Death Is Now My Neighbour (4 page)

She had never known a man so much in control of himself.

Or of her.

The train stopped just before Slough.

When, ten minutes later, it slowly began to move forward again, the Senior Conductor decided to introduce himself over the intercom.

'Ladies and Gentlemen. Due to a signalling failure at Slough, this train will now arrive at Paddington approximately fifteen minutes late. We apologize to customers for this delay.'

The man and the woman, seated now more closely together, turned to each other - and smiled.

'What are you thinking?' she asked.

"You often ask me that, you know. Sometimes I'm not thinking of anything.'

'Well?'

'I was only thinking that our Senior Conductor doesn't seem to know the difference between "due to" and "owing to".'

'Not sure
I do.
Does it matter?'

'Of course it matters.'

'But you won't let it come between us?'

'I won't let anything come between us,' he whispered into her ear.

For a few seconds they looked lovingly at each other. Then he lowered his eyes, removed a splayed left hand from her stockinged thigh, and drank his last mouthful of beer.

'Just before we get into Paddington, Rachel, there's something important I ought to tell you.'

She turned to him - her eyes suddenly alarmed. He wanted to put a stop to the affair? He wanted to get rid of her?

He'd found another woman? (Apart from his wife, of course.)

'Tickets, please!'

He looked as if he might be making his maiden voyage, the young ticket-collector, for he was scrutinizing each ticket proffered to him with preternatural concentration.

The man took both his own and the young woman's ticket from his wallet: cheap-day returns.

'This yours, sir?'

Yes.'

‘
You an OAP?'

'As a matter of fact I am not, no.' (The tone of his voice was quietly arrogant.) 'To draw a senior-citizen pension in the United Kingdom a man has to be sixty-five years of age. But a Senior Railcard is available to a man who has passed
his sixtieth birthday - as doubtl
ess you know.'

'Could I see your Railcard, sir?'

With a sigh of resignation, the man p
roduced his card. And the slightl
y flustered, spotty-faced youth duly studied the details.

Valid:
until 07
MAY
96
;
Issued to: Mr
J. C. Storrs
.

'How the hell does he think I got my ticket at Oxford without showing
that?
'
asked the Senior Fellow of Lonsdale.

'He's only doing his duty, poor lad. And he's got awful acne.'

‘
You're right, yes.'

She took his hand in hers, moving more closely again. And within a few minutes the
paddington
sign passed by as the Drain drew slowly into
the
long platform. In a rather sad voice, the Senior Conductor now made his second announcement- 'All change, please! All change! This train has now terminated.'

They waited until their fellow-passengers had alighted; and happily, just as at Oxford, there seemed to be no one on the train whom either of them knew.

In the Brunei Bar of the Station Hotel, Storrs ordered a large brandy (two pieces of ice) for his young companion, and half a pint of Smith's bitter for himself. Then, leaving his own drink temporarily untouched, he walked out into Praed Street, thence making his way down to the cluster of small hotels in and around Sussex Gardens, several of them displaying
vacancies
signs. He had 'used' (was that the word?) two of them previously, but this time he decided to explore new territory.

'Double room?'

'One left, yeah. Just the one night, is it?' 'How much?'

'Seventy-five pounds for the two - with breakfast.' 'How much without breakfast?'

Storrs sensed that the middle-aged peroxide blonde was attuned to his intentions, for her eyes hardened knowingly behind the cigarette-stained reception counter.

'Seventy-five pounds.'

One experienced campaigner nodded to another experienced campaigner. 'Well, thank you, madam. I promise I'll call back and take the room - after I've had a look at it - if I can't find anything a
little
less expensive.'

He turned to go.

'Just a minute!
...
No breakfast, you say?'

'No. We're catching the sleeper to Inverness, and we just want a room for the day - you know? - a sort of habitation and a place.'

She squinted up at him through her cigarette smoke.

'Sixty-five?'

'Sixty.'

'OK.'

He counted out six ten-pound notes as, pushing the register forward, she reached behind her for Key Number 10.

It was, one may say, a satisfactory transaction.

Her glass was empty, and without seating himself he drained his own beer at a draught. 'Same again?'

'Please!' She pushed over the globed glass in which the semi-melted ice-cubes still remained.

Feeling most pleasantl
y relaxed, she looked around the thinly populated bar, and noticed (again!) the eyes of the middle-aged man seated across the room. But she gave no sign that she was aware of his interest, switching her glance instead to the balding, grey-white he
ad of the man leaning nonchalantl
y at the bar as he ordered their drinks.

Beside her once more, he clinked their glasses, feeling
(just as she did) most pleasantl
y relaxed.

'Quite a while since we sat here,' he volunteered.

'Couple o' months?'

'Ten weeks, if we wish to be exact.' 'Which, of course, we do, sir.'

Smiling, she sipped her second large brandy. Feeling good; feeling increasingly good. 'Hungry?' he asked. 'What for?'

He grinned. 'An hour in bed, perhaps - before we have a bite to eat?' 'Wine thrown in?' 'I'm trying to bribe you.'

'Well
...
if you
want
to go to bed for a
little
while first
...'

'I
think
I'd quite enjoy that.' 'One condition, though.' 'What?'

