The Ladykiller (61 page)

George was immediately alert.

‘I hope you didn’t muck it all up?’

Tony was aware of the underlying threat in his voice. ‘They’re due at my firm tomorrow. I don’t want any worries, Tony.’

He realised his mistake. He was trying to impress on George that he had earned his money and all he had done was make him nervous. And George nervous made Tony nervous.

‘Don’t worry, I did a great job, I swear it. They never guessed a thing, honest.’

George visibly relaxed and so did Tony.

He kept forgetting that George was a murderer. A dangerous man. If only he didn’t look so nondescript. All the murderers he had ever read about or known - and he had known a few in his time - had looked a few sandwiches short of a picnic. But this bloke here, he looked like a flasher. A weekend pervie. He looked like a lot of things - but not a murderer.

He didn’t look dangerous. But he was.

‘Drink up and we’ll get going. I have an appointment.’

Tony tossed back his Scotch and they walked out into the cold air. He followed George to his car.

‘Where’s the money?’

George opened the door and motioned for him to get into the car. Tony sat in the passenger seat. The nervousness was back.

‘Show me the passport, please.’

Tony slipped it from his pocket and George glanced at it in the dim glow of the car light.

‘Where’s the temporary one I gave you?’

Tony took that from his pocket. George put both passports into the glove compartment and then turned to face Tony.

‘I’m not paying you a penny.’

‘You what!’

‘I said, I’m not paying you, Tony.’ George grinned. ‘Oh, come on, you never really thought I would, did you? I thought you were a man of the world.’

George chuckled. He was enjoying himself.

Tony’s mind was reeling. He stared into George’s eyes and realised he had been wrong earlier. George like this, with that horrible throaty chuckle and his feverish eyes,
did
look like a murderer. He looked diabolical.

Tony saw his mouth opening wider and the dark cavern that held his pink tongue seemed to draw him. He saw not only the money for the passport going down the Swanee, but also the blackmail money.

George held all the cards, because he knew Tony was frightened of him.

‘Let’s just say that we had a little misunderstanding regarding the money, shall we, Tony?’

He dropped his gaze and nodded.

George grinned to himself.

‘Good man. Now if you don’t mind, I have an important engagement.’

Tony slipped from the car and watched as George drove away. Then he went back into the pub and ordered himself another large Scotch.

The barman looked at him curiously and Tony took his drink and went back to the corner table.

There was only one avenue left open to him: Patrick Kelly.

It wasn’t just the money now, either. He wanted to see George get his comeuppance.

There was just one cloud on the horizon. How to give the name to Kelly without his own involvement being discovered. If Kelly found out that he had known the murderer of his daughter and had not told him . . . If he found out that he, Tony Jones, had taken the blood test for the man responsible . . . Tony felt faint with fright just thinking about it. How the hell had he got so embroiled?

A little voice in the back of his head said: ‘Because you’re greedy, Tony, that’s why.’

He tossed back the drink and stayed sitting in the bar. There was a way to see Kelly and he would work it out, but it would take a bit of thinking about.

He was going to pay George Markham back a hundredfold and save his own skin at the same time.

George walked into the smoky heat of the Fox Revived and there was Peter Renshaw and a crowd of other men standing at the bar. Peter saw him and shouted: ‘Here he is, the man of the moment!’

George smiled. All the others smiled back. He had a drink thrust into his hand and smiled again. He didn’t mind the warehouseman being there now. In his euphoric state of mind they were his bosom pals. He was pleased with the turnout. If only Elaine could see him now. Why, there must be twenty-five men here. For his leaving do. For him.

Renshaw slapped his back and brought his red beery face close.

‘We’ll have a few more here and then we’ll make tracks to a nightclub. I know just the place. Drink up, man. We’re a good few ahead of you!’

One of the warehousemen, a large, bulky man called Pearson, winked at George and then shouted to the barmaid: ‘Another round here, love.’

He belched loudly and George felt his familiar distaste, but tonight he fought it down.

