Death Is Now My Neighbour Part 2

A few minutes later, after pouring half his can of McEwan's Export Ale into a plasdc container, he turned towards her again; and she felt his dry, slightly cracked lips pressed upon her right cheek. Then she heard him say the wonderful word that someone else had heard a month or two before; heard him say 'Sorry'.

She opened her white-leather handbag and took out a tube of lip-salve. As she pa.s.sed it to him, she felt his firm, slim fingers move against the back of her wrist; then move along her lower arm, beneath the sleeve of her light-mauve Jaeger jacket: the fingers of a pianist. And she knew that very soon - the Turbo Express had just left Reading - the pianist would have been granted the licence to play with her body once more, as though he were rejoicing in a gentle Schubert melody.

She had never known a man so much in control of himself.

Or of her.

The train stopped just before Slough.

When, ten minutes later, it slowly began to move forward again, the Senior Conductor decided to introduce himself over the intercom.

'Ladies and Gentlemen. Due to a signalling failure at Slough, this train will now arrive at Paddington approximately fifteen minutes late. We apologize to customers for this delay.'

The man and the woman, seated now more closely together, turned to each other - and smiled.

'What are you thinking?' she asked.

"You often ask me that, you know. Sometimes I'm not thinking of anything.'

'Well?'

'I was only thinking that our Senior Conductor doesn't seem to know the difference between "due to" and "owing to".'

'Not sure I do. I do. Does it matter?' Does it matter?'

'Of course it matters.'

'But you won't let it come between us?'

'I won't let anything come between us,' he whispered into her ear.

For a few seconds they looked lovingly at each other. Then he lowered his eyes, removed a splayed left hand from her stockinged thigh, and drank his last mouthful of beer.

'Just before we get into Paddington, Rachel, there's something important I ought to tell you.'

She turned to him - her eyes suddenly alarmed. He wanted to put a stop to the affair? He wanted to get rid of her?

He'd found another woman? (Apart from his wife, of course.) 'Tickets, please!'

He looked as if he might be making his maiden voyage, the young ticket-collector, for he was scrutinizing each ticket proffered to him with preternatural concentration.

The man took both his own and the young woman's ticket from his wallet: cheap-day returns.

'This yours, sir?'

Yes.'

'You an OAP?'

'As a matter of fact I am not, no.' (The tone of his voice was quietly arrogant.) 'To draw a senior-citizen pension in the United Kingdom a man has to be sixty-five years of age. But a Senior Railcard is available to a man who has pa.s.sed his sixtieth birthday - as doubtless you know.'

'Could I see your Railcard, sir?'

With a sigh of resignation, the man produced his card. And the slightly fl.u.s.tered, spotty-faced youth duly studied the details.

Valid: until 07 MAY 96 MAY 96; Issued to: Mr J. C. Storrs Issued to: Mr J. C. Storrs.

'How the h.e.l.l does he think I got my ticket at Oxford without showing that? that?' asked the Senior Fellow of Lonsdale. asked the Senior Fellow of Lonsdale.

'He's only doing his duty, poor lad. And he's got awful acne.'

'You're right, yes.'

She took his hand in hers, moving more closely again. And within a few minutes the PADDINGTON PADDINGTON sign pa.s.sed by as the Drain drew slowly into the long platform. In a rather sad voice, the Senior Conductor now made his second announcement- 'All change, please! All change! This train has now terminated.' sign pa.s.sed by as the Drain drew slowly into the long platform. In a rather sad voice, the Senior Conductor now made his second announcement- 'All change, please! All change! This train has now terminated.'

They waited until their fellow-pa.s.sengers had alighted; and happily, just as at Oxford, there seemed to be no one on the train whom either of them knew.

In the Brunei Bar of the Station Hotel, Storrs ordered a large brandy (two pieces of ice) for his young companion, and half a pint of Smith's bitter for himself. Then, leaving his own drink temporarily untouched, he walked out into Praed Street, thence making his way down to the cl.u.s.ter of small hotels in and around Suss.e.x Gardens, several of them displaying VACANCIES VACANCIES signs. He had 'used' (was that the word?) two of them previously, but this time he decided to explore new territory. signs. He had 'used' (was that the word?) two of them previously, but this time he decided to explore new territory.

'Double room?'

'One left, yeah. Just the one night, is it?' 'How much?'

'Seventy-five pounds for the two - with breakfast.' 'How much without breakfast?'

Storrs sensed that the middle-aged peroxide blonde was attuned to his intentions, for her eyes hardened knowingly behind the cigarette-stained reception counter.

'Seventy-five pounds.'

One experienced campaigner nodded to another experienced campaigner. 'Well, thank you, madam. I promise I'll call back and take the room - after I've had a look at it - if I can't find anything a little less expensive.'

He turned to go.

'Just a minute! ... No breakfast, you say?'

'No. We're catching the sleeper to Inverness, and we just want a room for the day - you know? - a sort of habitation and a place.'

She squinted up at him through her cigarette smoke.

'Sixty-five?'

'Sixty.'

'OK.'.

He counted out six ten-pound notes as, pus.h.i.+ng the register forward, she reached behind her for Key Number 10.

It was, one may say, a satisfactory transaction.

Her gla.s.s was empty, and without seating himself he drained his own beer at a draught. 'Same again?'

