High society (22 page)

THE THOMPSON HOUSEHOLD, DALSTON

S
ylvie Thompson refused to look at the photographs of her daughter Jo Jo that Commander Leman had brought with him, but she wept just the same. Her husband Craig glanced briefly at one or two before pushing them aside and breaking down also. For some minutes Leman let them weep. There was nothing else to do. He had agonized long and hard over whether to show Jo Jo’s parents the photographs sent by her attackers. Under normal circumstances he would not have dreamt of doing so, but these were not normal circumstances.

Something inside Commander Leman had changed. He had come to a decision and in order to carry out that decision he would need help. Apart from his own wife and daughter, the people most likely to be prepared to help him were the Thompson family. This was why he had shown Craig Thompson the photographs of his unconscious daughter being brutally raped by four anonymous men.

AN OXFAM SHOP, WEST BROMWICH

D
o ye know, for a minute there Ah was so content to be alone and feeling the wind in ma face that Ah actually considered jus’ sitting up there until I died of exposure. That wouldnae ‘a been such a bad way tae go, you know…At least Ah’d ‘a been alone. ‘But then the horror o’ discovery occurred tae me. They wouldnae let me sit an’ die. Any moment ma broken skylight could be discovered an’ one o’ those slavin’ bastards would pop up through it tae persecute me further. Well Ah knew right then that if that were tae have happened they would no’ ha’ taken me back alive. As Ah crouched by the chimneypot Ah absolutely knew that if Goldie an’ the boys appeared Ah’d just pitch masel’ straight offa the roof there an’ then. tae be quite frank, Ah was no’ unattracted tae the idea of one final glorious flight on the wind tae the ultimate freedom available tae a poor girl wi’ nothin’ tae lose.

‘But then Ah thinks, ‘Come on, Jessie! Anyone who can get off drugs alone in a whorehouse can get off a fuckin’ roof, right?’ So Ah set masel’ tae edging ma way around the perimeter in the hope that I’d encounter a sturdy drainpipe. Well, ye don’t need tae be a DIY expert tae know that the advent o’ plastic plumbing accessories has made the shinning up and down o’ rooftops a far less common occurrence than it used tae be. The only old-fashioned metal pipe that remained on the building was sadly one that Ah knew tae run directly past the reception room window on the ground floor, then on down into the bin area at the basement, where the gang room was. If Ah went down that pipe Ah’d no’ be able tae get tae the pavement and instead would descend further, straight intae a trap, ‘cos the gate up from the bin area was locked an’ wired big time. Goldie didnae want any o’ his many rivals coming in at him through his gang room window.

‘Consequently, Ah had no choice but tae take ma chances with a plastic pipe that ran down the back o’ the house tae the back garden. Ah say garden, but o’ course it was no more than a disgusting tip which was all tae the good as far as Ah was concerned, since Ah reckoned a pile o’ rotting mattresses would make a better landing pad than any lawn. So that’s it, plan made, get on wi’ it, girl, no sense hanging about, get over the gutter an gi’ it a go…Oh, ma Goad, have you ever launched yoursel’ offa the roof o’ a five-storey house? Jeez, but it’s high, Ah mean it’s really fuckin’ high. I sticks one leg over, then the other, an’ it feels like I’m on the edge o’ the world, then Ah’m hanging on the gutter with ma fingers and ma chin, the wind roaring up ma G-stringed arse, working one hand down onto the pipe, ma bare toes searching for the first o’ the brackets that attach the pipe tae the wall. And then it’s time tae put ma trust in the plastic. Plastic pipe. Plastic bracket, metal bolts admittedly but intae brick which I can see is old and crumbly. Hey, one thing a heroin diet does for ye is it makes you light. Ah don’t know what Ah weigh, but it was no’ enough tae tear a plastic pipe off a rotten wall, an’ Goad knows how but Ah managed tae work ma way right down that pipe an’ end up putting ma stilettos on amongst the stinking filth that characterizes the back garden of a crack whorehouse.’

THE LEMAN HOUSEHOLD, DALSTON

C
ommander Leman and his family packed the last of their bags into the family car before their drive to Cornwall. There had been a long list of people to inform about their planned absence from London. The milkman, of course, and the newsagent. Also the neighbours, who held a set of keys and had promised to keep an eye on the house. Anna’s Aikido tutor, her netball coach and her Spanish dance class. Christine Leman’s reading circle and her parents, who were regular Sunday lunch guests at the Lemans’, but who would be joining them in Cornwall for the last week of the holiday.

Jo Jo’s parents, Sylvie and Craig Thompson, had also been informed. The teenaged corpse that lay beneath the soil at the East London Cemetery had bonded the two families for ever with innocent blood.

