Brian could barely contain his excitement. It was the break he had been looking for. Strong-arm stuff, people to be found, lessons to learn.
Brian found the managers, taught the lessons. Enthusiastically. He impressed, was paid. Was used again. Impressed again. Then put on the payroll.
Big Derek found him special jobs. Ones that utilized his particular skills. Grasses and singers were picked up, stuck in a basement, forced by Brian to express love and fidelity to Big Derek. To see the error of their ways. Sometimes they just disappeared completely. Those were the kinds of jobs he liked best.
Then there was the day-to-day stuff, the bread-and-butter stuff: collecting rents from girls in flats, making sure they paid what Big Derek said they owed. Working the door in clubs, security in brothels. Keeping the shop managers in line. He would pay off the bent coppers, the ones with blind eyes and greedy pockets. Dirty overcoats, even dirtier souls.
Brian loved Big Derek like a father. He listened to him, remade himself in Big Derek’s image. Big Derek loved Brian in return. Like a wayward, psychopathic animal he had tamed and housetrained.
Brian loved Soho too. And Soho, it seemed, loved Brian. Made for each other.
But.
Dissatisfaction began to creep in. He had gone as far as he could with Big Derek. He knew that. But working there had allowed him to see the future. He built up ideas, formulated plans.
But not for London.
Newcastle.
He told Big Derek, explained his plans, expounded his vision. His old scores that needed settling, his new way of doing it.
Big Derek didn’t want him to go. Found him too useful.
Brian talked, showed his heart was set. Offered, as a last resort, a cut to Big Derek.
Big Derek relented, gave his reluctant blessing. Even gave him a contact.
But. Another thing:
Brian insisted on a new identity. New clothes, glasses, hair colour. Polish the accent Brian was already using.
And off he went. Home.
Newcastle had changed since Brian had left: the city was all new to Ben.
He had found the Club A Go Go, based himself there. Beat kids and Mods, wanting to get high on anything they could get hold of. The club had energy. Ben could give it more. He identified a market, cut himself in, started dealing.
Uppers. Downers. Weed for the hopheads. Black bombers and purple hearts; demilitarized iconography given a post national service meaning.
And there he stood: the hatred, anger and impetuosity of his earlier incarnation now varnished with the veneer of a suavely confident entrepreneur. The spiritual son of Big Derek Calabrese. A patient man. A planner.
Anticipation making the eventual outcome taste all the sweeter.
The Animals finished ‘Boom Boom’. One more song, then the set would end. Ben left the room, went to the bar. Authentic blues played from hidden speakers. Muddy. Howlin’. Elbowed his way to a lime-green bar stool, ordered a scotch on the rocks, looked at the painted walls. The jazz greats stared down at him in huge monochrome relief. He sat directly below Earl Hines. Next picture along was of the Emcee Five, a home-grown jazz group. All the paintings were by Eric Burdon, the Animals’ lead singer.
Ben sipped his scotch, waited. Let the raw sounds wash over him.
Waited for customers wanting to extend the high the music had just given them, mellow out away from it. But more important, waited for the signal that would enable him to move his plans along to the next phase.
Joanne Bell had been in the club a few times with her college friends. He had even sold some hop to them once or twice. But she hadn’t recognized him. Good. Even given him the glad eye. He had almost reciprocated, noting how her curves had developed, imagining her naked and under his control, but had stopped himself.
It would have been fun, but not enough fun to jeopardize his plans.
Then the door opened and in she walked. As if on cue.
Sharon Smeaton and her girlfriends.
His target.
Perfect.
It wasn’t accidental. He had made enquiries, investigated. His information was good, bought and paid for. He knew the Smeatons’ marriage was under a strain. Knew who the weak link would be. Knew who the best target would be.
He watched Sharon and her friends enjoy themselves. He knew that most of them had met at school, had married, had borne children. He knew they got together every few weeks to go for a meal or a film. He knew they considered themselves young and fashionable enough for the Club A Go Go. Knew which one to bribe to make sure they came there, and pay for her silence.
