The Ladykiller, Page 2

  ‘Are you coming, George?’ Peter Renshaw’s deep booming voice seemed to bounce off the walls of the office and hit George in the face.

  ‘Coming where?’ He peered at Renshaw.

  ‘To the do, Georgie. The bloody leaving do - for Jonesy.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Jonesy’s leaving do. Of course, of course. Yes, I’ll be going.’

  ‘Good on you. Got him a strippergram, the lot! Tell you what, Georgie, it will be a great do. Bl-oody great!’

  Peter Renshaw had a habit of stressing some words by chopping them in two to get his point across. It drove George up the wall.

  Renshaw was a salesman for the clothing company for which George worked. He towered over George in height and it was obvious he liked this. Peter Renshaw was in his early thirties and from what everyone could gather, he earned a lot of money. He was the number one salesman. He liked George for some strange reason and always made sure he was invited to any dos that were on the agenda.

  ‘I arranged the strippergram meself, Georgie boy. Biggest set of Bristols this side of the water. Can’t wait to see old Jonesy’s face.’

  George smiled.

  Old Jonesy . . . Howard Jones was younger than George himself. About forty-five was Howard Jones. George was fifty-one. He shuddered inwardly. Fifty-one. His life was nearly over. Peter Renshaw’s voice was still booming on.

  ‘It’s all arranged. The Pig and Whistle first. Twenty quid whip-round by the way. Then on to that new night-club - what’s it called? The Platinum Blonde, that’s it. Watch all the little birds stru-tting their stuff. Be a right laugh!’

  George carried on smiling.

  ‘Well, I’ll let you get on then. Got a hot piece of pussy down in accounts who’s just dy-ing for it. See you Friday then?’

  George nodded. ‘Yes. See you on Friday, Peter.’

  He watched the man walk from his office. Old Jonesy . . . He supposed they called him Old Markham. He looked at his watch. It was five thirty-five. He got out of his chair and, putting on his jacket, made his way out of the building.

  Kortone Separates was a thriving firm, even in the recession. George worked in the book-keeping department of accounts.

  He left the small corridor and went to the stairway that led to the car park. He never used the lifts. As he walked down the stairs he saw Miss Pearson kneeling on the floor picking up some papers. She was young, only about eighteen, and had worked for Kortone’s for a year. George had never spoken to her. She had left three buttons undone and from the landing above her George could see the swelling of her bosom as she stretched out her arms to gather the papers.

  He stared down at her. The creamy flesh was firm and inviting. The girl looked up at him. He saw the heavily made-up face and forced himself to move down the stairs. He bent down and retrieved some papers, handing them to her silently.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Markham.’

  She knew his name! George felt an enormous surge of pleasure over this little fact.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He stood up and looked down at her again. Then the door above opened and Peter Renshaw’s voice boomed down to them.

  ‘There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You sly old fox, George. Might have known you’d be where the pretty girls are!’

  Miss Pearson looked at Peter and gave a broad smile. George watched her face closely.

  ‘Oh, Peter.’ Her voice was husky and breathless. ‘I waited for you but . . .’

  George was aware of Peter Renshaw’s footsteps on the stairs, bringing him closer. He quickly picked up the rest of the papers from the floor and handed them to Miss Pearson.

  George walked away from them, certain that he would not be noticed. He was right. Neither of them said a word to him. He walked out of the building and unlocked his car, an A-reg Orion. He sat in the driving seat, waiting.

  The couple finally left the building and walked towards Peter’s car, Renshaw’s arm draped across the girl’s shoulder, one hand squeezing her breast. Miss Pearson giggled and pushed it away.

  Another slut. Another whore. What had Peter said? Dying for it? George closed his eyes and savoured the picture his words had conjured up.

  He visualised Miss Pearson, her body open to him, her legs sprawled apart, tied to the legs of a bed. Her hands tied behind her back, her heavily made-up face smiling at him as he approached her. She was begging for it. Begging and pleading with him . . .

