There was a basin in one corner with a mirror above it and he quickly examined himself. The face of a stranger looked out at him, skin stretched tightly over the cheekbones, hair plastered against his skull.
There was only a cold-water tap, but he stripped and washed the dirt from his body, towelling himself down briskly afterwards. The suit fitted as well as could be expected and when he was dressed, he pushed his prison garments under a pile of secondhand clothing in one corner and went back into the shop.
Evans had been right. There was a float in the till. Three pounds in ten shilling notes and two in silver. He slipped the money into his hip pocket, selected a cheap trench-coat from a rack and found a hat on one of the counters. It was a size too large, but slanted over one ear it looked presentable.
He moved across to the door and opened it. There was no sound. He locked it gently and walked away along the street at a brisk pace and the sound of the singing from the church faded into the night behind him.
The rain hammered down and he turned up his collar and paused to get cigarettes and matches from a machine. The cigarette tasted different, something to do with being free, he decided, and felt suddenly alive for the first time in months.
One advantage of working on the building extension at the prison had been the fact that it had given him a fairly good idea of the layout of the town. He walked through the empty streets in the general direction of the river, finding Club Twenty-One with surprisingly little difficulty after inquiring the way from a youth waiting on a corner for his girl.
It was situated in a cobbled street leading down to a barge dock, an old converted house on the corner of an alley. There was a cheap, neon sign over the entrance and the board said members only. Brady pushed open the door and went in.
The corridor was long and dark with dirty, brown walls and a faintly unpleasant smell. An old, white-haired man in a faded blue uniform edged with tarnished braid, sat in a glass cubicle under the stairs, reading a newspaper.
He glanced up and pale, watery eyes examined Brady dispassionately. “Members only, sir!” he said in a light colourless voice.
Brady leaned in at the window and smiled. “I’m only in town for the night. A friend of mine told me that Twenty-One was a good place to have a little fun.”
“You’ve got to have a sponsor, sir,” the old man told him. “That’s the law.”
Brady took out a ten shilling note and smoothed it between his fingers. “That’s a real pity, especially as I’m only going to be in Manningham tonight.”
The old man coughed and put down his newspaper. He pulled forward a ledger and handed Brady a pen. “Under the circumstances I can’t see as how it would do any harm, sir. You’ll have to pay the pound membership fee, I’m afraid.”
“Happy to pay it,” Brady said. He signed the book in the name of Johnson and gave the old man three ten shilling notes. “Where do I go now?”
“Top of the stairs sir. Just follow the sound of the music.” Brady went up to the first floor quickly. At least he was inside. From now on he would have to play it by ear.
There was a small cloakroom at one end of the corridor and a young, badly painted girl of no more than sixteen polished her nails and looked bored.
She took Brady’s coat and hat and gave him a ticket. “Is Wilma in tonight?” he said casually.
The girl nodded. “Having a drink at the bar when I was in five minutes ago.”
The main room of the club had been constructed by knocking down the dividing walls of several smaller rooms. The place was crowded with tables and chairs, leaving only a postage-stamp dance floor and the music came from a large and brassy juke-box in one corner.
As yet, it was early in the evening, and the place was virtually empty. Two couples danced, another sat at a table, drinking.
Brady went towards the bar. He could see himself coming in the mirror and the suit looked surprisingly good. The barman leaned against the wall, polishing glasses. He looked like a Cypriot or Greek with crisply curling hair and a pretty-boy face.
Brady ordered a double brandy to create an impression and looked deliberately across at the woman who sat on the far curve of the bar, reading a magazine. “Ask the lady if she’ll have a drink with me,” he said.
“You drinking, Wilma?” the barman asked her.
She looked up and examined Brady calmly and critically. After a while she smiled. “Why not? I’ll have a Pimms, Dino.”
Her hair was a blonde halo and she walked round the bar and stood six feet away from him, a hand on her hip. “Do I know you?”
Her pose was studied and deliberate, he realized that. She looked as if she didn’t have a stitch on under the black sheath dress and was proud of it. Her breasts were sharply pointed and beautifully formed, the stomach faintly rounded, legs long and tapering to delicate ankles.
She was one hell of a woman — almost perfect It was her face which spoilt the picture; sensual, coarse and vulgar, the eyes cold and calculating and full of cunning. The face of an animal.
He grinned. “No, this is the first time I’ve been to Manningham.”
She slid on to the stool beside him, exposing a generous length of leg. “That’s funny, I could have sworn I’ve seen you somewhere before. You’re an American, aren’t you? We get a lot of Americans in here. There’s an Air Force station only a few miles out of town.”
“I’ve been up here on business from London,” he said. “I’m going back in the morning. Thought I might find myself a little fun before leaving.”
“Well, we’ll have to see what we can do, won’t we?” She finished her drink and slid off the stool. She smoothed the dress over her rounded hips and smiled invitingly. “Like to dance?”
They threaded their way between the tables as someone put a coin in the juke-box and it started to play a soft dreamy number with a saxophone wailing somewhere in the background.
Wilma melted into Brady’s arms, moulding her supple body into his, and slid an arm up behind his neck. As they moved slowly round the tiny floor, Brady tightened his grip, pulling her against him.
“Heh, watch it! I break easily!” she said.
He grinned down at her. “What do you think I’m made of — stone?”
“You tell me,” she said.
He had been apart from women for so long that it was easy to play the role. He caressed her back with one hand and whispered urgently. “For God’s sake, Wilma, isn’t there somewhere we can go?”
“Sure there is,” she said calmly. “But it’ll cost you.”
“Then let’s go,” he said.
She walked ahead of him, out into the corridor and down to the far end. Another flight of stairs lifted into the darkness to the second floor. Brady followed her up and she opened a door and led the way into a wellfurnished bedroom.
The walls were painted in pastel shades of blue to contrast with the pink carpets. The only furniture was the large divan bed which stood against the wall, a small table beside it on which stood a telephone.
Wilma turned off the main light and clicked another switch and concealed wall lights cast a subdued glow over the room. Brady stood just inside the door and she closed it, turning the key in the lock, and put her arms around his neck.
Whatever else one could say about her, she certainly knew her business. When she kissed him, her mouth opened and something seemed to crawl up his spine. He crushed her against him, returning the kiss avidly.
After a moment, she pulled away, breathless and laughing. “Let’s have a smoke,” she said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
He gave her a cigarette and she sprawled on the bed, her head against the pillow. “The more I look at you, the more convinced I am that I’ve seen your face somewhere.”