Sharon had lost none of her looks. She was older, of course, but that seemed to add to her appeal. Her looks weren’t the kind to fade with youth; they were more durable than that. She still took pride in her body, her whole appearance. Tasteful make-up, fashionable hairstyling and Quant clothing. Ben noticed the amount of admiring glances she was attracting. Also noticed that she wasn’t quite ignoring them as much as she would have done a few years ago.
When she and Jack were happier.
Through investigation and supposition, he had concluded that Sharon Smeaton was frustrated and stifled by the circumstances of her life. Circumstances rich for exploiting.
Ben saw the club’s bar manager, Martin Fleming, at the opposite side of the room talking to a patron. He beckoned him over, told him what he wanted, slipped a note from his roll, handed it over. Martin Fleming walked off, smiling. Martin Fleming, Big Derek’s contact.
Champagne was rare in the Club A Go Go. Soon a bottle of it made its waitered way over to Sharon’s table. Ben saw heads turn as it went, heard the gasps of delight from the women, the sender’s identity questioned. The waiter, as he had been told to do, informed them that the gentleman in the corner had wanted the beautiful blonde lady and her friends to enjoy themselves at his expense.
They all looked over, smiling, wanting a glimpse of this exotic stranger. Ben raised his whisky glass in return.
Sharon smiled, made eye contact.
Ben smiled, returned it.
Bingo.
He waited a while; made sure they were enjoying themselves, then slipped into the live music room to make some money.
The warehouse was blazing.
The old, timber frame fed and supported the flames, the corrugated roof collapsed inwards. Two fire engines were on the scene, ladders up, spraying the blaze, attempting to contain it.
A small number of Byker residents looking for local entertainment watched the fire, along with several homeward-bound pubbers making a detour to take in the spectacle, share the warmth. They stood, coats buttoned, collars up, hands thrust deep into pockets.
Among them, Johnny Bell.
Johnny Bell loved to watch fires, the bigger the better. Loved to see the flames leap and jump, tried to guess which way they would dance next, how high they would climb. Fire was power as well as beauty: natural, barely tameable or containable. It could warm or it could hurt.
Hurt badly.
The moment when a fire started to take hold, switched from being manageable to uncontrollable, was his favourite time. It gave him an erotic charge when that happened, a sexual thrill.
Johnny Bell loved to watch fires.
Especially ones he had started himself.
It had started out as a thrill. A dare. An assertion of himself over a structure or an area. But then whispers started, names were mentioned. He was fearful that he would be caught, put in prison. But people heard of his skill. Asked if he worked to order, took commissions. Money became involved. And that made it even more fun.
As well as a lucrative sideline, it became a challenge to Johnny. How to make it a work of artistry. How to make it accidental enough to fool an insurance company. How to make sure that, in this case, an ailing stationery wholesaler got compensated for his tragic loss.
Because that was how Johnny got paid.
He loved the feeling of entering the chosen building, sensing the quiet, knowi
ng he was alone, was going to be the last person to see the building looking the way it did. Knowing the power he held.
The erotic charge it gave him.
Johnny watched, hands deep in coat pockets, stroking his erect penis through the lining, as the firemen struggled to tame the blaze. The firemen seemed to be winning. The charred, wooden frame of the warehouse was beginning to supplant the darting flames as the dominant image.
The fire was abating. The fun draining with it.
Johnny turned, started walking away.
A good night’s work.
His cock was still erect. He still wanted release.
He knew where to go.
La Dolce Vita. Private dining room.
Ben Marshall and Sharon Smeaton having dinner.
Steak and all the trimmings. Hers well done. His blood-rare.