  ‘Mr Markham?’ George’s eyes flew open.

  ‘Are you all right? You look very white.’

  George stared at the man looking in at the window of his car. It was the car park attendant.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ George smiled timidly. ‘I felt a bit tired, that’s all.’

  The man made a salute and straightened up.

  George watched him walk away, his heart hammering in his ears. He tried to get the picture back in his mind but it was no good. Trembling, he started up his car and drove into Grantley town centre. The books he had ordered were due in today. He smiled, enjoying the late summer sunshine and the exquisite feeling of anticipation.

  It crossed his mind briefly that his ‘hobby’ was now becoming an obsession, but he thrust the thought aside. His leg was still sore and he rubbed it absentmindedly as he drove.

  It was the end of September 1989.

  Chapter One

  Elaine Markham looked at her husband as he watched the television. His shiny balding head was nodding up and down as if he was agreeing with everything that the newscaster said.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, George! Stop agreeing with the TV.’

  He turned in his chair to face her, a hurt expression on his face. Elaine closed her eyes. She could feel her hands clenching into fists and made herself relax.

  ‘Shall I make you a cup of Ovaltine, dear?’ George asked in his soft voice.

  ‘Yes, you do that.’

  George went out to the impossibly clean kitchen and set about making the bedtime drinks. He put on the pan of milk and then, opening one of the kitchen cabinets, took out Elaine’s sleeping pills. Carefully grinding one between two spoons, he placed the powder in the cup with the sugar. Smiling, he poured steaming milk into the cup and stirred it vigorously. Then, removing two more of the sleeping pills, he took the Ovaltine and the pills into Elaine.

  ‘Here you are, dear. I brought your pills in for you as well.’ She took the drink and pills from him.

  ‘Thanks, George. Look, I know I go on at times . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘I don’t take the slightest bit of notice, Elaine. I know that I- well, that I irritate you is the word, I suppose?’

  George smiled at her, the sad smile that always made her want to rip him to shreds.

  She put the sleeping pills into her mouth and washed them down with the Ovaltine, burning her lips.

  George was still smiling.

  ‘This tastes bitter.’

  He raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his own drink.

  ‘Well, mine is fine, dear. Maybe it’s the aftertaste of the pills?’

  ‘Could be. I think I’ll take my drink up with me.’ She pulled herself from her seat with difficulty.

  ‘Night, Elaine. Sleep well.’

  She stared at her husband.

  ‘If I slept well, George, I wouldn’t be taking sleeping tablets.’

  ‘It’s just an expression, dear. That’s all.’

  Was it her imagination or was George different lately? Although she could not pinpoint what had changed, she had the distinct feeling that the balance between them was shifting slightly. Looking at her husband now, she would swear on a stack of bibles that he was laughing at her.

  ‘Good night then, dear,’ he said again.

  She tried to smile at her husband.

  ‘Yes. Good night, George.’

  She walked from the room and his gaze followed her. As she made her way up the stairs to their room, the feeling of uneasiness came over her once more. It was the beginning of December and George
had been ‘wrong’ somehow for the last couple of months. Nothing she could put her finger on exactly, but subtle little differences. He had taken to going out in the evenings for walks, for instance. He was only gone an hour or so but . . .

  She pulled off the candlewick dressing gown and sat on the edge of the bed. He had never once, in twenty-seven years of marriage, gone out walking anywhere. In fact, it was his pet hate.

  She took off her sheepskin-lined slippers and rubbed at the corn on her foot. Her legs were fat like the rest of her and were disfigured by varicose veins. She stared at them and shrugged.

  She sat against the pillows, picked up her latest Mills and Boon and read while the pills took effect and she finished her Ovaltine.

  The words were becoming blurred. She blinked her eyes, trying to focus. The pills were working quicker and quicker lately.

  Finally she gave up. Turning off the bedside lamp, she settled down to sleep.

