It's rehearsal time in the dim, smelly cavern of a basement strip club in deepest Soho. Chan the Chinese carpenter is struggling with an enormous cardboard computer containing Errol the male dancer; Vi the stripper is shivering in a rubber diving suit complete with strategically-placed see-through plastic panels; Honor Twiss, purveyor of high-class breasts and buttocks to the general public, is shouting instructions in a voice only slightly edged with hysteria – and the stage is set for one of the most hilarious farces you'll ever have the pleasure to read.

IT'S YOUR MONEY IN MY POCKET, DEAR, NOT MINE IN YOURS

PETER LAWRENCE and CHRIS TRENGOVE

QUARTET BOOKS LONDON First published in Great Britain by Quartet Books Limited 1973 27 Goodge Street, London W.1 Copyright © 1973 by Peter Lawrence and Chris Trengove

ISBN 0 704 32015 0 Casebound edition 0 704 33009 1 Midway edition Printed Offset Litho in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, London, Fakenham and Reading The Midway edition of this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. This book is published at a net price and is supplied subject to the Publishers Association Standard Conditions of Sale registered under the Restrictive Trades Practices Act, 1956. All the episodes and characters are fictitious.

Their settings and situations are carefully researched and authentic.

1 Prologue I 2 Rehearsal I 8 3 Rehearsal II 27 4 Rehearsal III 35 5 Flashback 48 6 Performance I 55 7 Performance II 72 8 Performance III 90 9 Performance IV: Tiger Belle 96

10 Interlude 100 11 Some quick takes 129 12 Finale 141 13 Celebration 148

1 PROLOGUE

'Fuck this,' thinks Flower Bottle, wiping the rain from his glasses. 'It's raining.' He takes the beer bottle from on top of his head and throws it into the gutter. Brown glass splinters splash over a passing Hooray Henry's foot. The Hooray Henry raises his eyebrows at Flower, but it's too wet to start an argument so he hurries on. Flower plucks a battered carnation from behind his ear and peers at it. He raises his glasses to get a better look and decides it'll keep till tomorrow. He folds the flower into a handkerchief, pats it into his jacket pocket and shuffles off. As he passes Whelks Willie's stall, Whelks calls out to him: 'Wossis 'en, 'ey? 'Alf-day closin', is it Flah?' 'Fuck this – 's rainin', in' it.' 'Can' you dance in ver rain, 'en?' 'Use yer 'ead, mate. Where's me bleedin' punters?' Oliver Fingers Blue turns to Whelks: "Oo's 'at geezer, en? I ain't never seen 'im before.' 'Vat, Oliver my son, is one of ver last of ver best: Flah Bottle, so called on account of 'e dances abaht wiv ver bottle of ale on 'is 'ead an' a flah in 'is ear.' 'Bit of a nutter, is 'e? Whas 'e do 'at for?' 'Well, in ver first place, Oliver, 'e does it to make a livin'.

1 'E jumps abaht a bit. Punters all fink 'e's a nutter. Frow money at 'im. 'E picks it up. Laughin'. In ver second place, Oliver . . . well . . . 'e is a bit of a nutter.' Mid-afternoon and it's going to rain for ever. There are not many people on the streets. Soho's as quiet as it ever is. The pornbrokers and the delicatessens wait for the after-office rush. Off-licences are closed and quiet, multi-coloured panaceas gathering dust on the bare wooden shelves. Behind the tatty hardboard curlicues of the Koh-I-Noor, Jawaharlal Kamal and his family sit down to their main meal, a dish no customer of the Koh-I-Noor will ever taste. For a while they can forget they are in London w 1 and the talk is of arranged weddings and dowries. A faded frontage is dominated by a twenty-foot yellow hoarding that advertises a cure for HAEMORRHOIDS (PILES). Beneath this sign is a display of trusses, jock-straps, open-crutch knickers, peek-a-boo bras, glossies that offer spanking advice, and photo essays on skinny Swedish lesbians. Proudly erect in the centre of the window display, stands an impossible strap-on, plastic cock and balls: £5 – £6 with optional warm-water squirter. Oliver Fingers Blue, his fingers that colour with cold, stands at Whelks Willie's barrow wishing he were in front of his mother's warm fire. He watches the passers-by, morosely picking out the locals from the visitors, the sellers from the buyers. The operators from the punters. "Ere, Whelks?' 'Wha'?' 'Well. . . ver fing is . . . don' take offence, like, but I 'eard your sister's gone on the game.' 'Did you, Oliver.' 'Well, yeah . . . Is it true, ven?' 'Yeah.' 'Don' you mind, or nuffink?' 'Well, my son, I could do wivaht it. But she got a make a livin', 'a'n't she?'

A shabby-suited figure, hunched against the drizzle, flat cap pulled down, leaves the anonymous entrance of a club that seems to be called '50p NO EXTRA CHARGES'. It shuffles toward a

2 heavy bicycle chained to the nearby railings, then weaves through the traffic, ignoring the shouts of jammed drivers and the mutterings of delivery-van boys, stopping sharply to avoid the unexplained U-turns of taxis. Outside Le Can-Can, the bicycle halts. The tired rider chains it securely to a 'No Waiting' sign and shambles through the stage door of the club – an unmarked wooden green.

