Tales from Soho

by David Barry

  Ten years later she was still there, a slave to heroin and sex. She discovered the men who had brought her there were Maltese. She knew Malta was an island but she had no idea where it was. It could have been in the South Pacific as far as she was concerned. There was another girl who was kept in another room in the damp sex-smelling basement, run by an older woman, who resembled one of the men who had brought her there. She guessed she might have been either the man’s mother or an older sister.

  She was forced to have sex with at least ten clients a day, minimum. She was given a small amount of money and allowed out to visit a pub or to shop for clothes now and again. Of course, she could have escaped, just walked away, got on a train and travelled to anywhere she chose within reasonable distance to London. But she was well and truly hooked on heroin. Besides, she didn’t have a single person whom she could approach for help, not a single friend in the world.

  Then, in the mid-eighties, the Soho basement where she was kept was raided, the Maltese gangsters were arrested and the brothel was shut down. Then began her long struggle in and out of rehab, visits to psychiatrists and social services, which wiped out almost another decade. Eventually, because of her hatred of Jake, the man she rightly blamed as the cause of her tragic existence for the last twenty years, she switched from self-loathing, and her anger was projected at the evil monster who sold her to pay his gambling debts. The anger gave her the strength to turn herself round, and she successfully kicked the heroin habit and became one of the more devoted employees at the care home.

  But, on her day’s off, she often thought about Jake, wondering what became of him. She also wondered what she would do to him should there paths ever cross again, and she sometimes fantasised about taking her revenge in the most brutal way.

  III

  Whenever Mavis approached Jake in the residents’ lounge, he moaned incoherently and she wondered if this was from fear or guilt, because she was now convinced he remembered her. There was a certain depth of understanding in his eyes, even though he found it difficult to communicate.

  She spent more time with him than with any of the other residents, and the matron thought it was because he was the most needy, and Mavis was merely trying to help him to adjust to the home and his condition.

  After her first talk to him, while she fed him his lunch, she made it clear he would suffer for what he had done to her. But she had no idea of how she could make this man suffer any more than he did already. What could she do to him? Spit in his food before feeding him? Squeeze his balls hard when no one was watching. After all, if he cried out no one would know what he was trying to say. They would just think he was upset about his condition and his inability to communicate. Or when she did her night shift, perhaps she could enter Room 16 and keep him from sleeping. She had seen a television documentary where they showed sleep deprivation as one of the worst forms of torture.

  . But, because of all the revenge fantasies in the past, seeking satisfaction at his expense seemed to have dissipated. She questioned how anyone could take revenge on this pathetic lump of flesh. Wasn’t he suffering enough now, locked as he was inside his body, unable to fend for himself? Totally reliant on carers like her for everything. And yet... she still craved some sort of satisfaction. Then an idea came to her, something which seemed only right and proper. She sat herself close to him one quiet afternoon after many of the other residents were dozing or watching television and cleared her throat softly prior to speaking. She saw the wary look in his eyes and knew he could comprehend what was going on. So she began by speaking softly, telling him about her life outside the home.

  ‘You know, Jake,’ she said in a voice full of soft sympathy, ‘I feel sorry for the way you’re locked inside your head. I think it must be as bad as a jail sentence. If not worse. Yes, definitely worse. Even when someone is locked in a cell they can decide whether or not to get up and read a book or watch TV. Whereas you... you’re stuck there in your head but unable to make any decisions yourself. None at all.’

  She grinned to let him know she would enjoy tormenting him. He let out a loud whale cry and she saw the flicker of terror in his eyes. She patted his hand gently.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, I’m not going to hurt you. Just talk to you, and tell you about my days.’ Her voice soothing, she began to enjoy herself. This was her therapy now.

  ‘Know what I done on my day off last week, Jake? Did a bit of window shopping, then I went into Starbucks and had a hot chocolate and cake. Sat there for as long as I pleased and read a book. That’s what freedom’s all about, ain’t it? Being free to do what you want, when you want. It was such a lovely day. After that I went an walked in the park - watched the children playing, some kids feeding ducks at the lake - and although nothing much was happening, it was such a warm day, and I could appreciate just being alive and being able to walk around and please myself. An’ you know what I done in the afternoon? Went to this friendly little boozer I know - nice little local it is - and I had a couple of glasses of white wine. I can do that now, see. I can enjoy a drink without feeling I need to go on the hard stuff. I drink moderately, sometimes go days without a drink - especially when I’m working. But that’s the great thing about freedom, ain’t it? You can please yourself and not have to rely on anyone. It must be terrible for you, Jake. Stuck in that chair all day, relying on others to feed you. And still knowing what’s going on. Because you do know, don’t you sweetheart? Only too well.’

  She stared into his eyes and smiled. It was then that he let out an enormous, attention-seeking guttural cry, and for a moment she thought one of the other carers would come running over to see what was wrong. But the smiling, caring way Mavis rubbed Jake’s cheeks tenderly and soothed him, dispelled any worries someone might have and let her get on with attending to her patient - the patient she appeared to care for more than any of the other residents..