He was going to enjoy himself if it killed him.

He drank his brandy straight down and felt another being pushed into his hand almost immediately. The pub was filling up and the noise was getting louder. People were coming and going. George’s crowd had taken over the right-hand side of the bar. He was in the midst of the crowd. For the first time in his life he felt he belonged. The men from the warehouse made him feel welcome. They patted him on the back and wished him good luck. They made dirty remarks about Mrs Denham’s breasts and George felt a part of it all. When they left an hour later, in two minibuses, he was elated.

Renshaw certainly knew how to enjoy himself, by God. George regretted now not going on all the other dos Renshaw had planned.

The minibuses stopped outside a club in the seedier part of Grantley. They piled out on to the dirty pavement, then Renshaw produced a pile of tickets and they all walked boisterously past the dark-suited men on the door. George had heard of the Flamingo Club, indeed he had once wanted to join it, but the fear of Elaine finding out had put him off. Now here he was, sitting at a table with his friends and waiting for the pretty girls in their scanty outfits to serve them drinks.

The lights dimmed and a spotlight came on, illuminating the tiny dance floor. All the men cheered as a woman walked out into the bright light. She was wearing a schoolgirl outfit and her hair was in two long plaits that somehow stood out from her head like a St Trinian’s girl. She had large freckles painted over her nose and her breasts strained against the tunic.

George’s eyes were shining with excitement.

The strains of ‘Daddy’s Gonna Buy Me a Bow-Wow’ crackled out of the speakers.

The woman bent over, showing navy blue school knickers, pulling them away from her body. The men all shouted in satisfaction as the pink slit was revealed. George looked around him in wonderment. He was surprised to see another drink in front of him and drank from it greedily, smacking his lips together as he had seen the warehouseman do.

His eyes never left the stage now as the woman began undressing, the men cat calling and whistling. She walked over to their tables and, grinning, sat on one of the warehousemen’s laps, her legs spread. She gently rubbed herself up and down his legs. Then, undoing her side buttons, she let her tunic top fall to the floor. Her large baggy breasts sprang free and she pushed them into the man’s face. George was enthralled.

Getting up, she pulled the navy knickers up her belly, so the lips of her vagina poked out of the sides, then gradually she began to pull them down, her eyes roaming over the men as she did this as if it was a personal show for each of them.

Then the music stopped, the lights went off and she was gone, amid clapping, whistling and stamping of feet.

Next was a female impersonator. A few tables away was a crowd of young men on a stag night. They had been served chicken and chips in baskets and the man on the stage, his face garishly made up under a deep red wig, walked to one of the young men and said: ‘Here, love, do you know the difference between a big cock and a chicken leg?’

The boy went red and shook his head, his friends roaring with laughter. The man put his arm around him and said, ‘Want to come on a picnic?’

George laughed as hard as the rest of them. He was amazed to find that he now had three separate drinks in front of him. Peter caught his eye and winked and George felt sudden affection for him, his usual annoyance forgotten. Peter had arranged this and George would remember that to his dying day. He was where he should be. Among men who liked what he liked. Who saw women for what they really were.

The female impersonator was finished and another stripper came on. Peter Renshaw called to the impersonator and he walked over to their table in a parody of a woman’s wiggle.

‘Hello, Peter, how are you?’

‘All right, Davey. We’re on a leaving do. How much for the live show?’

The impersonator grinned.

‘Same as usual, Peter. You do the whip round and I’ll sort out the girls. Don’t forget my drink on top, will you?’

Renshaw grinned. ‘Good man.’

The impersonator laughed. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Come on, lads, get your dosh out, we’ve got ourselves a live show.’

He turned to George. ‘Ever seen one before?’

He shook his head, amazed.

‘You’ll love it, Georgie boy. Great fun.’

He got up from the table and went to the others. Men were putting in money hand over fist. On his own table a pile of money now stood in the centre so George took out his wallet and put twenty pounds in the kitty. That was the average amount men were contributing.