Jack Oswald walks towards Le Can-Can, his clean-cut, straight-backed, sixty-year-old figure flattered by a lightweight grey suit. His hair is smoothed with a gentleman's hair tonic, smoothed to a tight-fitting brown cap. His face is long and thin, that faded, mottled texture which results from years in an African sun, and disfigured by a massively broken nose. Jack Oswald captures the essence of gentility, one of that class that not so long ago would have been recognizable: ruling (subsection administrative, with aspirations to the lower aristocracy). Twenty years away from Africa and his many servants has not eradicated his perpetual and tacit demand for service, his condescending kindness towards all who are not fortunate enough to be rulers of men. His voice is deep and loud, his accent plummy. What Jack wants, Jack gets. Or thinks he should. His hands are in his pockets and thoughtfully he rolls one testicle between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. As he passes XCEL books, he nonchalantly searches the window, as a Harrods account holder might glance at Woolworth's window display. He moves on. He stops for some cigarettes. Even above the traffic roar, and the scuffle of pedestrians, his loudly demanding voice can be heard. He rounds the corner and, seeming to gain new purpose, hurries toward Le Can-Can, entering the club's main door as the shabby figure chains its bicycle to the 'No Waiting' sign. Le Can-Can. Just another club. Less squalid than some. Cheaper than others. There is a small reception area, a short and darkly surreal passage/stairway/cloakroom, a small auditorium, and a stage which you could cover with a Winston Churchill anniversary issue. Backstage is a surprisingly deluxe changing

3 room. But, of course, punters never see the changing room. Jack walks up to the cash desk, one hand on the wallet inside his pocket. Behind the desk stands The Major, jiggling from one foot to the other to ease his gout. He is the club's doorman and bouncer, a big, nervous, quick-moving man, educated, or at least instructed, at a minor public school. He is married to the ugliest dancer in the world, or if not the ugliest, by no means Miss Soho 1971. Or any other year. Without looking up at this latest punter, The Major bellows: 'Haha. One pound twenty-five, sir. Haha. If you please.' 'Come on, Major. Come come. It's me. Jack.' For the first time The Major looks up – stares at Jack quizzically. 'Haha. Good heavens. What? It is Monday today, isn't it? Haha. Monday's not your day, is it? What?' 'No.' 'What?' 'I said "no".' 'Haha. But it's today.' 'What?' 'What?' 'What do you mean "It's today"?' 'Haha. I mean it's not Friday today, is it? Friday's your day.' 'Yes.' 'But you've decided to come today. Haha. What?' 'Yes. Look here, old boy, I don't know what on earth you're talking about. I do wish you'd give me a ticket.' 'Ticket. Haha. Yes. Right away, Mr Oswald. Haha.' 'Thank you.' 'Don't mention it. What?' Jack hands the money over and pockets his change, deftly counting it as he does so. He walks away; the parting of two products of Classics and Caning.

(Thoughts of Jack: Silly bugger. Nouveau riche manque. Parvenu nouveau riche manque. Can't adapt. No savoir faire. Joie de vivre. Not at all au fait. Sort of chap that lost us the Empire. Silly bugger. Day trip to Boulogne. . . . )

4 (Thoughts of Major: Haha. Damn bolshie. No sense of order. Friday's his day. Always comes on a Friday. What would happen if everyone came on Monday? Haha. What? Comes on a Monday and treats you like a kaffir. Damn bolshie. Sort of chap that lost us the Empire. Haha. . . .)

Jack moves towards the auditorium, through the dark corridor and stairs. Before his eyes are fully accustomed to the gloom, he is accosted by Faceless. Faceless Feinstein, the chief bouncer, a merry and huge man who lurks in the gloom of Le Can-Can, speaking only when addressed or when hustling. He hustles now: 'Pound membership, John.' 'Come on. Come on. It's me. Jack.' Faceless is disturbed at his own temerity. 'Ohhh. Sorry Mr Oswald. I din' realize it was you. 'Ere, Friday's your day, in'it?' Jack was not pleased to be thought a regular. 'Yes. Friday's my day,' he booms wearily. Jack enters the auditorium. Just through the doors, a hand thrusts itself at him and a disembodied voice demands: 'Fifty pee.' 'What the hell for?' shouts Jack. Says the voice indignantly: 'For the cloakroom.' The owner of thevoice materializes, a sweaty swarthy face. The voice wavers. 'Oh . . . it's you Mr Oswald . . . is it?' The face prods forward; Jack is overwhelmed by stale hot garlic – and retreats. 'It is, isn't it? Sorry Chief. . .' The voice slides smoothly from apology into a hurt whine:'. . . but, well, blimey, you do normally come in on a Friday, don't you?' Jack is annoyed. Jack is irritated. He hates stale garlic. He is insulted to be thought a regular. He doesn't visit the club very often. Hardly at all, in fact. Certainly not more than once a week. And then only because it's on his way. Jack explodes: 'Get out of my way you greasy, insolent wretch. Or I'll have you sent back where you came from – wherever that is.' The face is hurt and indignant. It disappears back into the

5 gloom, muttering from a safe distance: 'All right . . . all right . . . no need to get aeriated. Blimey . . . I'm only doing me job.' 'Huh!' says Jack emphatically. He stalks to the front of the auditorium, where he shrugs himself into a seat, determinedly displacing his neighbour's elbows from the seat's arms. The stage curtain is drawn tight, an electrical fault in the stereo system temporarily delaying the show. The passing trade, the visitors to London, is restive, impatient to see the show. The regular punters gaze unconcernedly at the ceiling, or riffle their newspapers. Jack looks around him with great disdain, crosses his legs, and ostentatiously opens the Daily Telegraph. With much rustling of paper, he sits back to read, applauding the high moral tone of the editorial as he waits for the show to recommence.