  ‘Yes, I know this upsets you, Jake, so I’m going to leave you now. And from tomorrow I won’t be here for a week. I’m off on holiday. A glorious seaside break for a week. I can’t wait to tell you all about it when I get back. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

  But Mavis lied about the holiday. She would go no further from her Canning Town council flat than the local library, shops and pub. But she wasn’t going to tell Jake that. She planned to torment him by using her imagination.

  When she returned a week later, and saw him staring into space in the residents’ lounge, a bull-bellow came from deep inside him as he spotted her walking towards him. She gave him a triumphant smile as she got closer, registering the alarm in his eyes. She pulled up a chair, sat close to him and patted his knee.

  ‘There, there, Jake!’ she giggled, enjoying the effective therapy of using her ingenuity to make his purgatory worse. ‘I’m here now to tell you all about my holiday. I know you want to hear all about it. It was wonderful just walking along the beach, looking in rock pools. Watching kids flying kites, and the air was so clear and the sky so blue, with seagulls darting and swooping. And then, at the end of such free days, sitting outside a pub in the evening, sipping wine and having a meal. It’s so wonderful to be free and able to please yourself, and not having to rely on others. It must be terrible to be in your condition. You know, while I was away, I thought of sending you a postcard, saying “wish you were here”, but that would have been a lie. So I thought I’d save up all my news to share with you. I expect you enjoy hearing about how I love the freedom of my life now. As soon as I walk away from the care home, I can please myself what I do, because I’m independent, you see. Which is more than can be said for someone not a million miles from here. Oh, yes, there’s something to be said for having the liberty to please yourself. Now, d’you want to hear about one of my little excursions. About a little boat trip I took?’

  She paused, and watched the way he seemed to shrink into the fabric of his chair. She waited for the cry of pain, and sure en
ough his unintelligible trumpeting blasted out over the residents’ lounge, alerting some of the other staff that perhaps something was wrong. But when the matron saw the way Mavis handled him, unruffled and sympathetic, she shook her head and smiled, knowing she could leave it in Mavis’s capable hands.

  As for Mavis, she was never sure if Jake’s distress came from remorse, from his hostility towards her, or from the way she provoked and taunted him. But as far as anyone in the care home was concerned, the matron and most of the other staff all acknowledged that Mavis seemed to make a positive contribution to Mr Jackman’s well being.

  And no one knew any different.

  Tricky Dickey

  Sally Atkinson was overworked but felt it was bad luck to complain. She had started her own business at the beginning of the new millennium, and her reputation grew daily as the celebrity culture snowballed. She smiled at her assistant, as a cup of freshly brewed black coffee was placed on her desk, positioned carefully on a her favourite coaster, a facsimile of a 45 rpm Parlophone record of ‘Love Me Do’ by the Beatles.

  ‘Thank you, Lucy. What time is this chap coming to see us?’

  ‘His appointment’s for eleven.’

  ‘And his celebrity is... ?’ Sally raised enquiring eyebrows at her assistant who shook her head.

  ‘I thought you knew.’

  Sally shrugged it off. ‘We’ll soon find out. It’s quiet this morning for a change.’

  As soon as she finished her sentence the telephone rang. ‘I spoke too soon.’

  Lucy walked across the large office to her own desk and picked up the extension. ‘Star Repro,’ she announced on a rising inflexion with a smile, which Sally had taught her to use, telling her a listener can feel you smiling. Then Sally watched as her assistant’s demeanour changed, a performance of repentance for the benefit of her listener. ‘Oh, dear! That is bad news. It’s never happened before. We’ve always had excellent feedback about this particular Madonna. Excellent. I’m so sorry. If there’s anything we can do... no, no, of course, I quite understand, and I’ll speak to Sally about it... she’s in a meeting at the moment.’ Lucy threw her employer a helpless look of panic as she ate humble pie and cringed into the phone.

  But Sally’s expression was bland. She didn’t like her reputation to be dented in any way, and she couldn’t imagine what the problem was. She was in her mid-thirties, and had worked hard throughout the nineties as an assistant to a well-known casting director, which gave her the experience she craved. She knew she couldn’t compete with the major casting directors if she set up her own casting agency, so she used her experience to found Star Repro, a lookalike agency, and rented premises in Wardour Street, not far from Pizza Express, so that potential clients would be impressed by Star Repro’s address, bang in the heart of the film industry.

  She listened intently as Lucy wound up the call with another so sorry apology, and unthinkingly gulped her coffee which was scalding hot. The sudden swelling blister on the roof of her mouth didn’t help her sinking mood.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded from her assistant. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘That function in the City.’

  ‘The major bank?’

  ‘That’s the one. Madonna got hammered and disgraced herself.’

  ‘Huh!’ Sally pouted. ‘I can’t believe those city slickers - not known for their sobriety - would be upset by our lookalike getting plastered.’

  ‘It was when they commented on her singing badly at the karaoke... ’

  With a wave of the hand, Sally interrupted impatiently. ‘She’s a lookalike for Christ sakes. She mimes to Madonna records. She can’t sing. I thought I made that clear to them. If they wanted a singing Madonna they should have booked the real one. Let’s face it, just ten per cent of bank staff bonuses of ten per cent of the staff would have paid for Madonna herself to do a gig there.’