'Please!' She pushed over the globed gla.s.s in which the semi-melted ice-cubes still remained.

Feeling most pleasantly relaxed, she looked around the thinly populated bar, and noticed (again!) the eyes of the middle-aged man seated across the room. But she gave no sign that she was aware of his interest, switching her glance instead to the balding, grey-white head of the man leaning nonchalantly at the bar as he ordered their drinks.

Beside her once more, he clinked their gla.s.ses, feeling (just as she did) most pleasantly relaxed.

'Quite a while since we sat here,' he volunteered.

'Couple o' months?'

'Ten weeks, if we wish to be exact.' 'Which, of course, we do, sir.'

Smiling, she sipped her second large brandy. Feeling good; feeling increasingly good. 'Hungry?' he asked. 'What for?'

He grinned. 'An hour in bed, perhaps - before we have a bite to eat?' 'Wine thrown in?' 'I'm trying to bribe you.'

'Well ... if you want want to go to bed for a little while first...' to go to bed for a little while first...'

'I think think I'd quite enjoy that.' 'One condition, though.' 'What?' I'd quite enjoy that.' 'One condition, though.' 'What?'

"You tell me what you were going to tell me - on the train.'

He nodded seriously. 'I'll tell you over the wine.'

It was, one may say, a satisfactory arrangement.

As they got up to leave, Storrs moved ahead of her to push open one of the swing-doors; and Rachel James (for such was she), a freelance physiotherapist practising up in North Oxford, was conscious of the same man's eyes upon her. Almost involuntarily she leaned her body backward, thrusting her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against the smooth white silk of her blouse as she lifted both her hands behind her head to tighten the ring which held her light brown hair in its pony-tail.

A pony-tail ten inches long.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Then the smiling hookers turned their attention to our shocked reporters.

'Don't be shy.' You paid for a good time, and that's what we want to give you.'

Our men feigned jet-lag, and declined (Extract from the News of the World, News of the World, 5 5 February, February, 1995) 1995) GEOFFREY O OWENS had a better knowledge of Soho than most people. had a better knowledge of Soho than most people.

He'd been only nineteen when first he'd gone to London as a junior reporter, when he'd rented a room just off Soho Square, and when during his first few months he'd regularly walked around the area there, experiencing the curiously compulsive attraction of names like Brewer Street, Greek Street, Old Compton Street, Wardour Street... a sort of litany of seediness and sleaze.

In those days, the mid-seventies, the striptease parlours, the p.o.r.no cinemas, the topless bars - all somehow had been more wholesomely sinful, in the best sense of that word (or was it the worst?). Now, Soho had quite definitely changed for the better (or was it the worse?): more furtive and tawdry, more dishonest in its exploitation of the lonely, unloved men who would ever pace the pavements there and occasionally stop like rabbits in the headlights.

Yet Owens appeared far from mesmerized when in the early evening of 7 February he stopped outside Le Club s.e.xy. The first part of this establishment's name was intended (it must be a.s.sumed) to convey that je-ne-sais-quoi je-ne-sais-quoi quality of Gallic eroticism; yet the other two parts perhaps suggested that the range of the proprietor's French was somewhat limited. quality of Gallic eroticism; yet the other two parts perhaps suggested that the range of the proprietor's French was somewhat limited.

'Lookin' for a bit o' fun, love?'

The heavily mascara'd brunette appeared to be in her early twenties - quite a tall girl in her red high-heels, wearing black stockings, a minimal black skirt, and a low-cut, heavily sequined blouse stretched tightly over a large bosom - largely exposed - beneath the winking light-bulbs.

Deja Vu And, ever the voyeur, Owens was momentarily aware of all the old weaknesses.

'Come in! Come down and join the fun!'

She took a step towards him and he felt the long, blood-red fingernails curling pleasingly in his palm.

It was a good routine, and one that worked with many and many a man.

One that seemed to be working with Owens.

'How much?'

'Only three-pound members.h.i.+p, that's all. It's a private club, see - know wha' I mean?' For a few seconds she raised the eyes beneath the empurpled lids towards Elysium.

'Is Gloria still here?'

The earthbound eyes were suddenly suspicious - yet curious, too. 'Who?'

'If Gloria's still here, she'll let me in for nothing.' 'Lots o' names 'ere, mistah: real names - stage names 'So what's your name, beautiful?'

'Look, you wanna come in? Three pound - OK?'

'You're not being much help, you know.'

'Why don't you just f.u.c.k off?'

'You don't know Gloria?'

'What the 'ell do you want, want, mate?' she asked fiercely. mate?' she asked fiercely.

His voice was very quiet as he replied. 'I used to live fairly close by. And she used to work here, then - Gloria did. She was a stripper - one of the best in the business, so everybody said.'

For the second time the eyes in their lurid sockets seemed to betray some interest.

'When was that?'

'Twenty-odd years ago.'

'Christ! She must be a b.l.o.o.d.y granny by now!' 'Dunno. She had a child, though, I know that - a daughter..

A surprisingly tall, smartly suited j.a.panese man had been drawn into the magnetic field of Le Club s.e.xy. 'Come in! Come down and-' 'How much is charge?'

'Only three pound. It's a private club, see - and you gotta be a member.'