will,’ said Rita, plucking one from under the metal band. She then turned pointedly back to Madeleine. ‘Anyway, as I was sayin’ – before we were interrupted – it’s prob’ly some wild story Alice has got into her head. It may not even be you he was askin’ after . . .’

  ‘Who was asking after?’ said Roddy, frowning his suspicion.

  ‘Seems as Maddy’s got an admirer. Popular girl, see.’

  Roddy gave Madeleine a smirking look. ‘I know that. They all love Maddy the moocher. She’s a sweetheart.’

  Rita, with her nose for an opportunity, added, ‘Then you ought to treat her nice, else some punter’s gonna steal her away.’

  Roddy returned an unillusioned stare. ‘She knows what side her bread’s buttered – don’t you? By the way, I’ve got one for you later.’ He took out a card and handed it across the table to Madeleine.

  ‘The Mirabelle – what’s that?’

  ‘New place, not far from here. I’ll drive you there.’ Again, a note of solicitude chimed in his tone. It was unlike him to drive her to a job. He rose from the table, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ll be back here at ten.’

  With him gone she felt able to relax once more, and Rita’s lively company would beguile the time until she was back on the clock. The pub filled up with Soho’s restless flotsam, the air drowning in smoke and perfume. They had just been served more drinks when Rita’s gaze was distracted.

  ‘There she is,’ she muttered, and gave a little beckoning gesture with her eyes. Madeleine looked round to see Alice shouldering through the crowd. Even from this distance you could see her gaze unsteady with chemicals. She gave Rita a swooning kiss in greeting, then to Madeleine, whom she didn’t know well, a girlish wave. As soon as she sat down her foot started to beat out a jerky pattering rhythm.

  ‘My, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through today –’ and for the next few minutes she embarked on a detailed and uninterruptible account of her most recent job, rehearsing not only what she had said, but what the punter had said in reply, to the point where she was almost acting out a two-hander for the stage. With no end in sight Madeleine slipped off to the lavatory, returning in time to hear Alice finally winding up the story, whose point all of them had by now forgotten.

  Rita let a polite pause settle before she changed the subject. ‘Here, Alice, I was just telling Maddy ’bout that punter you mentioned the other night – you remember?’

  Alice’s face went blank, momentarily stunned by the effort of recall, and then of a sudden cleared. ‘Yeah, yeah . . .’ She narrowed her eyes, as if she were lining up a pistol shot. ‘Oh, he was a strange one, all right.’

  Rita glanced at Madeleine, who read in her eyes the same thing she was thinking. But they kept quiet, encouraging Alice to go on. It transpired this man had picked her up in the lobby of a hotel in Piccadilly; smart, dark-haired, nicely spoken, plenty of money – she thought he was a salesman or something – expensive clobber and whatnot. But there was definitely something odd about him . . .

  ‘What d’you mean, “odd”?’ said Rita.

  ‘Well, we’d gone up to his room – a suite he had! – and he just sat there, not taking off his clothes.’ She paused at that. ‘Well, he did, he took off his tie, and sort of, I dunno, played around making knots with it. An’ all the time he’s talking about the sort of girls he likes, which I thought was a bit rude, with me sitting right there in front of him. I mean, what sort of feller does that –?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Rita cut in, trying to keep Alice’s story on course. ‘But what did he say about Maddy?’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Alice, with a petulant jerk of her neck. She composed herself for a moment, refusing to be hurried. ‘So I start to undress, but he’s still not moved from his chair – just staring, miles away, like he’s in a world of his own. And then, out of the blue, he asks me do I know a girl called Madeleine, ’bout so tall, dark hair? – he obviously knew you from somewhere.’

  Madeleine’s throat had gone dry. She swallowed hard and said, ‘How did he know me?’

  Alice looked vague. ‘Said he met you once, that’s all. And that he’s been looking for you since.’

  Rita, staring at Madeleine, said, ‘Are you all right, love? Maddy?’

  Yes, they had met, beyond question. The description fitted, as did the detail of his playing with the tie, the one he had tried to strangle her with. And she had told him her name. Stupid, stupid. She remembered now – when he had first approached her in Russell Square, before she had realised the danger, he had asked her . . . His face, the dark pupils sliding like mercury in his eyes, the eerie purr of his voice, the meaty hands pinning her down . . .

  She forced herself to speak. ‘You didn’t tell him – I mean, anything – where I lived. You didn’t –’

  Alice, flinching at the distress in her voice, said, ‘Course I didn’t tell him. Not that I could anyway! I just said I knew you, ’at’s all.’

  ‘Who is he, this feller?’ said Rita.

  ‘Just someone I met a while ago. He was – he tried to hurt me.’ It was like a bad dream coming back to her, only this man wasn’t part of any dream, he was as real to her as her own hands. He’s been looking for you since. How long would it be before he found her? Her eyes made a sweep of the bar, the anonymous faces around her suddenly unknowable, menacing. She felt her hand shake as she raised the glass to her mouth. Where could she be safe from him now? Every street corner, every pub, every tramcar she rode, he would be somewhere close, watching. Rita was pressing Alice for more information.