  Ten minutes later, George popped his head around the bedroom door and grunted in satisfaction as he heard his wife’s heavy snores.

  George slipped out of the house. He had on his heaviest overcoat as the night air was cold and damp. In the street light he looked no different from anyone else who walked the streets late at night. He pulled on the cheesecutter hat he had recently purchased and began his prowling.

  He felt a freedom he had not experienced for twenty years in this new pastime. He walked the length and breadth of Grantley. Silently and diligently he walked. Tonight he had decided to walk by the flats that were on the other side of town. Taking a deep breath, he began his lonely trek.

  As he walked, he kept a vigilant eye out for open curtains and movement. He walked to the end of Bychester Terrace and turned right. Peabody Street took him on to a dirt road that led round the perimeter of Grantley. No busy traffic, only a lone car containing a courting couple here and there. George was outside the flats in Beacham Rise within fifteen minutes.

  Stationing himself under a large cherry tree opposite the small block he waited. It was eleven fifteen before he saw anything, and as usual it was the woman who lived on the second floor. The flats were what was termed ‘low rise’, only three storeys high. George had been here many times in the last eight weeks and it was always the woman on the second floor who provided his show. Where he was standing, under the cherry tree, was a small hill, part of the council landscaping plan, which gave him the perfect vantage point to see into the woman’s flat. Taking the small opera glasses from his pocket, he watched.

  Leonora Davidson yawned cavernously. She stretched her hands above her head and pulled up her thick black hair. She was dead tired. She would have to stop all the overtime, it was killing her.

  She unbuttoned her blouse slowly, letting it fall from her rounded shoulders on to the floor. She unhooked her bra and let her breasts fall free, rubbing them furiously as the itching started. Lifting one breast with her hand, she looked into the mirror of her dressing table. A thick red line marked the tender flesh. She sighed. She would have to get herself some decent bras.

  She cupped her breasts in her hands and pushed them up, as if weighing them. She had definitely put on weight. Then she unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Stepping out of it, she kicked it away from her.

  Leonora looked at her body in the mirror. Not bad for her age. A bit saggy these days but everyone lost the war with gravity eventually. She automatically held her stomach in, then let it out. Sod it! There was no one to admire her any more. Why bother?

  Yawning again, wider this time, she went to her dressing stool and picked up her nightie, a wincyette affair that kept her warm if nothing else. After one last stretch, she turned out the light and climbed into bed.

  George stood under the cherry tree entranced. When the light went off in the bedroom, he mumbled a curse under his breath and pushed the opera glasses back into his overcoat pocket. He was sweating. Taking a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, he mopped his forehead.

  Stupid bitch! What he would not give to be in that flat now. He would show her what it was all about, by Christ! Standing around naked. Inviting people to look at her. The slut! In his heightened excitement George was unaware of the two youths who had been watching him watching her.

  ‘What you doin’?’ The voice caused him to swivel around on the balls of his feet.

  ‘I . . . I beg your pardon?’ His voice squeaked with surprise. Two youths stood there, one wearing a long leather coat and with straggly brown hair. The other was wearing a large sheepskin and was what George knew was called a skinhead.

  ‘You heard, you old ponce. What was you doin’ watching Mrs Davidson getting undressed? You a nonce?’

  The boy in the leather coat stepped towards him, a menacing look on his face.

  ‘Got any money?’ This from the skinhead. George smelt a distinct odour of glue and vomit.

  He stared at them, nonplussed.

  The youth in the leather coat lurched towards him and he stepped back nimbly.

  ‘If you two don’t go away I will call for assistance.’

  The leather-coated boy mimicked him.

  ‘“If you two don’t go away I will call for assistance.” Well, we -’ he pointed to his friend and himself - ‘might just call the Filth ourselves. You’re a fucking peeping Tom, ain’t ya? So just give us your dosh and you can go. Quietly.’