Back at street level, The Major looks up from his desk. A small saloon car is parked at a meter a few yards down from the club's entrance. The Major strolls over towards the little car. 'Morning, sir.' He greets its driver jovially. 'Come to see the show?' The small man inside the small car looks surprised. He shakes his head. The Major's mood changes. His smile fades instantly, and craftiness appears in his eyes. He scowls at the car, at the driver. 'Can't park here, sir. Reserved. What.' The man is mild and inoffensive; but, secure in his metal fortress, he takes The Major on. 'But it's a meter,' he replies. 'Anyone can park on a meter.' The Major reacts by backing off a little. The small man thinks he has won. Before getting out of the car, he searches his pockets for coins for the meter. 'ALL-LIVE SHOW, GENTLEMEN, NO FILMS, NO EXTRA CHARGES.' The Major busks, warily looking up and down the street. The Law is nowhere to be seen. The Major hisses savagely at the man in the small car: 'Aha, you. Yes, you. Go away. Get out, I say. Aha. PISS OFF. What.' The man is taken aback at this new attack. He stays in his car.

6 'All-live show,' calls The Major invitingly. He glares at the car. He discards the polite approach: "Ere, you . . . Fuckface. I fought I tol' you to git aht ovit. You're blockin' our bleeding fron'age. Now fuck off before I kick you in the testimonials. What?' The little man turns pale. 'But it's a meter . . . ,' he wails before he can stop himself. 'I don't care if it's bleedin' Salisbury Plain, you ain't parkin' 'ere. What.' The little man looks around desperately, his hand nervously plucking his mouth. The Major surreptitiously glances up and down the street. He sidles up to the small car and kicks it very hard. The car wobbles on its suspension and the cheap panel buckles. Affecting rage, The Major leaps into the air like a Cossack. Even before he hits the ground, he launches into an abusive tirade. 'Christ! Run over me feet, will you? Right over me feet, what? Fucking maniac. Shouldn't be out in the streets.' The Major shouts towards the club. 'Hey, Faceless, get the fucking bouncer quick.' Hastily the small man jams the ignition key into the lock. He revs the motor, and the little car shoots off up the street, a perfumed Yorkshire Terrier with a tom-cat on its tail. The Major beams. He can handle them all right. No trouble. He's happy. 'Nice day gents. Nice day for a show. All-live show. Eighteen lovely girls. And all for one pound fifty. What?'

And it's stopped raining. It is a nice day for a show.

7 2 REHEARSAL I

The dressing-room at Le Can-Can was the cleanest and most luxurious part of the club. It had character too, white-washed cellar arches that ran under the street. A line of dressing-tables ran down the centre, each surmounted by a make-up mirror and naked 100-watt bulbs. Around the walls hung the costumes – slave dresses, military uniforms, filmy nightgowns, and leather gear. From a distance the costumes were glamorous and seemed expensive. Close to, they were dusty and torn – many abandoned. Dancing pumps, ballet shoes, and leather boots lay around the floor. The changing-room led directly on to the stage, separated from it by a thick curtain. In one corner – and also adjoining the stage, divided by thin plyboard – was the stage manager's cubbyhole. Here were the tape recorders that supplied the music, and the banks of switches and dimmers that controlled the lights. This cubbyhole was Jeff's domain. Jeff, a classless, aimless young man, pleasant enough; friendly. For his 1 to 7 or 7 to 1 stints, every day bar Sunday (when the club was let to a musical appreciation society), he earned £19. Tax free. In the dressing-room, among the costumes and the stored flats, Grecian pillars, one cage and two huge whips, sat Honor, Le Can-Can's dance director. She waited for the girls to arrive

8 that morning, waited to rehearse some new routines she had been working on. Honor was a desirable forty, though she tended, perhaps, to dress a little trendily for her age. Once, she had been a beautiful actress . . .

. . . twenty-year-old Honor, in love with acting, in love with the stage, even in love with show business, leant a slender thigh against the drinks table and concentrated. 'I'm pissed,' she said to no one in particular. She looked down into her glass of sweet and sickly white wine and shuddered at a foretaste of tomorrow morning's mouth. She tipped the wine to the floor, letting it run out slowly, watching it well over the glass's edge, feeling it crawl down the stem and over her finger. When the glass was empty, she reached for a bottle of red wine and refilled the glass. She sipped, and the liquid was rough between her lips. Tears of self-pity came to her ingenuous, lagoon-blue eyes. Mistily, she looked up and across the party. The stage, where she, the drinks, and the food were, was crowded. She knew many of the people, but there was also present a large number of the townsfolk who had supported the little repertory company run by Roily Jones. They had been invited to the last rites, and if they'd been a little lazy about their visits to the theatre, they'd never knowingly miss a party. Beyond the stage were the stalls, the folded seats like broken, useless boxes. The overspill from the party gathered in the front rows, and in the aisle a drunken game of cricket played itself, stubbornly refusing to follow the wishes of the players. 'What have you got there? No, don't answer . . . whatever it is, pour me one, love.' David Styler floated into Honor's vision, a lean and dark-faced actor who revelled in roles that needed little movement and less soul. Honor moved to face David, and stared at him, her eyes unfocused and wet. David was drunkenly enchanted by what he saw – two blue pools of melancholy framed by thick, gently waved blonde drapes: a smooth neck encircled by a fine golden chain whose crucifix hung warmly between two small and well-shaped breasts.