  Lucy giggled nervously. ‘Ah! That was the problem apparently. Our own sweet Madonna freaked out when they booed her singing, and when the song ended she accused them of fraudulent behaviour and went on about their bonuses with a stream of bad language.’

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Sally exclaimed. The blister in her mouth had burst and her tongue found the hanging skin, loose and irritating, adding to her growing frustration. She looked around at the office walls, seeking comfort from the photographic gallery of replica celebrities, but it didn’t seem to help. Her voice became childlike as she protested, ‘I can’t see why they’re so upset. The whole country’s up in arms about their bonuses. Even the Chancellor, and he didn’t exactly go to a local comprehensive school. And those city wankers - sorry, I mean bankers - don’t strike anyone as shrinking violets. Surely they can take a little bit of verbal arse-kicking.’

  ‘I think they’re feeling sensitive from the recent bad press,’ Lucy said. ‘So you going to ring their PR people?’

  Sally sighed heavily. ‘Yes, but I’m in a meeting until lunchtime hah-hah. Then, after a glass or two of Chablis, I’ll have the strength to deal with it.’ She grinned at her assistant, and raised two fist-clenched arms. ‘Then bring it on, baby!’

  Lucy went and sat behind her own desk and exchanged a knowing smile with her employer. She knew how her boss would operate, starting with humble apologies before twisting it, so that the clients ended up feeling they were blame. In spite of knowing this, Lucy asked Sally what she intended saying to them.

  ‘I shall of course apologise profusely.’

  As Lucy guessed she would.

  ‘Then I will point out in no uncertain terms how I told them right from the start that this particular Madonna does not sing. Not no way, not no how. Once this has been established and agreed, I will get them to admit that their smarmy slickers spiked our Madonna’s drinks, and then when they humiliated her she quite naturally hit back at them. One poor female performer up against a whole roomful of baying hyenas? Enough to give her an inferiority complex, all those aggressive testosterone-fuelled males clubbing our poor baby seal.’ She mimed violin playing. ‘You wait: their PR department will end up apologising to me.’

  ‘You think they’ll use us again in the future?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they? It’ll be just another distant memory. A pissed Madonna replica’s nothing compared to the bad press the banks are getting. Anyway, apart from this one little glitch on a Monday morning, it’s not looking too bad the rest of the week. How’s our Brad Pitt from Willesden Junction doing?’

  ‘He tells me he’s down to fourteen stone.’

  ‘I suppose he’s tall enough to get away with it. Only just though. But we can’t take his word for it that he’s lost two stone. Make an appointment for him to come in and see us and we’ll check him out.’

  The street door buzzer sounded. Sally frowned and looked at her watch. ‘That can’t be our new lookalike, can it? If it is, he’s twenty-five minutes early.’

  Lucy went into the small outer office, leaving the main office door open. The outer office was a small square room, doubling as a kitchen to brew tea and coffee, and a waiting room. Sally watched as Lucy pressed the talk button on the wall beside the entrance door.

  ‘Star Repro. Who is it?’

  A crackling voice announced he was Richard Deason. He apologised for being early and said he wouldn’t mind waiting. Sally called to Lucy that they may as well see him now, and Lucy pressed the button to unlatch the street door, directing their appointment to the second floor. Lucy waited by the door while Sally pretended to busy herself looking through their latest client catalogue, and wondered who the visitor might look like. She had recently lost her Simon Cowell, who gave up his celebrity status reluctantly because he got more work and made more money as a central heating engineer. And she could do with another Mick Jagger, as their faux Rolling Stone had gone to that great celestial celebrity gig in the sky. So she hoped for one of those. But whoever
this wannabe celebrity lookalike turned out to be, as long as it was instant recognition, they were in. Sometimes it required a little imagination and grooming to get them to a standard of instant recognition. But whoever she took on, even actor lookalikes like Bill Nighy or Timothy Spall, she had nothing to lose - in fact everything to gain - by expanding her list, because she could keep any amount of lookalikes on her books on the off-chance someone might want to hire anyone from a Nick Clegg lookalike to a Robbie Williams doppelganger or a Beyoncé Knowles imitator, and anyone she agreed to represent had to supply their own photographs, usually at a photographer of her recommendation, which meant she and Lucy received a bottle of expensive single malt at Christmas.

  As the door of the outer office opened, she glanced up from her brochure and squinted. Lucy invited him in to the main office, and Sally caught a brief glimpse of her assistant walking behind the man as he entered, a puzzled expression on her face.

  Sally’s eyes swept over him, hoping that her first impression would bring an answer of some sort. The man was vaguely familiar, but she hadn’t got a clue who he was supposed to represent. Usually their wannabe lookalikes made an effort and dressed the part, but this man...

  She stood up, held out her hand, which he took in a rather limp, moist grip. He wore a dark grey suit, with small lighter grey checks, which was rather rumpled. He had a dark appearance, with a pugnacious face, and heavy chin with a five o’clock shadow.