‘Dad,’ Anna Leman said, breaking a silence which had lasted all the way to the M25. ‘Jo Jo was attacked as a warning to you, wasn’t she?’

There was no point even trying to deny it. ‘Yes.’

‘They wanted you to think that the same thing could happen to me, right?’

‘Something like that, yes.’

Once more the family fell silent as the slow-grinding bumper to-bumper miles crawled by. Finally Anna spoke again.

‘There’s a term they use in trauma therapy…It means completing a cycle, getting free of something by sort of finishing it…It’s an American term; these things are always American, aren’t they?’

‘Closure,’ said Christine Leman. ‘Yes, that’s right. Closure.’

‘Closure,’ Commander Leman repeated. ‘So that’s what it’s called.’

AN OXFAM SHOP, WEST BROMWICH

T
here was a hole in the fence, or more tae say there was a bit o’ fence round a lot o’ holes. Goldie had concentrated all his security measures on the walls and the windows o’ the house. The garden was anyone’s who cared tae piss in it or jack up their scag. Well, the hole led intae an alley between Goldie’s house an’ the next one, an’ round tae the front where Ah’d bin brought all those weeks or months o’ hell before. Ah didnae glance back. Ah had no idea where Ah was or where Ah was goin’ except that Ah was goin’ tae get away from that house o’ hell. Ah had no money at all, but when Ah saw a cab for hire Ah hailed it straight away.

‘ ‘Take us down town,’ Ah says, ‘an Ah’ll gi’ ye a blowjob.’ The bloke just shakes his head in disbelief and drives off. Funny, Ah’d bin down in the gutter for so long that Ah’d completely forgotten that there are people in the world who don’t deal exclusively in sex and drugs. So Ah had tae walk and Ah walked quickly too. Dressed the way Ah am there was no way Ah was goin’ tae dawdle on any street corners and get ma head kicked in again by territorial streetwalkers. That was the thing that had begun ma last round o’ misery.

‘What Ah decided Ah needed was a coat. Ah was cold and ridiculously conspicuous in ma whore’s uniform, an what Ah needed more than anything else was a great big coat. Well, that’s where ma story sits currently. ‘Cos if ye walk long enough in any big town you’re goin’ tae happen upon a high street, an’ if ye look about ye amongst the line o’ kebab shops, sari shops and junk shops, you’re goin’ tae find an Oxfam shop or the like. Funny thing, it’s always in the poorest streets that ye find the charity shops, in’t it? Rents are low an’ plenty o’ people want secondhand clothes, Ah suppose. Nonetheless, it’s always struck me as strange that it’s the poor that have to keep the charity shops open…Anyways, here Ah am, hen, penniless an’ in desperate need o’ a few bits o’ clothes, in particular a coat an’ some boots. Now the truth is that if ye won’t gi’ us anything Ah’m goin’ taste have tae just grab something and run, because it’s gettin’ on in the day now, an’ I can’t last a night out in a boobtube. So what do ye say?’

Not surprisingly, the man gave Jessie a coat and some socks and boots, a jumper and five pounds from his own pocket.

NEWSPAPER LIBRARY, COLINDALE

T
he librarian stooped over the microfiche. ‘All this will be crunched down and digitized pretty soon. The entire library burnt onto a small cornflake. No need for me then, I imagine. You’ll be able to get what you want straight through your mobile phone.’

‘Yes. Absolutely.’

The librarian studied the screen. ‘You don’t know the name of this lecturer, sir?’

‘No, only the girl’s name: Samantha Spencer.’

‘Well, if it was a student-tutor scandal then I doubt that the girl would’ve been named. That’s always the way with these things. They can hang some poor man out to dry whether he did anything or not, while his female accuser gets to hide behind a mask of anonymity.’

‘Try a couple of buzzwords. Try ‘scandal’; ‘harassment’; ‘dismissal’; ‘ruin’.’

‘I’ve told you, sir, this is microfilm, not a computer database. You can’t just press the search button. The Cambridge Evening News hadn’t been digitized then. I’m afraid we’ll just have to use our eyes.’

The minutes ticked slowly by as the librarian trawled through the microfilm.

‘Ah, here’s something. Front page, too. Well, sex always is, isn’t it?…February ninety-nine. ‘Promising career ruined…Politics and Modern History’. This sounds like your man.’

The librarian pointed out the relevant pages on the screen and Peter settled down to read the sad story of a forty-three-year-old lecturer who slept with a student and paid a very heavy price.