9 He glanced down from the face to the breasts, and from them to the slender fingers that twined and fidgeted with the glass stem. He did not need to look further, for he had many times surreptitiously admired Honor's rather wide hips, her surprisingly slim legs that were now arousingly outlined by the folds of her white dress. 'Hey, now. What's the matter with you?' he asked. 'This is supposed to be a party, not a funeral.' 'But it is a funeral,' Honor wailed. 'It is a funeral, David. It's Rolly's funeral, and this little theatre's funeral, and our funeral. Oh . . . I feel so miserable.' 'Come on. It's not the end of the world. You've just had too much of this disgusting plonk – that's enough to depress anyone. Who cares if the theatre's pulled down? What does it matter – that's no worse than playing to practically empty houses in it, is it? It'll probably do a bloody sight better as a department store – and be happier.' He smiled. 'And as for Roily, he'll bounce back. He always does. His sort is never down for long. And you, love . . .' Honor looked up into David's eyes and waited. '. . . with your talent, and your looks . . . what have you got to worry about? You're beautiful. You know that? I never realized it before. I don't suppose I looked. But you are. You're really beautiful.' She smiled at him through the tears, composing the smile that she had practised in the mirror, every morning of her life from the age of thirteen. She willed a few more tears to spill from her eyes and sniffed engagingly. She savoured the lumpy catch in her throat and managed a husky: 'Oh . . . David. You're so gentle . . .' And the tears came flooding down her delicate cheeks, wetting the strands of hair that strayed from the frame and on to the picture. David took out his handkerchief and dabbed at her face, mumbling cliches and platitudes that warmed and comforted her. He put his arm around her and led her toward two of the actors of the company who seemed to be having a small disagreement. That wasn't unusual: they had lived together for thirty years and behaved like any well-married couple, Roy managing the house and Dennis the finances.

10 'Come on, love. Let's wander round a bit. You can't just stand here and be sad on your own. Roy and Dennis are always good for a laugh. Come on.' As they joined the couple, Roy was talking. '. . . and you know, whatever we've said about Roily, he's a damn good producer.' 'Oh Roy,' said Dennis. 'Coming from you . . .' 'What do you mean "Coming from you"? He is, he is a damn good producer. And I've always said so.' He turned to Honor. 'Haven't I always said so, Honor darling? Haven't I?' 'What darling?' asked Honor. 'What what?' asked Roy. 'What haven't you always said?' 'No, my dear,' interjected Dennis, 'it's not what Roy hasn't always said. It's what he has always said. Or what he says he's always said.' 'That reminds me,' chirped Honor, suddenly gay again, and alcoholically tactless. 'Do you know the one about Ced and Sid?' 'Know it, dear. We practically are Ced and Sid. Or were before this bleeding lot of heathens stopped paying for their culture.' Dennis nodded at the townies at the party. 'God knows what we'll do now.' 'Anyway. I've always said Roily was a damn good producer, and I've never understood why he hasn't made London. He's easily good enough for London, if not better. And I've always said it.' 'You, Roy Battersby,' said David coldly, 'are a bloody liar. You've always said he's the worst director you've seen in forty years . . .' 'Twenty years, please dear.' 'But you've aged well, love. I'd never have guessed. Especially after last night's performance.' 'Which performance?' asked Honor, and giggled. Roily Jones himself joined the group, his lined face reddened with drink, his grey hair wiry and unkempt. He caught the tone of the conversation and smiled kindly at the four. 'I absolutely forbid all arguments at my farewell party. Absolutely.' He addressed Honor and Roy. 'I may even order

11 you two to kiss and make up.' They looked at each other in mock horror, but Dennis saved the occasion. 'There's no argument, Roily. Roy was only saying what a fine producer he thinks you are, and Honor was disagreeing – but not very strongly were you, dear?' 'You bastard!' Honor shrieked. She turned to Roily and pleaded to his tired old face. 'Oh Roily, I never said anything of the sort. Please believe me . . .' Roily smiled at her, then slowly turned and walked away from them.

Wild Samantha, out of her mind with liquor, played I-spy with two admiring townies (one of them an ageing, pompous magistrate, who had run the unsuccessful appeal to prevent the rep. from going under; the other his son, a fat, spoiled man of thirty who lived at home with his widowed father and organized a small group of youths and underdeveloped commuters whom he named the Fol-de-lol Carollers. He bossed and hectored these unfortunates into sentimental plays and soirees attended by the performers' parents, a constant audience whose critical faculties were weaned on the sloppy light drama of the war years and nurtured by televised soap operas). Both would have given anything but money to be inside Sam's pants; the father was perhaps optimistic about his organ's ability, it having had the appearance, and use, of a small and rusted tap for the past ten years; while the son's ego, and hopes, had been bolstered from late adolescence by a number of victories over chubby county daughters whose brains were only exercised as their buttocks heaved, on beds or saddles. 'I shpywithmyliddleye, shumthing beginning with . . . B. Beeee.' She giggled. 'Bulb? No? I know. . . bottle?' 'Bottle yourself. Nope! B. Bee for . . .' 'No! No, don't tell me . . .' 'Us.' '. . . us. We must guess it. It can't be that hard. B . . . I know . . . beer. It must be beer.' David and Honor joined the trio. Both men leered at Honor, staring at her as though her genitals were smeared on to her face.

12 But the sight of David's accompanying her forced them to pin their hopes on Samantha. 'No,' said Samantha. 'No! No! No! B . . . Bee for . . .' 'Bugger,' said David. Father and son looked at each other indignantly. It was their game after all. 'No,' said Samantha. "Snot beer.' 'Bread!' shouted the son, startling Honor. 'Balls,' said David. Samantha peered around the scene at crutch height. 'Where?' she asked. 'I can't see any balls.' 'Well of course, if you're just going to be vulgar,' said the father, 'we might just as well leave. I thought we were playing I-spy.' 'But we are, darling,' said Samantha, cuddling the old man, and sliding a leg sinously against his varicosed calf. 'Of coursh we're playing. Jush keep on geshing. I'll play with you . . .,' she chuckled, 'I'll play with you all.' 'Booze,' said the son. 'No?' He was crestfallen as Samantha, her wet bottom lip pinched between her small sharp teeth in a provocative lubricious little sneer, shook her head. 'Buttons! It's got to be buttons. Can't be anything else.' 'No. No. No. You shtupid or shumthing? Give up?' 'NO!' 'Beard?' asked the father, but Samantha just shook her dark head and pouted at him. He felt a twinge, and hope flared anew in his guts. 'I think you're all very slow. Sobvious what it is. Sobvious. Stickin' out in front of your noshes.' 'Tits,' said David. 'That'shit! That's it!' shouted Sam happily. 'How'dyou guess?' Honor, David, and Samantha laughed together. Father and son looked at each other blankly. 'Tits? Tits? That doesn't begin with a "B".' Nearby, in the aisle, the game of cricket continued. The batsman took guard with an improbable French loaf, while the bowler polished the orange/ball on his trousers. He retreated up the aisle, preparing for a long run in imitation of Frank Tyson. His guard marked at middle-and-leg, the batsman waited,

