The White Room

by Martyn Waites

  She kept working, putting out. The only thing she knew how to do. She watched younger girls coming up, getting her trade. Prettier faces, fresher flesh. She looked at herself, having to work harder just to keep up. Twenty-three but looking thirty-three. Or forty-three in a bad light. Life using her up, wearing her out. Ageing. Fast. Mae the constant reminder.

  She wanted Mae to disappear. So she plotted. She planned.

  An accident. That would work best.

  First there were the sleeping pills. She spilled them over the living room floor.

  ‘Look, Mae,’ Monica had said to the one-and-a-half-year-old, ‘Smarties. You love Smarties, don’t you?’

  Mae had looked at her, wanting to trust her but even at that age expecting some kind of punishment.

  ‘They’re lovely, Mae. Your favourite. Come and get them.’

  Hope triumphing over experience, the toddler approached the sleeping pills and slowly chewed them up. Her mother smiled at her. Mae, trusting, returned it.

  Monica watched as Mae had slowly fallen asleep, staggering at first as if drunk. Monica had laughed out loud, finding that very funny.

  She watched as Mae slipped away.

  It was working. The further Mae went, the more Monica felt the burden lift from her.

  And then there was a knock at the door.

  Monica had acted quickly, picking up the near-empty pill bottle and placing it on the kitchen table. She rushed to the door, opened it. There stood Shirley, a neighbour from two doors away. Without waiting to be asked, she entered.

  ‘I’m not stoppin’ long,’ she said, then launched into a monologue about the problems with her husband.

  When she reached the living room she stopped dead.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Shirley said.

  She looked down at the little girl lying on the floor.

  Monica knew that she had to act convincingly. If she didn’t she would be in big trouble. That was no problem, she thought. She had faked enough emotions in the past.

  ‘She’s sleepin’, isn’t she?’ Monica said.

  Shirley looked around, saw the pill bottle on the table.

  ‘Go an’ call an ambulance, Monica. Look.’

  Shirley held out the bottle.

  Monica’s hand sprang to her mouth.

  ‘Oh, my God …’

  ‘Quickly!’

  Monica ran out of the house to Shirley’s to use the phone. The ambulance arrived, took Mae to hospital. They pumped her stomach, brought her round.

  Saved her life.

  Monica had closed the door on the questioning policemen for the last time, stood with her back against it, heaved a huge sigh of relief. She had acted relieved, deflected questions as to how the pills came to be there, where she was at the time. Played the distraught mother. Played dumb. She had got away with it.

  But the door closing had also ended her attempt to be free of Mae. The familiar weight descended again, her mood blackened. Mae was only a small child, but the house seemed too oppressive, too small for them both.

  She would have to think of something else.

  She did.

  She gave Mae away.

  She had avoided the adoption agencies. She didn’t want some middle-class, middle-aged woman looking down on her, making judgements about her life. Keeping her at arm’s length in case they caught something from her. She had to find another way.

  She had heard of a couple who were emigrating to Australia. They were childless and desperately wanted a baby. She knew they lived locally, at the top of West Road in a bungalow in Denhill Park. Walking distance. She put Mae in her pram one afternoon, went up there. The whole street was one of well-tended front lawns, painted doors. The kind of house Monica would have liked to live in. But she had something they didn’t. She would have gladly swapped. She rang the bell. A woman, early thirties, pleasant looking, answered.

  ‘I hear you’re looking for a baby,’ Monica said.

  The woman looked at her, open-mouthed.

  ‘I hear you’re goin’ to Australia.’ She pointed at the pram. ‘Take her. She’s yours.’

  Before the woman could speak, Monica turned and walked away up the road. She heard the woman calling after her. She never once looked back.

  Walking home, she again felt the burden lift from her. She smiled to herself. Then mentally kicked herself. She should have asked for money. She should have taken cash for Mae. She stopped walking, almost turning round to go back, but deciding against it. The woman might have changed her mind, tried to give Mae back to her. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  She went back home, back to work. That night she was in the Crooked Billet, drinking and laughing. She turned down all offers to spend the night with her, wanting instead to wake up alone in her own house. Plan her new-found freedom. The next morning she woke up with a stinking hangover and was sick on the way to the toilet. No matter, she was happy. For a day or two she hardly faked any emotions with her punters.