The girl (19), who has not been named, brought complaints to the University Senate of continuous and unprovoked sexual harassment. Gordon Crozier (43), Professor of Politics and Modern History, did not deny that sexual intercourse had taken place on more than one occasion but strenuously denied that there had been any abuse, claiming that the relationship was consensual.

The girl may not have been named, but the Right Honourable Peter Paget, MP, knew her name. Of that he was absolutely sure.

The accusations are of a particularly serious nature because of the girl’s claims that Professor Crozier used his position of authority and trust to force his attentions upon her. She felt emotionally coerced into sex and claimed that she was allowed to feel that her success at university would be affected if she did not comply. Professor Crozier has issued a statement saying that there was no coercion and that he and the girl had simply had a brief affair, which, while inappropriate between a teacher and his student, was nonetheless legal and entirely consensual. The professor points out that he is not married and that he attempted to end the relationship shortly after it began. It was, he claims, this rejection of the girl that led her to make her accusations.

By the time Peter had finished reading the article, the librarian had unearthed the follow-up story, which had appeared a month later. The Professor of Politics and Modern History had been dismissed in disgrace. He thanked the librarian and returned to his office, where Samantha was waiting to inform him that he had been summoned to the office of the Home Secretary.

FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER

I
love touring. Always have. Right back to when I were a kid and I got the part of the Artful Dodger in a little regional tour of Oliver! Beat all the proper stage-school kids an’ all, and suddenly I’m stopping in digs in different towns and seeing the backstage of all these different theatres. How exciting was that? Then when I won Pop Hero and we did the package tour it were just totally mental and outrageous. Ten acts on the road together, fook me, talk about clash of egos…amongst the other nine, of course. I were above it even then, because it was so absolutely clear who were the boss. I’d got nearly as many votes as all the others put together. But what a laugh it was. Big artics out the back, loads of fat blokes with ponytails an’ arsehole cleavages humpin’ gear around. Screaming girls everywhere. Mind you, they were all about ten years old so that were no good. Besides which, I were knocking off two of me co-stars anyway, so that was sorted. Do you remember Sandi — the bird who covered ‘Save All Your Kisses For Me’ — how she come over all sweet and virginal on the telly? I’ll tell you what, that girl should get an Oscar for that innocent act she done…First and foremost it were her who really got me into coke. She come from this village in Dorset an’ from what she told me about it the local boozer sounded like South Central LA. It’s always the same, I reckon. Country kids do more drugs than city kids ‘cos they’re more bored, that an’ the drink-driving laws, right? Like you’ve got all these isolated country pubs an’ nobody can have more than a pint because the police are trying to earn a living entirely out o’ traffic fines. Well, what’s gonna happen? It’s obvious, in’t it, everybody starts taking drugs. Go in any olde worlde roast beef an’ warm beer thatched fookin’ alehouse in the country and you’ll find a heroin dealer playin’ darts with his mates.

‘Anyway, like I say, Sandi were the dirtiest bird I ever met, and do you know how she liked her cocaine? I’ve surprised a few NA meetings with this one. Up her arse. True. Not a word of a lie. The first night I was with her, I’m eighteen, remember…Mind you, I reckon she were only twenty. The first night I were with her, she says, ‘Oi want you to blow some charlie op moi crapper, Tom.’ West country accent, an’ all, so uncool but very sexy, I think. ‘There’s far more capillaries op youm arrse than op youm ‘ooter, Tom, trust old Sarndi.’ So she gets a Bic biro an’ takes the ink tube out, an’ gets on her knees on the bed and suddenly I’m staring at the brown-eyed Cyclops. ‘Jus’ youm sock a nice line op tharrt tube, Tommy, an’ then stick the pointy end o’ the tube in moi arrse. Only jus’ ‘arf an inch, loik, an’ blow gentle…Not a big puff, loik, ‘cos it’s dangerous t’blow in people’s orifices, loik.’

‘She loved it, an’ I’ll tell you what, she were right, ‘cos she done it to me and it were a very quick an’ lively buzz indeed. An’ sort of erotic, I suppose, particularly if you’re pissed up an’ mad for it. But t’be honest, I’ve not bothered with the method much since. I get self-conscious, see. Funny, but I do, kneeling on a bed with me buttocks spread. Bit on the intimate side, I reckon, borderin’ on graphic. I like doin’ it to the birds, though. Don’t get me wrong, it’s lovely that. An’ I’ve charmed a lot o’ girls that way. I find they can’t get enough of it.