  ‘His name? Well, they usually make it up, don’t they?’

  ‘But d’you remember it, or not?’

  Alice squinted into the middle distance, trying to retrieve it from her addled brain. After a few moments she gave a sighing shrug. Rita, who saw how the news had upset Madeleine, tried a tone of consolation.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, love. That sort are like a bad smell, honestly – they just go after a while.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s right,’ said Alice, chipping in. ‘I’ve known some right pests in my time, waiting outside cafes, on the lookout. Why, this one feller kept following me home – like a dog!’

  ‘Who was that, then?’ said Rita.

  ‘Oh, I must’ve told you ’bout him,’ she said, launching into another of her garrulous stories, with Rita supplying interested oohs and reallys in between the few pauses. As she listened Madeleine felt a gloom enfolding her. She couldn’t bring herself to tell them – that the man who had been asking about her wasn’t some fool, some run-of-the-mill ‘pest’ you could brush off. Perhaps if Rita had been on her own she might have told her the whole thing, but with Alice – well, she suspected that once Alice got hold of something it didn’t stay secret for very long. And the more people who knew, the greater was the danger to her. She had heard the stories of girls who’d been attacked by punters, some quite badly, it was a risk you had to take, but so long as a ponce or some other protector was around you generally didn’t have to worry. There was Roddy, of course, but she didn’t dare tell him that she’d gone ‘off the books’ with a man; he’d think she was doing it all the time.

  ‘Wait,’ said Alice, tapping
Madeleine’s arm, ‘I do remember – Rusk. The punter’s name was Mr Rusk.’

  ‘That ring a bell?’ asked Rita.

  Madeleine slowly shook her head. Did it? She thought she’d seen that name recently, but couldn’t recall where. Alice, reluctant to see her feat of memory go to waste, said, ‘What if I see him again? They usually come back for more, even ones like him.’

  ‘Don’t go anywhere near him,’ said Madeleine, in a voice edged with panic. ‘Please, Alice, I mean it. If you do see him again, call the police.’

  Alice pulled a face of mock alarm. ‘All right, all right!’

  ‘Promise me you will.’

  Alice glanced at Rita, as though to share a joke, but Rita wasn’t smiling. ‘All right. I promise – cross my heart and hope to die.’ She gave a nervous giggle.

  Rita was scrutinising her. ‘What’s this about, Maddy – I mean, “call the police”?! Who is this punter?’

  ‘I told you . . . he tried to hurt me. I just know he’s – dangerous.’

  She couldn’t tell them any more. If she became known as the woman who had escaped the ‘infamous’ Tiepin Killer, the more people would talk – and the more likely the trail would lead him to her. It was better to lie low and keep quiet. If by some mischance Alice encountered him again, she would know what to do.

  A few minutes after ten Roddy returned to collect her. He couldn’t be persuaded to buy them another round of drinks, though he chatted with them for a while. As she was leaving with him, Rita muttered to her, ‘Be careful,’ and Madeleine heard in her tone something more than ordinary solicitude; it sounded like she’d given Rita a fright.

  Roddy had stopped the car for a moment to buy cigarettes. While he was gone Madeleine took out her purse and removed a folded clipping of newsprint she had secreted there. It was the story in the Chronicle which Nina had first brought to her attention, headlined THIRD ‘TIEPIN’ MURDER VICTIM NAMED, with the pencil sketch of the alleged killer alongside. She stared intently at the face, wondering at the eyes and why they seemed familiar.

  She heard Roddy opening the driver’s door, and she put away the cutting in her purse. He appraised her with one of his up-and-down looks, a lightning-fast inventory of her person that would precede some tart remark about her hair, or her dress. This evening he just nodded, which was as close to approval as he ever came. They set off again through the streets, dark and glistening from a recent downpour. She could feel Roddy’s sidelong glances at her; eventually she looked round at him.

  ‘Is there something the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, no . . . Just wondering how you were getting along with – things.’

  ‘Fine,’ she shrugged. ‘Things are fine.’

  ‘Only I don’t want you to think you’re alone out here. I mean, I’m not just your boss, I’m also keeping an eye out for you, like – well, like a friend would.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came he continued. ‘So if you’re ever in need of someone to, you know – because things can get rough – it’s important to have a feller who knows what’s what . . . out there . . . D’you understand?’

  Madeleine looked at him for a moment, then nodded at something over his shoulder. ‘I think we’re here.’

  The Mirabelle’s sign was picked out in hot-pink lights. Roddy, clicking his tongue in distraction, parked the car. Without looking at her he took out his wallet and peeled off a five-pound note, which he held forth between his middle and index finger. Madeleine waited, not saying anything.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said. ‘Aren’t you going to take it?’

  ‘What’s it for?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘A bonus – just a little something for your . . . you know.’

  Madeleine didn’t know – she hadn’t done anything to earn a ‘bonus’. But she was not so well off that she could refuse it, and trying to act high-minded would be lost on Roddy in any case. She reached out to take the note from his fingers, expecting him to pull it away, as he did for a joke, but this time he just let it go. ‘Thanks,’ she said, catching his eye briefly; she sensed his satisfaction at dispensing this bounty.