‘Modern,’ Ben was saying, washing a mouthful of meat down with a hearty French claret, ‘is good. New is good. Take this place. The owner, who’s a good friend of mine, was telling me this is the first of its kind in the whole region. You can eat, dance, drink, gamble, watch live music, anything.’ Another mouthful of claret. ‘Of course, you get places like this all the time in London, but it’s rare up here.’ He smiled. ‘Why I’m drawn to it, I suppose. Must be homesick.’
Got her again, he thought. At the mention of London, her eyes had widened fractionally. Not much, but enough for someone trained to look for the signs to notice an inner excitement.
Ben noticed.
It had been a relatively easy matter to get her to agree to dinner. After the champagne had been drunk, Sharon, at her friends’ insistence, had come over to thank him.
‘If you really want to thank me,’ he said, his faux London accent pushed to the fore, ‘you could do me the honour of having dinner with me.’
Even in the dark, he knew she had blushed.
‘I’m with my friends. I can’t just leave them. What would they think?’
Ben smiled. His practised, killer smile.
‘They’d be jealous it wasn’t them,’ he said.
She smiled back at him.
Their eyes locked.
The lazy, sensuous bossa nova beat all around them.
He had her.
‘Just a minute,’ she said and returned to her friends.
He watched their faces as she told them his request. Heard the incredulous laughing, the giggling. The looking round to see him. Then the smiling. It was what they all longed for. He knew that. It was why he had planned it this way. He saw the faces, mock stern, as Sharon’s friends told her why she should accept his offer. But how she should lay down certain rules first. Make him aware where he stands.
She came back to him.
‘I’d love to join you for dinner, Ben.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But I just want you to know that I’m a wife and a mother. And I’m not looking for anything else.’
Her eyes left his when she spoke those last few words, darting away, ending up on her handbag from where she removed an invisible speck of fluff.
‘Please don’t get the wrong impression,’ said Ben, brow furrowed, voice dripping with sincerity. ‘I’m new to the area. Up here for work. If I have to make new friends, I’d rather they were beautiful ones.’
She blushed again.
And he escorted her to a table in the private dining room, La Dolce Vita.
She had been to the pictures with her friends, she said. Not much on: a toss-up between The Longest Day and a double bill of Grip of the Strangler and Blood of the Vampire. She hated war films, so they had decided on the horror double bill, just for a laugh.
‘And was it?’
‘Boring,’ Sharon said, and smiled. ‘We walked out before the end. Came here for some proper entertainment.’
They ate, drank.
‘So,’ said Sharon after a while, ‘what is it you do, exactly?’
He flourished his wine glass.
‘I’m an entrepreneur,’ he said.
Sharon smiled. ‘So what is it you do exactly?’
Ben gave a small laugh. ‘Very funny. I take small business opportunities and turn them into large ones. I did it in London with a few things and thought I’d chance my arm out in the provinces.’
‘What kind of things in London?’ said Sharon, looking at him over the rim of her wine glass.
Ben shrugged. ‘Anything, really. Import and export. Nothing glamorous. Anything there was money in.’ He caught her eye, smiled. It was suggestive with possibilities. ‘Legal, of course.’
She returned the smile, sipped her wine.
‘So what about you?’ said Ben. ‘What do you do?’
‘Oh, nothing much.’ Sharon broke eye contact. ‘Housewife and mother, mostly.’
‘The most underrated profession in the world,’ said Ben. ‘So easy to be taken for granted.’
‘Isn’t it, though.’ Her words were edged with bitterness.
Ben leaned forward.
‘But that’s not true with you, surely?’ His voice was all solicitous concern.
Sharon sighed. ‘I wish it wasn’t. But it’s the same every day. Cleaning. Shopping. Getting Isaac ready for school. Picking Isaac up from school. Making sure a meal’s there on the table at night. Trying to be as creative as possible about it.’ She sighed again. ‘Not that it’s ever appreciated.’ She looked away. ‘Sorry. You shouldn’t have to hear those things.’
Ben gave a look of apparently genuine concern.