"You tell me what you were going to tell me - on the train.'

He nodded seriously. 'I'll tell you over the wine.'

It was, one may say, a satisfactory arrangement.

As they got up to leave, Storrs moved ahead of her to push open one of the swing-doors; and Rachel James (for such was she), a freelance physiotherapist practising up in North Oxford, was conscious of the same man's eyes upon her. Almost involuntarily she leaned her body backward, thrusting her breasts against the smooth white silk of her blouse as she lifted both her hands behind her head to tighten the ring which held her light brown hair in its pony-tail.

A pony-tail ten inches long.

Then the smiling hookers turned their attention to our shocked reporters.

'Don't be shy.' You paid for a good time, and that's what we want to give you.'

Our men feigned jet-lag, and declined

(Extract from the
News of the World,
5
February,
1995)

Geoffrey Owens
had a better knowledge of Soho than most people.

He'd been only nineteen when first he'd gone to London as a
junior reporter, when he'd rented a room just off Soho Square, and when during his first few months he'd regularly walked around the area there, experiencing the curiously compulsive attraction of names like Brewer Street, Greek Street, Old Compton Street, Wardour Street
...
a sort of litany of seediness and sleaze.

In those days, the mid-seventies, the striptease parlours, the porno cinemas, the topless bars - all somehow had been more wholesomely sinful, in the best sense of that word (or was it the worst?). Now, Soho had quite definitely changed for the better (or was it the worse?): more furtive and tawdry, more dishonest in its exploitation of the lonely, unloved men who would ever pace the pavements there and occasionally stop like rabbits in the headlights.

Yet Owens appeared far from mesmerized when in the early evening of 7 February he stopped outside Le Club Sexy. The first part of this establishment's name was intended (it must be assumed) to convey that
je-ne-sais-quoi
quality of Gallic eroticism; yet the other two parts perhaps suggested that the range of the proprietor's French was somewhat limited.

'Lookin' for a bit o' fun, love?'

The heavily mascara'd brunette appeared to be in her early twenties - quite a tall girl in her red high-heels, wearing black stockings, a minimal black skirt, and a low-cut, heavily sequined blouse stretched tightly over a large bosom - largely exposed - beneath the winking light-bulbs.

Deja Vu

And, ever the voyeur, Owens was momentarily aware of all the old weaknesses.

'Come in! Come down and join the fun!'

She took a step towards him and he felt the long, blood-red fingernails curling pleasingly in his palm.

It was a good routine, and one that worked with many and many a man.

One that seemed to be working with Owens.

'How much?'

'Only three-pound membership, that's all. It's a private club, see - know wha' I mean?' For a few seconds she raised the eyes beneath the empurpled lids towards Elysium.

'Is Gloria still here?'

The earthbound eyes were suddenly suspicious - yet curious, too. 'Who?'

'If Gloria's still here, she'll let me in for nothing.' 'Lots o' names 'ere, mistah: real names - stage names

'So what's your name, beautiful?'

'Look, you wanna come in? Three pound - OK?'

'You're not being much help, you know.'

'Why don't you just fuck off?'

'You don't know Gloria?'

'What the 'ell do you
want,
mate?' she asked fiercely.

His voice was very quiet as he replied. 'I used to live fairly close by. And she used to work here, then - Gloria did. She was a stripper - one of the best in the business, so everybody said.'

For the second time the eyes in their lurid sockets seemed to betray some interest.

'When was that?'

'Twenty-odd years ago.'

'Christ! She must be a bloody granny by now!' 'Dunno. She had a child, though, I know that - a daughter
..

A surprisingly tall, smartly suited Japanese man had been drawn into the magnetic field of Le Club Sexy. 'Come in! Come down and—' 'How much is charge?'

'Only three pound. It's a private club, see - and you gotta be a member.'

With a strangely trusting, wonderfully polite smile, the man took a crisp ten-pound note from his large wallet and handed it to the hostess, bowing graciously as she reached a hand behind her and parted the multicoloured vertical strips which masked from public view the threadbare carpeting on the narrow stairs leading down to the secret delights.

You give me change, please? I give you ten pound.'

'Just tell 'em downstairs, OK?'

'Why you not give me seven pound?'

'It'll be OK-OK?'

'OK'

Halfway down the stairs, the newly initiated member made a
little
note in a little black book, smiling (we may say) scrutably. He was a member of a Home Office Committee licensing all 'entertainment premises' in the district of Soho.

His expenses were generous: needed to be.

Sometimes he enjoyed his job.

'Don't you ever feel bad about that sort of thing?'

'What d'you mean?'

'He'll never get his change, will he?'

'Like I said, why don't you just fuck off!'

'Gloria used to feel bad sometimes - quite a civilized streak in that woman somewhere. You'd have liked her
...
Anyway, if you do come across her, just say you met me, Geoff Owens, will you? She'll remember me - certain to. Just tell her I've got a
little
proposition for her. She may be a bit down on her luck. You never know these days, and I wouldn't want to think she was on her uppers
...
or her daughter was, for that matter.'

'What's her daughter got to do with it?' The voice was sharp.

Owens smiled, confiden
tly now, lightl
y rubbing the back of his right wrist li
ghtly
across her blouse.