Within minutes, Peter had arranged it all. George was impressed. The bouncers on the door had fifty each to lock up for the duration and the girls themselves had been paid. There was an air of expectancy in the club now.

George had removed his jacket. He licked a film of perspiration from his lips.

The spotlight was back on and two women were standing semi-naked, chatting together and smoking cigarettes while the floor was being set up. The young bridegroom-to-be and one of the warehousemen had been unanimously chosen to be the star performers and all the other men waited with bated breath for the real show to start.

The female impersonator came out with a microphone and announced that he would be the master of ceremonies. The young bridegroom and the warehouseman were stripped naked, the women put their cigarettes out and, plastering professional smiles on their faces, walked on to the stage area, smiling and waving at the audience.

George was mesmerised. The two women knelt down and took the men in their mouths. There were bets going on as to who would ejaculate first. The warehouseman was gripping the woman’s hair and forcing his penis into her mouth. His cronies were shouting with excitement.

‘Go on, my son!’

‘Choke the fucking bitch!’

The warehouseman was making lewd faces and thrusting his hips around, loving the attention.

The young groom-to-be could not even get an erection. He was laughing and at the same time totally embarrassed. Finally, one of the other men at his table got up and, pulling off his trousers, lunged for the girl.

‘Here you are, get hold of that.’

A loud cheer went up.

George watched, entranced, as the women were used by the men. Finally, the female impersonator called an end to everything and the men returned to their tables like conquering heroes.

The two women left the stage exhausted. Their elaborate hairdos were hanging in lank strands and their body make-up was patchy and running with sweat.

All the men were ragging the warehouseman who was now dressing himself amidst shouting and swearing.

George sat among them. The show had excited him. His eyes were red-rimmed now and feverish. He had shouted himself hoarse along with all the other men.

In his wildest dreams he had never envisaged anything quite like this. For the first time in his life George was sharing his pastime with others. Others who were enjoying themselves with him.

He felt an absurd feeling of happiness that made him want to cry. He felt the sting of tears and hastily blinked them away.

Peter Renshaw noticed and put his arm around his shoulder.

‘Cheer up, Georgie boy. It’s your leaving do.’

He faced Peter and said, ‘This has been the best night of my life, Peter. Thank you. Thank you so very much.’

Peter Renshaw was gratified that George had had a good time. He had always felt a sadness in George, a strangeness that at times had bothered him. He smiled at him now. The drink was making them feel maudlin, he decided.

‘Have another, Georgie boy, there’s another stripper on in a minute.’

He nodded and picked up his drink.

Someone proposed a toast to George and, pink with happiness, he watched them all raise their glasses. Another round of drinks was delivered to the table and the men began some serious drinking.

A little while later the two women who had provided the show came to the table fully dressed for their money. The older of the two, a hard-faced blonde, held out her hand to Peter Renshaw.

‘We want our money, mate, now.’

Her voice was weary.

‘How about a please then, you old boot?’

This from the warehouseman who had taken part in the earlier proceedings.

The woman turned on him.

‘Why don’t you shut your mouth and give your arse a chance?’

All the men began laughing at this. The warehouseman picked up a pint of lager, gesturing to the other men at the table. They all did the same. Then, as if all of one mind, they threw the drinks over the two women, soaking them.

George’s eyes were shining and he shouted, ‘That’ll teach you your manners, you piece of dirty scum!’

All the men laughed, mostly in amazement.

‘That’s right, Georgie, you tell ’em.’

‘Smack her in the mouth.’

George heard the calls and preened himself.

The older woman wiped her face and held out her hand again. ‘I want the money. Please.’

Peter, sorry for them now, handed it over. They walked back to their dressing room despondently. It was always the same after a live show. The men turned on you, because deep down they were ashamed of what they’d done. Once the excitement wore off, they blamed you for their own perversion. They’d go home now to their wives or their girlfriends, full of themselves. Tomorrow their night out would be the talk of their pub. But inside, deep down inside, they were ashamed of themselves. Ashamed of what they had done or witnessed.