The Ladykiller (3 page)

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.’

George got into the car, his heart in his boots.

‘Well I never, Fred! That poor man was in shock, I reckon.’

‘You’re right there, Leonora love. Poor old git. Not safe to walk the sodding streets these days . . .’

‘That’s the truth, Fred. I even get worried in me flat, with all the doors locked. You hear so much about rape and violence, it makes your blood run cold. Then to see that poor old man getting beaten up like that . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished.

Sergeant Harris kept up a stream of chatter all the way to George’s house.

‘Look, sir. If you change your mind just pop into the station.’

‘I will, Officer. At the moment all I want is to get home. This is the house.’

The Panda car pulled up outside George’s home and he made a hasty retreat. Once inside he pulled off his overcoat and hung it on the banister, then went up to the bathroom. His face was slightly swollen but not too much. He breathed a sigh of relief.

He went back downstairs and checked his overcoat. It was covered in vomit. He cursed silently and set about cleaning it.

Fifty minutes later, there was no evidence of his escapade whatsoever. He made himself a cup of tea, and carrying it into the front room went to the lead light cupboard that housed the brandy and poured a generous measure into the cup. He sat on the settee and drank it gratefully.

When he had finished he felt better, and getting up from the sofa went up to his wife’s room and popped his head around the door. Her snoring was loud and heavy. He smiled to himself. Three Mogadons to knock the old bag out, but it was worth it.

Sneaking downstairs, he went to the hall cupboard. Opening it, he pulled up the carpet and folded it back. Then, using the screwdriver he left there for this express purpose, he prised up one of the floorboards. There, staring up at him, was his Mandy!

He picked up the video almost lovingly, afterwards replacing the floorboard and the carpet. He took the video into the lounge. Pouring himself another measure of Three Barrels brandy into his dirty cup, he watched the film. As he did, he felt the tension and pain of the last few hours leave his body. As Mandy was assaulted over and over by a motley crew of degenerates, George Markham finally relaxed.

Visions of Mrs Davidson cupping her breasts kept coming into his thoughts. Her furious rubbing of them. He watched Mandy take a man’s penis into her semen-smeared mouth and suddenly her face was Mrs Davidson’s, the man was him. He felt his breathing getting heavier.

One good thing had come out of the evening: at least he knew her name now.

The next day, George did not go to work. His face was swollen and he told Elaine that he had an abscess on his tooth. She dutifully rang his office and then left to go to her own job.

She worked in a large supermarket in Grantley town. She was a ‘checkout girl’ and hated it.

Left alone, George had an idea.

Dressing himself meticulously, he got into his car and drove to London. As he admired the Essex countryside (even in the cold and wet it looked magnificent) George made his plans. After the fiasco of the night before, he decided that he should get himself kitted out properly.

He turned on Essex Radio and sang along to the Carpenters as he drove. Lighthearted and gay, he made his way to London’s West End.

George walked nervously into the shop in Soho. It was his first time in a sex shop; he’d always sent for his books and videos by post. But once inside he felt strangely at ease.

Behind the counter was a man of about his age who smiled at him as he browsed around the shop. The only disappointment was that the books and videos were tame. Tame and boring. He picked up a leather mask and took it to the counter.

‘Eighty-five quid, please, guv.’

George meticulously counted out the money. It would be his Christmas present to himself. He felt almost jovial.

‘You into bondage?’

George nodded shyly. ‘Yes.’ He smiled his secret smile that just showed his teeth. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Was you after the hard porn like? Only if you was, I think I can help you . . .’

George picked up the carrier bag with the mask in and smiled again. Wider this time.

‘I’ve got snuff movies here for two hundred quid a throw.’

George was perplexed. ‘Snuff movies?’

The man saw his confusion and pulled him to one side to explain.

‘Look, they’re films with birds in . . . getting the business like. But they ain’t pretend, see? It’s really happening to them. That’s why they’re called “snuff” or “stuff” movies.’

The man could see that George was still unsure. He sighed. He had been in this game for thirty years, man and boy. He knew a nonce when he saw one, and he would swear on his granddaughter’s head that this bloke was one. A prize nonce.

‘Look, it’s the Yanks who thought them up. They kidnap some bird. Tie her up. Rape her and all that, you know . . . And her screams and moans are real, get it? Real. It’s true. I’ve got a new lot in and they are well dawdy, I can tell you. There’s one where the bird is actually dead and they still fuck the arse off her. Going like hot cakes they are.’

George’s eyes were gleaming.

‘How much did you say they were?’

‘Two hundred smackers, mate. And cheap at the price. I can tell yer.’

‘Can I pay by Barclaycard? Only I haven’t got any more cash, you see.’