‘Don’t worry. You’ve got to tell someone. Sometimes it’s best to tell these things to someone you don’t know. You can often be more honest.’
‘I wouldn’t want to bore you.’
‘You wouldn’t be boring me.’
Her hand was resting on the table. He placed his over it.
‘That’s often how friendships start.’
She looked up. Their eyes locked. Their hands gripped.
Then Sharon remembered where she was, whom she was with. And pulled her hand away.
She looked around, nervous, slightly embarrassed at her behaviour. She found her wine glass, took a hefty mouthful. Ben played along in scene, mimicked her actions.
‘Sorry,’ he said eventually.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, her voice small and wavering. She sighed again. ‘Sometimes I just want … more. And then I feel guilty for thinking that.’ She looked at him, tried to smile. ‘I’ve got nothing to complain about. Not really. I should be grateful for what I’ve got. Sorry.’
Her words, even to her own ears, sounded hollow.
Ben nodded sympathetically.
‘No need to be.’
The waiter came to clear the plates. He asked if there was anything more.
‘I’d better be getting back,’ said Sharon. ‘My friends’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’
Ben looked at his watch.
‘I should think they’ll be long gone by now.’
Sharon looked at him, her eyes reflecting both fear and anticipation.
Ben smiled.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure you get home safely.’
Her eyes widened.
‘I’ll get you a cab.’
She smiled, barked a short laugh. He couldn’t tell if it was of relief or disappointment.
He paid for the meal in cash, helped her into her coat. She buttoned it, turned to face him.
‘Well, thank you for a lovely evening,’ she said, smiling.
‘The pleasure was all mine,’ he said. ‘It isn’t often I get to dine with such a charming and attractive companion.’
Her cheeks reddened again.
‘Oh, before you go,’ said Ben. He dug into his jacket pocket, brought out a card. He handed it to Sharon. ‘That’s my business card. If ever you want to give me a ring, feel free. It’ll be nice to talk to a friendly voice in this town.’
‘I will.’
‘Listen,’ he said, his voice sounding hesitant, ‘we coul
d formalize this, you know. Perhaps dinner again? A drive in the country some time?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘I’m also going to be needing someone pretty soon.’
‘Pardon?’
He looked from side to side, as if to check that no one was listening.
‘If everything goes according to plan, and it seems like it is, I’m going to need an office manager. Someone I can trust.’
He looked right at her.
Sharon laughed.
‘You hardly know me.’
Ben emptied his eyes of everything but the appearance of honesty.
‘But I’d like to know you better. This might have prospects. It might lead on to bigger things. Are you interested? Can I contact you about it?’
Sharon turned away, thinking. Ben waited, timing the moments.
‘Do you have a pen?’ she said eventually.
Ben could barely contain his excitement. He wanted to laugh out loud, punch the air. Instead he said,
‘Right here.’
He dug inside his jacket pocket, handed over his gold-plated fountain pen. He also gave her the receipt of the meal.
‘Write on this,’ he said.
She looked quickly up at him and for a second he thought he had overplayed her. Been too cocky, too sure of himself. He smiled to cover the cracks.
Wordlessly, she took the pen and paper. She didn’t seem to have picked up on what he was thinking. He breathed a sigh of relief. She handed the pen and receipt back.
‘That’s my home number,’ she said. It was her turn to look around, check no one was in earshot. ‘If you want to call me, make it after nine and before three on a weekday. Not evenings or weekends.’
‘Whatever you say. You make the rules.’
Ben smiled, Sharon smiled, a look of incredulity and disbelief at her own actions on her face, and a waiter arrived to tell them the taxi had arrived.
They walked through the main body of the club. The night was winding down. Chairs were being placed on tables, till rolls added up, the few hangers-on drinking up and thinking of leaving.
Outside, the cold air hit them like a slap in the face from a concrete glove.
‘The winters get cold up here, don’t they?’ said Ben, laughing.
He opened the car door for Sharon. She turned to him.
The White Room Page 14