  The skinhead heaved and George watched in revulsion as a stream of vomit ejaculated from the boy’s mouth. It landed just by his shoes, splashing them. The odour wafted into his nostrils as the sick steamed in the freezing night air.

  The leather-coated boy laughed uproariously at his friend, who was now hanging on to the cherry tree for support.

  Fumbling inside his coat, George pulled out two five-pound notes and handed them to the boy. Leather coat took them from him and pushed them into the pocket of his jeans.

  ‘Come on, Trev. Let’s trounce the bastard.’

  Trevor was not capable of letting go of the cherry tree and so the leather-coated boy launched himself at George alone. He held up his arms in self-defence as the first blows hit him in the face and head. He could feel himself being pushed down to the ground and the knowledge that he would end up lying in the skinhead’s vomit was all that kept him upright. He felt the cold sting as the boy’s fist came into contact with his face. Then he was rolling down the small hill, the leather-coated boy kicking him.

  ‘Oi! What’s all the racket about out there?’ A man’s deep voice echoed across the road and the boy looked up in its direction. A light was on on the third floor and a large man in a string vest was leaning out of a window, shaking his fist. Lights were going on all over the flats. George heard the two boys stumbling away while he lay on the cold ground, gasping for air.

  Leonora Davidson heard the shouting and leapt from her bed. She pulled on her dressing gown and slippers and looked out of her bedroom window. She saw the body of a man lying at the bottom of the small rise, underneath the lamp post. She could see the two youths running away. One of them, in a leather coat, was dragging his friend along. She gritted her teeth. No one was safe these days. It was obvious the poor man had been mugged! She walked from her flat, picking up her door keys as she went, and ran down to where a small crowd had gathered around the injured man.

  ‘What happened, Fred?’ Her breath steamed in the cold night air. She shivered.

  ‘Little buggers want slaughtering. Mugged this poor old bastard as he walked by!’

  George still lay on the ground, quite enjoying all the attention.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Leonora’s voice was filled with pity. ‘I called the police. They’ll be here in a minute.’

  George’s ears flapped at the word ‘police’. He was up off the ground and brushing himself down in record time.

  ‘Really, there’s no need for the police. They’ll never catch them anyway. And I’m in a hurry.’

  He began to walk away from the small gathering.

  ‘
But if you saw them you could give a description like.’ Fred’s voice was cajoling.

  George was shaking his bald head. He was aware that he had lost his hat somewhere along the line. He looked around for it frantically.

  Leonora walked over to him.

  ‘You’ve had a terrible shock. Shall I make you a nice cup of tea?’

  George could not believe what she was saying. She was inviting him into her home. If it had not been for her he would not be in this condition. The stupid whore!

  ‘It’s perfectly all right. I just want to get home.’

  His voice held its usual meekness and he saw her smile at him pityingly.

  A police car sped around the corner of the flats and screeched to a halt by the little crowd. George put his hand over his face in dismay. This was all he needed.

  ‘All right, all right. Calm down. What happened?’

  Everyone started talking at once.

  Sergeant Harris’s voice boomed out and George guessed it would wake up any of the residents who were not already up.

  Sergeant Harris looked at Leonora.

  ‘What happened, love?’

  ‘This poor man was mugged. Right here.’ She pointed to George who was trying to creep away.

  The sergeant looked at him, bewildered.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I . . . I really must get home. My wife will be worried . . .’

  Harris smiled at him. In shock, he thought to himself.

  ‘Come on, sir. Come to the station and we can get this all sorted out in no time.’

  ‘NO!’ George was amazed at the sound of his own voice. ‘I . . . I . . . Oh, leave me alone!’

  Harris stared at him stonily. ‘We’re only trying to help, sir.’

  ‘You know you won’t catch them. I just want to go home and forget about it.’

  He began to walk away as quickly as he could.

  The small crowd stared after his retreating back. Sergeant Harris nodded at PC Downes and they got back into their Panda car and followed him.

  ‘Get in, sir. The least we can do is give you a lift.’