  Then on the third day there was a knock at the door. Thinking it was a punter, she opened it quickly. It wasn’t.

  Mae was returned to her. A neighbour of the couple’s had heard rows between the husband and wife, seen a strange girl in their company, called the police. They had asked around, someone had mentioned Monica bragging in the pub about getting rid of Mae. The couple’s solicitor managed to smooth everything over. The woman had wanted to keep Mae, her husband hadn’t. If the child were returned safely to her mother, no charges would be brought. Against either parties. Mae was delivered to the doorstep clutching a caseful of new clothes and toys.

  Monica closed the door, looked at her daughter. A wave of anger built up inside her, threatened to crash out through her fists on to Mae’s body.

  ‘Get upstairs,’ she shouted.

  Mae did so. But as she turned, Monica glimpsed her daughter’s eyes. They were hard and cold, pupils tight little kernels of hatred. Directed at Monica. Mae went to her room.

  Monica had never considered it before. Perhaps Mae hated her as much as she hated Mae.

  A two-way street of loathing.

  Monica had sat down then, the invisible burden on her shoulders too heavy to keep her upright. This was it. For ever. So she had better get used to it.

  She had made her way to the kitchen, helped herself to the gin bottle.

  There had been another knock at the door then. Her punter. She had sent Mae out to play, robotically serviced the punter, pocketed his money. Afterwards, she sat in the front room, counting, drinking and looking at the case Mae had brought back with her. Feeling the tide rise within her again, she picked it up, dragged it to the back door and heaved it into the rubbish in the yard. Then went back to her drink.

  That was that.

  She gave up planning after that. Became more opportunistic.

  Monica had some friends round the house one day: Shirley, Bert too, and others. Monica had put Mae out of the way, playing upstairs. As Bert came to go, he looked up the stairs. And stopped dead. Mae was standing by the open window, dolls on the windowsill. She stretched out, overbalanced. Bert saw that and ran, two at a time, up the stairs. He reached the child just in time, pulling her back into the window, into the house. Hurting his back in the process.

  Monica started: she didn’t know how that happened, Mae was a naughty girl for playing there. Reprimanded the child, smacked her. Mae started to cry.

  Mae’s legs were scratched and cut where Bert had pulled her in. Bert was struggling to get up, his back spasming in agony. Shirley was shouting at Monica, telling her she was irresponsible. Monica just wished they would all go away, leave her alone. Let her find some peace.

  It blew over. No lasting damage, apart from Bert who was off work for two weeks.

  After that, Monica had given up. It was a sign. She couldn’t get rid of her daughter, so she had to accept she was stuck with her.

  And that, her heart heavy with acceptance, was that.

  She looked away from the mirror, took anot
her swig, checked her watch. Mae would be home soon. With Bert. He wanted to take her out to the Crooked Billet tonight. Enjoy the celebrations. She didn’t mind. As long as he was buying.

  He had been round a lot lately. Ever since the incident with Mae and the window. She knew he liked the child, tolerated her where Monica wouldn’t. That was fine, she let him. As long as she herself didn’t have to do that.

  He liked to think of himself as her boyfriend. That was fine too. As long as he was paying. And didn’t want sex.

  She looked at her dressing gown, at her watch again. Plenty of time to get dressed. She drained her glass. Enough time for another drink. She fixed it, returned to the mirror.

  She was ageing. No match for the young girls. She had had to diversify, specialize.

  Pain. Domination. Humiliation. A smaller market but more lucrative if you were good at it. And Monica was good at it. She could dispense and receive suffering as if born to it. She got a lot of repeat business. She got referrals and recommendations. She didn’t have to deal with a pimp. She had cuts and bruises, but she thought the odd whip scar or mouthful of piss a small price to pay. She was careful not to damage her punters too much, leave them able to heal quickly, return speedily. And she got paid for it all. And more often than not got some kind of enjoyment out of it.