  He jerked his head towards the restaurant as if to say, Off you go, but then seemed to remember his new-found gallantry. ‘Wait,’ he said to her, climbing out of the car. He walked round to her side and opened the passenger door, something he hadn’t done since the very first week they’d met. She got out and straightened her clothes while he stood there, hesitating. He seemed about to add something, but the thunk of the car door as she closed it checked him.

  ‘Night, then,’ she said, keeping her voice as neutral as she could.

  ‘Yeah, night,’ he said, in the tone of someone who hadn’t quite had his say.

  The evening might have passed like any other. The punter’s name was Turnbull, a director of a commercial paints firm from Walton-on-Thames. He’d been married for twenty-three years, had a son and two daughters (all at boarding school), and spent most of his weekends sailing off Bournemouth. They had a holiday home down there. The conversation was friendly in its limited way, tolerably tedious, and mercifully free of self-justification. Madeleine found it hard to listen to them complaining about their marriage, the shortcomings of the wife, the lack of understanding. It seemed to double the disloyalty. She always expected them to be different, these men, but the longer she continued as an escort the more they resembled one another – whether they came to her out of frustration, or loneliness, or lust, they all ended up sounding the same.

  The dinner at the Mirabelle was disappointing, though they both drank quite a lot. The horrified way in which Mr Turnbull stared at the bill made Madeleine think there might have been a death threat scrawled on it. But he didn’t cause a fuss, thank goodness, and paid up. A taxi took them to a hotel near Charing Cross, where she found herself addressed as ‘Mrs Turnbull’. She noticed the reception manager discreetly peer over the desk to check if they had any luggage, then nod to himself: it was to be a short stay. The room, on the top floor, offered a view down towards the river; she could see it glint in the dark. The lace curtains were dusty, and the ancient radiator stone cold, but she didn’t mind. She sensed that Turnbull was in a slight hurry, careful not to miss the last train home.

  It proved to be even swifter than she’d hoped. The bedside light had been off for no more than two minutes when she heard a groan, and he rolled away from her, muttering an apology. She remembered Rita’s phrase for it – ‘he got off a stop too early’. Once he had crept away to the bathroom she switched the light on again. She shifted her weight away from the middle of the bed and pulled back the blanket to examine the sheet, where the usual memento had been left: a map of Ireland, just drying. The sheath, which he hadn’t managed to get on, lay next to it like a shrivelled party balloon.

  She was still getting dressed when he emerged from the bathroom, drying his face with a towel. It needed only a glance for her to notice something amiss. His hair had taken on a strange lopsided look, as though a gust of wind had blown it sideways – and then she realised.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, catching her frown.

  ‘I think it’s –’ She found herself unable to tell him that his wig had slipped, so she merely gestured with her eyes. He gave another groan – a bad night had suddenly got worse – and he turned back to the bathroom. She felt rather sorry for him, though she was also thinking of the funny story it would make when she next saw Rita. (Keep your hair on!) And then she was thinking of something not funny at all, something horrible, in fact. It was him again, with the dark mercury eyes and the tie around her throat, whose face had reared up in memory just that evening – He’s been looking for you since. That was it, that was the thing she had forgotten – her hand had grabbed at his hair when he was forcing her down on the bed, she had got hold of it for a second. A half-second. She was reliving it in her head. Now it made sense. How had she forgotten that?

  12

  ‘I REALLY DON’T see what difference it makes.’


  Nina paused at this remark and stared hard at her younger sister. If she didn’t know better she might have assumed that satire was in play – except that Bee didn’t really ‘do’ jokes. They were having tea in the Lyons Corner House at the foot of Tottenham Court Road, which was just as well: the polite chatter from other tables would prevent her from doing as instinct demanded, namely to scream in her sister’s face. God knows she had enough provocation. But she also knew how to behave, having spent most of her life tiptoeing around her mother’s moods. Mentally she started counting to ten, admiring in the meantime the sculptural quality of Bee’s head, set off by her dark bobbed hair; it was something she had first noticed when she was a girl, that perfectly shaped skull, and it became a puzzlement over the years that so little of merit had emerged from inside it. She was petulant, tactless and spoilt – her mother’s child, if ever there was.

  ‘You “don’t see what difference it makes”,’ Nina said slowly, in echo. ‘I wonder if you’d say that if the house were bequeathed to me, or to Fliss, and you got left with nothing –’

  ‘But you won’t be left with nothing! Mummy is going to divide the rest of her things between us – her jewellery and . . . whatever money there is.’

  ‘In other words, practically nothing. The only thing of value she owns is the house. Can you not understand how it might make us feel excluded?’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t,’ said Bee, spooning sugar into her tea. ‘I’m not going to stop you from coming to the house, or even living in the house. You can have your own room – there!’

  She looked rather pleased by this thought, as if it reflected a nature of pure generosity. Nina stared at her again, trying to decide whether her sister was being manipulative or merely obtuse. She suspected the latter, which gave her no comfort. ‘Where there’s a will there’s affray,’ Stephen had quipped when she told him about it. That had been no comfort either.