13 feigned boredom. The wicket-keeper squatted behind the batsman, her knees wide apart, her skirt tautly stretched around her upper thighs, oblivious to the wiry black pubes that straggled from the edges of her pants. In the position of silly-mid-off, a local accountant's secretary was cut off in the middle of a flow of righteous indignation at the antics of the 'theatre'. 'Oh for God's sake, Angela. You're always bloody talking. And what's worse, you're always bloody moaning. For Christ's sake shut up.' The bowler bowled. The batsman did not even have time to move before the ball ran up the wicket-keeper's legs. She leapt into the air with an affronted shriek. She descended to the ground, removed the orange from between her legs, and tossed it back to the bowler. 'Slow down!' demanded the batsman. 'You're bowling too fast. Who do you think I am? Herbert Bleeding Sutcliffe?' The bowler, fumbling around for the orange which had rolled under a row of seats, called back: 'If you weren't so bloody pissed, you might be able to hit something.' He stood up with the ball, and once again began to rub it on his trousers. The wicket-keeper was affronted: 'It's perfectly clean. I do wash, you know. Twice a day there. And I use talcum powder.' 'No, no, no,' explained the batsman. 'It's nothing to do with your fanny, darling. He rubs it on his trousers to give it shine, you see. Then his balls will swing . . . in the air, you see. You do see, don't you?' 'Well . . . ,' began the wicket-keeper doubtfully. 'Oh, it's all to do with air resistance on the ball. It's rather complicated, you know. Let's leave it.' 'Just so long as you're sure he's not accusing me of smelling. There, I mean. Because I don't.' 'I'm not always talking. No worse than you, anyway.' Angela was angry. 'I very rarely say anything that is not pertinent.' The bowler dropped his orange again. It rolled down towards Angela and stopped between her feet. The bowler crawled down to the orange. But with his head this low, he began to feel very dizzy. The theatre, seen from two feet off the ground, slowly

14 started to twirl. The bowler squinted determinedly at the ball, willing the twirling to stop. As soon as he could grasp the orange, he stood up – inside Angela's voluminous skirt; which upset Angela. As the bowler forced himself strongly, so she went down. The material of her skirt was not equal to the strain, and it ripped, so that Angela fell to the ground screaming abuse and accusations, while the bowler, freed suddenly of the confusing weight around his head, could pace back to the start of his run. He prepared to bowl. The batsman settled his stance. The wicket-keeper squatted, careful to keep her knees together this time. Angela clambered to her feet and screamed: 'You're all drunk! I think it's disgraceful behaviour! It's disgusting . . . immoral . . . and obscene. I hate you all. I've never been so disgusted in all my life. I'm going to call the police.' The bowler, who was a J.P., released the orange in the direction of the batsman, who was a police sergeant. The sergeant swiped at the ball –

'. . . and I'm not surprised that your silly little theatre's closing down! I hope none of you ever work again. And, for myself, I'm never, ever, ever, going to the theatre again.'

- the French loaf broke, two feet of it sailing through the air and hitting Angela smack in the mouth. 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!' 'Serves the silly bitch right. She's always talking.'

Later that night, at about midnight, David helped Honor up the stairs to her room. 'Shhhh,' she adjured him. 'You'll wake the landlady.' The landlady, a shy and rather unattractive widow, who sorely missed her dead husband – particularly in the small hours – was reading herself to sleep. She heard the clattering on the stairs. Lucky devil, she thought. She put down her book, carefully, and removed her glasses. Gently, she took hold of her breasts and worked them against the sleek, thin, nylon of her nightdress. The large dark circles round her nipples contracted, and the nipples themselves thrust

15 upwards. She drew her knees up and parted them, rearranging her position, so that she could manipulate both breasts with one hand and forearm. Then she persuaded her free hand to creep, surreptitiously – almost independent of her will – down her stomach and into her warm, slippery sex.

Once in her bedroom, Honor flopped down on to her bed, while David shut the door as quietly as he could. Almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, Honor sat up again – and sharply. The little room had spun round and round and with it, her gorge had risen. With difficulty she forced the revolting, alcoholic bile back down her throat. She shuddered. She pulled the pillow out from under the covers and wriggled her bottom back towards the headboard of the bed, so that her back would be supported absolutely upright. David turned back to her. He grinned wolfishly but, seeing her pale and drawn face, asked: 'What's the matter, love? You're not ill, are you?' Honor smiled weakly at him and shook her head. 'No . . . just a bit pissed. A few minutes rest and it'll go.' 'Do you want a coffee?' David was cross. 'When will you be O.K.?' he demanded grumpily. 'Oh David. Don't be cross. I'll be all right. Just give me a little time.' He moved over to the bed and sat down. I've heard that before, thought David. And how much time. Bloody women were all the same – leading you on until you were just about there, then saying they're sick . . . or it's their time . . . or they've never done it before. Wonder if she has . . . 'David?' 'What?' He was still irritable, and the tone of her 'David?' was foreboding in its plea. 'Don't be cross, darling. I'll be all right . . .' 'Mmmh.' '. . . only . . .' 'Only what?' 'It's . . . well . . . I'm still a . . .' 'What? Come on. What the hell do you want to say?' 'Well . . . I've . . . it's . . . I've never . . .' 'Oh, I'm going if you're going to bugger about like this.' He got up from the bed.