‘Anyway, like I say, I love the road. I always go on the tour bus too, no limos, even now. I like the beer and the gags and the service station food. Don’t know why, but to me it’s romantic. You pull into some Road Chef on the M6 an’ all pile out. You’ve got your big fook-off minders, your drop-dead gorgeous backin’ singers, your wasted, monged-out old musos…an’ then me, right in the middle, the Boss, the Man. The Chairman o’ the fookin’ board. Everybody’s lookin’ an’ pointin’, but you’re just with your posse havin’ your pie an’ chips like a regular dude, except for your security blokes, o’ course. An’ then you get in the shop and buy a load o’ dirty mags to show to the backin’ singers, an’ water pistols an’ guns with sound effects or whatever, y’know, kids’ toys, and then you pile back on the coach and just ‘ave it large.

‘Simple pleasures, I know, but it does for me.

‘An’ when you get to the gig, what a buzz, man. My tours have got so out of control that it’s just humungous. I get a hard on jus’ thinkin’ about the size o’ my operation. There’s six artics parked out the back for the lights and staging. Six! Fook me, you could retake the Falkland Islands wi’ my crew. A hundred blokes, all with my name written on ‘em, all wi’ laminates hangin’ roun’ their necks sayin’ ‘Tommy’s Crew’. Tommy’s Crew, eh? Cool phrase or what? Big, tough ‘ard men what worked for the Who an’ Queen an’ now they’re Tommy’s crew an’ they’re all working their bollocks off for me t’make sure I am a fookin’ rock god.

‘What a vibe the ‘get in’ is. When I turn up for me soundcheck everythin’s goin’ off big time. Radios crackling, lights spinning, miles and miles of cable everywhere. Hordes o’ lovely little PAs on their mobiles making sure Britney gets good seats.

‘There’s caterin’ an’ ping-pong tables an’ pool an’ loads o’ the latest arcade games. An’ I get ushered through it all by a flyin’ wedge o’ minders, me lookin’ all serious an’ intense in me big coat an’ beanie hat…An’ here’s the point. Everyone knows, I mean everyone knows, that every single fookin’ light, every nut, every bolt, every plate o’ steak au poivre an’ chips, every crate o’ Pepsi, every case o’ ozzie Chardonnay, every drum riser, guitar pick, hot dog, fork lift, scaff rig, limo, artic an’ merchandizing stand. Every single front o’ house usher in their little uniforms, every grip, roadie, crew boss, fixer, publicist, site manager, health and safety fookwit bastard who reckons you’ve got to ‘ave ten metres between each punter in case one of ‘em spontaneously combusts. Every session muso, every backing singer, the entire six-tier management team, the twats from the record company, cooks, cleaners, costume girls, obliging poofs an’ posh little cuties what ask me if I need anything. Every fooker in that vast arena, every single fooker, knows that they and everything they see and touch is down to me. I’m paying for it and I’m paying for them. They’re my posse, it’s all my stuff, they’re all my people. It’s my fookin’ gig. An’ what’s more, the whole thing is surrounded, absolutely fookin’ surrounded, by an impregnable ring o’ security. Huge fook-off bastards wi’ hands like hams, big shaven-headed black geezers wi’ gold chains round their necks an’ rings like house bricks on their fingers. Tough lezzos wi’ skin’ead mullets an’ tattoos on their knuckles — you ‘ave to ‘ave female security on these days in case any hysterical bird needs restraining, otherwise, bang, some fookin’ mad dad’ll do the tour for sexual harassment…Security, I love it, my own private army. I mean, how good is that?

‘And there I am, being ushered into my space…The sanctum. The citadel at the centre of the fortified city. The castle keep from which I shall ride forth to do battle an’ gross seven hundred an’ fifty thousand quid a night.

‘They work so hard on my sanctums, them obliging poofs an’ posh little cuties what work for my record company. They do everything to give my great an’ tortured artistic soul rest an’ respite, because that is what I have a right to expect. Everything. Half an acre o’ flowers, vast fridges full o’ drinks, cushions, couches, a little gym, my special moody lighting wi’ all drapes over the lamps, ‘cos that’s how Keith Richard ‘as it. A massage bench, a cocktail bar, a cable telly the size of a wall, an’ a fook off sound system, an’ I mean fook off. Get this, this is true, my backstage sound system ‘as more grunt than Westlife’s fookin’ show rig. Cool or what?

‘An’ everyone’s sayin’, ‘What can I get you, Tommy?’ ‘When would you like to soundcheck, Tommy?’ ‘Is everythin’ absolutely fookin’ perfect for you, Tommy, ‘cos if not we’ll fookin’ sack everybody an’ start again.’

‘And then you sit down and, well…What do you do? How do you top it? How do you come to terms with being just so fookin’ special that everybody in your world is there for you?

‘You reach for the drugs, o’ course.’