  In the room. With Christ in pain. With the bright white walls and the deep dark shadows.

  She knew Mae would stand at the door, listen to the sounds of pain and humiliation, pleading and power that came out of there. She knew they scared the girl. But she didn’t care. It was her house. If she didn’t like it, Mae could live somewhere else.

  She looked in the mirror again, saw the make-up covering the bruise on her cheekbone. Her last punter. Entering into the celebration spirit, getting a little too overenthusiastic. She had felt her face, tender to the touch, checked her teeth, found a couple slightly loose. She had charged him extra for that.

  A knock at the door.

  Mae, she thought, back from the street party. Bert to take her out. Her heart heavy, she drained the last of her gin, went to answer it.

  There stood a man she hadn’t seen before. Middle-aged with thinning hair, a moustache, a red face and a beer drinker’s belly. Good clothes – Harris tweed jacket, collar and wool plaid tie – but worn for too long without a wash. Holding a piece of paper. Hands shaking.

  First timer, thought Monica.

  ‘Hello,’ the man stammered. The red of his complexion deepened.

  Monica looked at him, his silence encouraging him to speak.

  ‘I believe—’ he swallowed hard ‘—that you offer certain … services.’ ‘Yes,’ said Monica. ‘Are you … available?’ ‘How did you find out about me?’

  ‘Someone told me.’ His voice was dry. Sandpaper over rough bark. He cleared his throat. ‘An … acquaintance of mine. A Dr Shaw.’

  Monica ran the name through her memory. She knew the man. He always made her uneasy. Had a creepy side to him, a barely tamed one. And knowing what his preferences were, he was the last person she would consult on a medical matter.

  ‘I know him,’ she said, voice neutral.

  ‘He said you were by appointment only, but …’ He shrugged. ‘I just wondered.’

  Monica checked her watch. No sign of Mae or Bert. Stuff them. Money was money.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, and stepped back.

  As she closed the door, she sized the man up. Wondered what to wear, what he would like.

  And how much she could get away with charging him for it.

  The day was finally dying. Saturday begrudgingly becoming Sunday.

  Drunks were everywhere. Their bodies were exhausted but still moving, unused as they were to over twelve hours of dedicated, solid alcohol consumption. Some staggered through the streets like zombies from a cheap Hammer horror flick, their progress landmarked by pooled vomit, dropped chips, broken bottle glass, let blood. Some were laughing and raging, voices and emotions heightened in the night air like declaiming Shakespearean hams. All were determined to wring the last few drops of enjoyment from the day, cling tenaciously to its fading life or half-life, be the last to leave the party.

  The King’s Cross train, the last of the night, pulled out of Newcastle Central Station heading for Edinburgh. The few disembarking passengers hurried through the station concourse and out into the night, off to their homes. One man stood silently, case beside him, looking around. He smiled.

  His suit was Carnaby Street mod-sharp, hair brushed forward, long and stylishly trimmed. Black-rimmed glasses gave him an air of gravity. He stood like an important man, a serious man. Strong, confident, expensively tailored and groomed.

  He picked up his case, walked out of the station.

  ‘Taxi, mate?’ asked a cabby at a nearby rank.

  ‘No, thanks,’ the man said. ‘Think I’ll walk a bit.’ His accent was undeniably London, Thames estuary softened at the edges.

  The cabby, no lover of Southerners, turned away. The man walked on.

  He cocked his head on one side, listened through his one good ear. So strange yet so familiar. That was how the city seemed to him. Same buildings, same trolley bus lines, but the energy was different. It seemed more in tune with what he was used to. More alive.

  London was his city. The city. And Soho the only place to be in that city. But he had gone as far as he thought he could. Climbed that ladder, reached the top.

  And learned a lot. Things he couldn’t wait to put into practice in his new manor.

  His old manor.

  It was all about control. Control, direction and patience.

  He had learned that.

  But not endless patience.