16 'Oh please don't, David . . .' Honor jerked forward from the wall. Her brain seemed to be loose in her head – it bumped into the back of her forehead. Her stomach heaved, but again she controlled it, swallowing hard. 'Well, what is it then?' Honor shut her eyes and pressed her head back against the cold wall above the bedboard. It was soothing. She willed everything inside her skull to keep still and breathed steadily. After a while, she felt David's head on her thighs. She hoped he would go to sleep. They lay like this for a few minutes – what seemed like three or four to Honor, but half an hour to David. Then she felt David's hands on her thighs, inching her dress up. She kept her eyes shut and concentrated on keeping the room from spinning – even in the blackness of her mind. Her hands were flat on the bed, helping to push her back against the headboard and her neck against the cool wall. David's hands slid over her stockinged thighs, his thumbs lifting the dress away from the nylon and the flesh. His breath was on the inside of her legs, warm through the material. She hardly dared breathe. For a while they stayed like this . . . His hands worked themselves around her buttocks, kneading muscle and pushing the dress out of the way, up her back, so that she had only her pants between the bedcovers and her bottom. He glided his hands up over the waist-band of her pants and on to her flat tummy, undoing her suspender belt and pushing the tapes away. In Honor's head, the blackness deepened but still threatened to move, to circle sickeningly. The muscles in the back of her legs began to tremble and her heartbeat pounded up into her throat. She imagined what he would feel like. What it would feel like. That excitement, that dread throbbed in her, swelling her erectile tissues. But bile stayed in her throat, and a humming started in her ears. David worked his chin deep between her thighs, forcing them apart. He wriggled his shoulders under her legs and with his hands opened them wider. Honor slid towards his mouth, her back leaving the wall. It made her feel sicker than ever, but still the excitement built up in her. She felt David's thumb on her, rubbing up and down, fondling. She squirmed – a little against her will.

17 Honor's fingers gripped the bed cover. David hooked a finger through the crotch of her pants and pulled the crotch-piece aside. With his other hand he worked at her, baring damp, pink, delicate tissue that spread its throbbing through Honor's guts and into her head. She moaned a little and, as she felt David's tongue flick out to touch her, her head fell back. But there the spinning started again, and she had to sit as still as possible. She pressed her thighs against David's cheeks, then opened them wider than before to offer herself. David pulled at the pants, baring more flesh and making her wince as he caught her hairs. He fell on her, plunging his tongue as far as he could, working her lips with his, and thrusting his own throbbing crotch hard down on the bed. The blackness in Honor's head was on the move again. The bile and petit fours, the sardine morsels on toasted squares, the asparagus rolls, the cold kipper-like triangles of smoked salmon, churned together with rough wine, gin and Scotch. She put one hand to her throat and pressed, breathing determinedly, like a man surfaced from a long dive. And all the time, over all this sensation was David's tongue, growing bigger and bigger inside her, filling her body with tense excitement, willing her to lose control of herself, willing her to concentrate every movement, every feeling she'd ever had into one ecstatic moment of release.

And the moment came – but not as either Honor or David would have willed it. He burrowed. She thrust. Without warning, Honor's stomach took control from both of them, pouring out a vile stream of stinking half-digested food and drink, a stream that puked out on to David's back, soaked through his shirt, overflowed from his body and on to the bed around him, that impregnated itself into his hair and trickled down his cheeks and Honor's thighs. With a gasp, a roar of astonishment and frustration, David withdrew from the slimy excitement of Honor's thighs and looked up at her – to receive the second jet of chunky, alcoholic vomit in the face. He leapt from the bed and stumbled to the washbasin, adding his own dry retching to the noise of Honor's heaving. He washed his face and as much of the rest of him as he could,

18 while Honor writhed wretchedly on her bed, overcome by her own shame and the smell of her own shame, unable to get up or to speak, dominated by the heaving contractions of her gut, wishing she were dead.

When Honor surfaced late the next morning, she found herself alone. She cleared the mess as best she could, left her rent (and an extra £5 that she could ill afford) in an envelope stuffed under the landlady's door, and caught the first train to London, where she had a friend who could put her up until she found lodgings . . .

. . . That was twenty years ago, thank God. Through the stage door shuffled the shabby-suited figure, shoulders hunched, flat cap pulled firmly down. Honor put down her paper and looked up. 'Hallo, darling. You're a bit early, aren't you? How's things?' Her voice was actressy, kind and carefully elocuted. Dolly wrenched off the flat cap, letting gorgeous fair hair cascade on to the shoulders of the workman's suit. 'Yeah . . . all right, ta Honor love. Just finished the first spot down at the Exotica. Bit pissed off really . . . yeah – one of the buggers there tried to grope me.' As she spoke, the girl stepped out of the man's suit. Beneath it she wore jeans and a delicate blouse. She was slim and maybe beautiful, but tired and listless, wise and cynical eyes in a young woman's face; a woman's face on a girl's body. 'Was he one you know?' asked Honor. 'No. Never seen 'im before. Come from the North, I think. I 'spect 'e's down for the Motor Show.' 'What happened?' 'Well, whatever you say about The Exotica, Tony's quite a good boy. 'E chucked the bugger out.' Dolly giggled nervously. 'And sent Jules out after 'im.' 'Jules?' 'Yeah, you know. The big boy. The Maltese boy.' 'Oh. That Jules.' 'Yeah. 'Im. Anyway, you know Jules 'as got a thing about me.' She was cheerful for a minute. 'God, I 'ope 'e doesn't do 'im up

