Discipline was Gregor’s watchword when it came to whores. You had to rule them with an iron fist, these women. That was all they understood, because basically they were scum, but they were lucrative scum, you must never forget that. Provided you kept a good eye on them, reined them in when necessary, landed a punch or two in the right place (which was never the face, punters were so picky) your income was secure.
And this was why Gregor was pissed off one night at around eleven o’clock to find that two of his best payers, Julie and Charmaine, were not on their usual corner where he expected them to be. He knew this because he was looking out of the window of his toasty-warm flat over the newsagents and from there he could see the corner – and where the fuck were they? Granted, it was foggy out there, and bloody cold, but they were used to it, they’d been doing it for years. This just went to prove that what his dear old mum had told him on her deathbed was true – you couldn’t depend on a bloody soul.
Angry, muttering under his breath, he pulled on his silver toecapped shoes, his favourites, and his tailored jacket, and then he pounded off down the stairs to find out what was occurring. The cold hit him like a knife and he pulled his jacket around him, shivering. Bastard women, he’d have to discipline them over this. And then he was going to give each of them a stiff talking-to.
He stalked to the corner and looked around. Traffic drifted past, fog lights cutting a swathe through the pea-souper, all the streetlights wearing shadowy mustard-yellow haloes. The fog dampened all sound, stifled the traffic noise – it felt quite spooky out here. He paced around, looking up the road and down it. No sign of them. No sign of anyone.
‘Fuck it,’ he muttered.
‘Got a light?’ asked a voice behind him.
He spun around, startled. He hadn’t heard anyone come up. The fog was drifting, thick as cobwebs; he could feel the dampness of it on his face, seeping into his clothes. Fuck this for a game. There was a bulky man wearing a mac and with a hat pulled down low over his face standing right there under the sickly, soupy glow of the street light. He was holding a cigarette.
‘Yeah,’ said Gregor, distracted because he was looking for his bitches, who had vanished, apparently, and by fuck, by God, he swore he was going to mark their card good. Give them both a swift kick up the cunt. And then he was going to get back indoors in the warm.
Gregor pulled out his gold lighter, the one he’d had initialled; he liked his nice threads and he liked his accessories too, his eagle-tipped shoes, his gold initialled bracelet – he had a lot of style and he liked to show it.
Gregor flicked the lighter and a flame erupted, illuminating the other man’s face. Green eyes, he thought. That was rare, wasn’t it? That was the last thing Gregor thought and those mean green eyes were the last thing he saw. There was the slightest puff of movement behind him and then there was a crashing pain in his head. Then there was only blackness.
45
Limehouse, 1962
Time passed and Dolly grew up. Once past sixteen, Celia asked if she’d like to earn some more wedge, become a working girl like the others here; Celia would hire a cleaner to take over Dolly’s duties, what did she think?
‘What – do the man-and-woman thing?’ asked Dolly, shocked.
‘Fuck the punters, yes.’
‘Oh no. I don’t think so.’
‘Your decision. Up to a hundred sovs a night, though.’
‘How much?’
‘You heard me. The money’s damned good,’ said Celia. ‘Not to be sniffed at. Maybe set yourself up, do something with your life, something different one of these days with money like that behind you. What do you think of that?’
Dolly looked blank. The money sounded great. But to start all that again…
‘Think it over,’ said Celia.
Dolly did, long and hard. She went and sat on Darren’s bed and asked him what he thought of the idea. Darren was nice and he had style, and Dolly – who didn’t – admired that.
She did try. Sometimes she got the home dye out and coloured her straight mouse-brown hair – but she ended up with a yellowy blonde mop that looked hellish with her pink-toned skin. Thinking to improve it, she then permed it, and she had nice curls for a little while before her tortured barnet rebelled and took on the dull brittle texture of horse hair.
Ah yes, she tried. Didn’t see the point, really, but she did. She let her roots show on occasion, bit her nails. Truth to tell, she knew she looked a bit of a mess most of the time. Yeah, Darren had style all right. And so did Celia. Dolly thought sometimes that she’d give a lot to be as polished as them, but she was realistic enough to see that it just wasn’t going to happen.
‘I wondered when she was going to get round to asking you, with Cindy and Tabs moving on. I should bite her bloody arm off,’ Darren told Dolly, squinting his large blue eyes as he primped his glossy blond hair in the mirror, then carefully adjusted the peach chiffon scarf around his neck.
Grinning, he blew a kiss at his reflection and turned to Dolly. ‘Wake up, Doll. This is a nice place. I’ve never worked in better. Madam down there looks after us all, she don’t work us to death either. Gives us breaks, makes sure we’re kept safe, insists on the clients washing themselves first and using French letters. This place is properly run.’
Then Dolly went in to Ellie’s room where Ellie was loading six 45 rpm records on to the retaining arm of her little red Dansette. Dolly told her about Celia’s offer while they sat on Ellie’s bed and listened to ‘Stand By Me’, then ‘Crying’, and then Patsy Cline was wailing on about falling to pieces when Ellie said: ‘Do it.’
Ellie shook out a couple of Player’s cigarettes from a packet and passed Dolly one. She struck a match and lit them both up. ‘Lay down any ground rules first, though. Celia knows I don’t do the French polishes – the blow jobs – never have, don’t like that at all, and she makes sure the clients know it. Anything you really draw the line at, tell her.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Dolly, pulling a face as she exhaled smoke. She liked smoking. It calmed the nerves, even if it did turn your fingers yellow. And she was remembering the time when the punter had disregarded Ellie’s wishes, become obsessive and dangerous, and they’d had to call for the Delaney mob to do a dark alley job on the stupid cunt.
‘The money’s bloody good,’ said Ellie.
Dolly thought it over. It wouldn’t be like all that had happened in the past, with Dad. She would be in charge, that was the difference. And this time, should anything untoward happen, there was always the Delaneys to fall back on. She liked the thought of that, very much.
Thoughts of what happened years back always made her feel depressed. She tried not to think about it, but she didn’t always succeed. Sometimes, she still caught the bus and went down the end of the street where she had grown up. She watched for Dad going to work, and she saw Sarah and the boys, growing up now, in big school, and little Sand bumbling about the place. She couldn’t talk to them, couldn’t even know them any more, because they would ask why did she go, and she couldn’t tell them, couldn’t even speak of it.
She didn’t see Mum, but no surprises there; Mum was probably banged up in the funny farm by now, a permanent resident instead of a part-time visitor. Thinking of Mum was the worst thing of all, because she ought to feel sorry for her but she couldn’t.