  He walked the streets. There seemed to have been some sort of celebration.

  So they’ve finally found out how to enjoy themselves, he thought. Good. I can help them on their way.

  He checked his shirt cuffs, made sure there was an inch of white brilliance below his jacket sleeves. He picked up his case, kept walking.

  He needed to find a hotel. A good one. But first he wanted to walk.

  It had been another person from a previous life who had hidden himself on the mail train six years ago. A frightened, wild boy.

  Brian Mooney.

  But he was dead now. Had died the moment the train had pulled out of the station.

  Ben Marshall.

  That was the name on his luggage, his passport. The monogram on his clothes. Ben Marshall was very much alive.

  He walked the streets, so strange yet so familiar.

  The energy was different.

  More alive.

  Ripe. Ready to move from black and white into colour.

  Perfect. For him.

  He breathed in a lungful of night air, held it, let it go. Then went to find a hotel.

  February 1963:

  Grip of the Strangler

  The audience cheered, whistled, stomped, clapped.

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  The lead singer growled rather than spoke. Deep, Northern. Almost feral. It fitted with the atmosphere: the room was lit by a primal energy. Rich with sweat and physical excitement. Neo-violent, almost sexual.

  He wiped his brow, swigged from a bottle, grabbed the mic.

  ‘Good, eh?’

  The crowd cheered. He acknowledged them. Spoke like one of them.

  ‘Fuckin’ aye.’

  He put the bottle down, turned to the rest of the band, nodded. Then back to the audience.

  ‘Boom Boom,’ he shouted.

  The crowd, Mod-sharp and soaked in sweat and adrenalin, knew what to expect, cheered in anticipation. The band charged right in, a tight, beat-driven combo, music forceful, fist-like, stripping whatever small amount of finesse the John Lee Hooker original had once contained, reducing it to its basic hot, grinding components.

  The crowd responded: picked up the energy coming towards them, flung it back at them.

  John Steel and Chas Chandler: drum and bass
in pounding rhythm; Hilton Valentine: cranked-up guitar squalling and squealing; Alan Price: heightening Hammond poured over like beautiful, dirty cream; Eric Burdon: voice ripping through the song with ragged authority.

  Friday night, February 1963. The Animals rocking the Club A Go Go.

  Ben Marshall stood against the back wall of the cramped club, unobtrusive but available. He had seen the Stones here, and they were good, but he liked this band. Even hearing them with only one good ear, he knew they had something. If they could excite the boys and girls nationally the way they did in this room, he thought, they would be huge. Another Beatles. Another Stones.

  Not that he cared about music; he cared about money. Guitar bands were the next wave. There was a supply and demand market for them, and this band, the Animals, would make a lot of money for the right person. He had been tempted to manage them but decided against it. He didn’t want it to interfere with his long-term plan.

  He scanned the crowd. The crowd knew him. Or at least what he sold. And he loved the Club A Go Go. Fitted right in. The nearest thing Newcastle had to match Soho.

  Brian Mooney had arrived in London lost, penniless. Seven years ago.

  Another person, another life.

  He had jacked and mugged his way to a room, a few clothes, food and drink. But he needed more.

  He drifted into Soho, attracted by the bright lights, the dark shadows. He loved it there. And things were happening to him, realizations dawning. This wasn’t Newcastle. He couldn’t go on as he had there, relying on energy and anger to carry him. He needed more. Subtlety. A strategy. A long-term plan. Soho might provide it.

  He studied the area, saw how it worked, how he could make it work for himself.

  Then, a piece of self-engineered luck, the right place at the right time: a man he spoke to in a Soho pub was looking for someone to do some work. Mr Calabrese, the man said, a Maltese businessman, owned a string of bookshops. He was having trouble hiring and retaining staff. He needed help.

  Brian knew the score, heard truthful words between the spoken ones. For Mr Calabrese, Maltese businessman, read Big Derek Calabrese, Epsom Salt gangster. For bookshops, read porn palaces. For trouble hiring and retaining staff, read shop managers skimming profits, then doing a bunk.