19 too bad.' 'He'll be silly if he does,' said Honor sharply. 'Yeah. Well . . . brains never was Jules's best point.' Honor felt uncomfortable. A performer no longer, it was her job to ensure that the punters were always happy. And even if you can see that it's called for, you just don't hit punters. She changed the subject. 'By the way, Enrico's thought up a new dance for you.' Dolly was suddenly sceptical. 'Oh 'as 'e? What is it this time? Not another "Marooned on a Desert Island", I hope. Last time, I got sand in me pussy and Errol got 'is 'ead stuck in the conch.' Honor laughed. 'No. Nothing like that. It's something about a computer. Chan's making the set now.'

Chan was in his workshop in the building adjoining Le Can-Can. He was a small, neat-featured Chinaman whose bland appearance concealed an agile – though untrained – mind, a confused interpretation of Maoism. His philosophy enabled him to endure the world's, and especially Enrico's, outrageous exploitation of his inadequacies with resignation, and with no more than occasional outbursts of volcanic vehemence. His life revolved around nailing and gluing together Honor's tortuously elaborate sets, playing ideological cat-and-mouse with Enrico, and flying enormous hand-painted kites in Kensington Gardens – much to the delight of any nearby children. Chan and Enrico endured a symbiotic relationship: Chan's political views and his crusading zeal in their expression had put him beyond the pale of the Gerrard Street merchant community into which he had been born. His irascible outbursts and complete lack of any kind of qualification made him an unattractive employee for anyone else. Cold, hungry, and broke, Chan had walked into Enrico's club eight years before and demanded a job. Any job. 'Rooking for work, bross. Extlemely tarented completely evelyting.' Enrico had been too surprised to be violent. 'No. Donna want no Chinee 'ere. We got a no work anyway, You get out a here.'

20 'You leglet missed opportunity.' Chan insisted. 'Ey. You got a be the jokin'. I give you a the job, molto pretty soon all of Gerrard Street up in Berwick Street!' Chan bore this slight stoically, and stood his ground. 'Not aflaid plenty of hard work. Flix evelyting up a tleat.' 'Ey come on now, do a me the favour, huh? I tell you what, Chinee,' Enrico added sarcastically, 'you want a the job – I pay you one and six the hour, huh?' Hardly had Enrico started laughing at his own joke when he felt his hand pumped vigorously and heard Chan saying: 'O.K., boss. Start light now. Immediately. What you want flixed good?' Dio mio, thought Enrico. Is a the raving mad. I got a find the job for him. Let me see . . . before he don't starve, he got a work the hundred hour to the week. So their relationship started. Chan could find work nowhere else. Enrico for his part would suffer the Chinaman's quirks because he was paying virtually nothing for someone who turned out to be an able carpenter and a fast worker. Chan's workshop was small and crammed. As he had become increasingly aware of his exploited condition, so the workshop walls were smeared with posters and revolutionary slogans. Enrico tolerated the situation: 'Ey Chan. You are a the Communist. But I am a the boss.' By now Chan was an ardent Maoist, his personality dominated by a huge gilt-framed portrait of the Chairman, and the Red Book ever present in the tunic pocket of his Red Guard drag pyjamas. To keep the sawdust from his sleek hair, he wore a black bowler hat incongruously adorned by a round plastic Mao badge (made in Hong Kong).

Later that morning Honor sat in the front row of the small auditorium, waiting for the first rehearsal to begin. The curtains were closed. There was no sound. And for a while, Honor was alone. Then, quietly, Enrico slid into the theatre, a stiletto into a kidney. He looked round quickly, touched his cheek, and smiled in Honor's direction. As he spoke, Honor turned towards him.

21 'Gooda morning, Honor. Ev'rthing O.K. huh?' 'Hello Enrico. Mmmm, fine thanks.' Each time she saw him, the face fascinated her; the combination of Mediterranean charm and latent fury; reptilian menace. She turned back to the curtains and called out to Jeff: 'When you're ready, Jeff.' Music welled up through the club's powerful stereo system: Dada Bon. Dada Bon. Dadada Bon Bon. Wah. Dada Wah. Wah Wah. Enrico leant against one of the side-walls, absently picking his teeth. The curtains opened slowly. Then, without warning, the music distorted and wailed to a halt. The curtain flashed open and shut – but not quickly enough to avoid a tableau: Errol, Le Can-Can's male dancer, standing with his index finger embedded to the first joint up his nose. Honor looked to heaven, exasperated. 'Christ, Jeffrey, what the hell are you playing at?' 'Sorry, Honor love. I dropped me fag in the tape, din' I?' His voice was muffled and distant. 'Well get it rolling again quick as you can, will you. We haven't got all day.' In the cubby-hole Jeff dived into the yards of magnetic tape spilling all over the floor. 'All right, all right. Right then, 'ere we go.' On the stage Errol scratched his bottom and felt like a drink. Rehearsals weren't too bad, though. At least there were no punters around. On stage, too, Beryl Beulah wondered how she was going to get through the next few minutes – let alone her first performance the next day. It's not like just taking your clothes off, is it. I mean not like getting into bed or teasing your fella a bit. You've got to sort of take them off professionally. Know what I mean? Jeff picked up the P.A. mike and cued in the music. He announced the act: 'Gentlemen. Le Can-Can presents the beautiful Miss Beryl Beulah as the Martyr's Temptation . . . 'Gentlemen, Miss Beryl BFULAH.' The music crescendoed. The curtains opened to reveal the scene: Errol the martyr tied to the stake, a pile of burning logs at his feet. Errol the martyr in monk's drag – and tonsured (he

22 didn't do anything by halves). The beautiful Miss Beryl Beulah dressed as a devil, complete with pointed tail and triple-pronged jumbo toasting fork. Her horns were slightly askew and the trident too heavy. She handled it awkwardly – an unpractised devil. The costume was hamfistedly erotic, her breasts moving awkwardly under the material, the crotch cut to make a fetish of her sex. As the curtains opened, Beryl began her dance, prancing clumsily around Errol martyr, threatening him with the trident, pushing her tits at his face. And the dance was sublimely bad. Ineffably gauche. Enrico watched for only a few seconds before turning to the wall and rubbing his eyes into the back of his hand. Dio bono, he thought, ees terrible. My grandmother ees a better than thees. Honor wriggled embarrassedly in her seat. Beryl caught their mood but had no idea how to make herself more accomplished, no idea how to move. So she became more violent, furiously waving her trident. It was long and awkward; quite a handful. Accidentally, but nonetheless viciously, she poked the trident through the back wall of the set.

Jeff was sitting in his cubby-hole, quietly reading Sex and Racism, when he felt the searing pain of the trident penetrating a good three quarters of an inch into the fat and muscle of his bottom. Time stood, quite still. The book dropped slowly to the floor, the spine splitting, the open pages picking up dust smudges. Jeff's mouth was open, his tongue desperately working the dry palate, while his eyes filled with blurring tears. Powerfully, he leapt from his seat, rising three clear feet into the air. One hand he clapped to his bottom, the other groped wildly to fend off his unknown attacker. 'Eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaahoooooooowwwoooooooo.' And as he descended, the flailing hand caught hold of a rope and yanked it.

On stage, Jeff's pulled rope activated the Grecian temple set, and marble pillars and frolicking maidens fell between Beryl and

23 Errol at the stake. Beryl was staring, horror-struck, at the hole she'd torn in the set, at the unearthly wail that had erupted from Jeff's office. Oh Christ. Surely he's not dead? It's all 'cos I want to be a dancer . . . all 'cos I want to earn a bit . . . oh Christ . . . . Please God, let him not be dead. She turned back to Errol, only to be confronted with the Grecian temple and no sign of the martyr. "Ere,' she cried out. 'Where's 'e gone?' Enrico and Honor looked at each other, both with despair in their eyes, but each thinking different thoughts. In a while Honor and Errol had calmed the troubled Beryl, and Enrico and Jeff had repaired the damage and reset the stake and the logs of 'The Martyr's Temptation'. Honor called out to Jeff, and he switched on the decks. Enrico leaned against his wall. The music blared. Beryl pranced again. Errol feigned desire and imminent capitulation. Honor squirmed again. Enrico ground his face into his hands and muttered continental imprecations. Honor called out: 'Tempt him, Beryl. Tempt him. Tempt him. Tempt, tempt. Oh, Jeff? Take it back, will you, Jeff- to that bit where it goes, "Dum. De de de dum. De de de dum dumdum." O.K.?' The dance stopped as Jeff rewound the tapes. Beryl looked to the boards. Errol looked bored. 'O.K. I got it,' called Jeff. 'Right, try it now Beryl.' The poor clumsy girl moved in a grotesque parody of Honor's instructions, and she was as tempting as a meat-axe. But she tried. Honor began to despair, but was too loyal to an old trouper's conventions to convey that desperation. Bravely she encouraged the girl. 'No, no, dear. You must tease him. Remember, he's never seen them before.' Ooooh, thought Errol, looking very gay indeed. Little do you know, dear. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Beryl. She flounced in despair, the tears showing in her eyes. Suddenly, Errol's boredom vanished as he felt compassion for the ungainly little chick in her camp devil's costume. He climbed down from the stake, his bonds falling miraculously from his body. He

24 turned towards Jeff's cubby-hole and called: 'Hold it, Jeffrey. Hold it a minute, will you?' Once again the music squeaked to a halt. Errol turned back to the tearful Beryl. 'It's all right, dear. Don't worry about it. It'll come. We're all nervous at first. Now look dear, you be St Francis, up on the stake, and I'll be Temptation. Now you watch and see me allure you; tease you; seduce you. Right?' Beryl nodded and dutifully fixed herself to the stake. She watched Errol's every movement with grateful eyes, and concentrated so hard that she entirely failed to see the incongruity of Errol's sinuous little cavortings. Errol hummed the tune, dancing and miming the movements that Beryl would have to master, thrusting his breasts, grinding his hips, pointing his bottom, pirouetting on tippy toe, tensing his thighs, displaying his calves, protruding his lips, contracting his stomach, and orgasmically jerking his pelvis. All the time, he talked to her. A commentary. 'Tease me, two three! 'Tease him, two three! 'Tease, tease, tease! Pom! 'Tease me, two three! 'Tease him, three, four! 'Tease, tease, tease! Wah Pom! Wah Pom! Wah Pom! 'Pom, Pom, Pom! 'With your tits, 'With your bum, 'Show him what you've got! Pom! Pom! 'Do you see, dear? See, I'm teasing. Got it?' Beryl nodded dumbly. 'You must tease,' emphasized Errol, in case she hadn't understood.

Honor was pleased with Errol. He was a good sort to have around. A good right-hand man. Enrico, watching the scene with the repelled fascination that he felt whenever he watched Errol moving, looked to heaven as the rehearsal continued. 'Dio mio,' he muttered. 'You make a the big mistake with that one.'

25 Suddenly, from the vicinity of the auditorium doors, came a mighty crash and the grinding of wood and metal against wood. Chan was on the scene. Or rather, Chan was trying to get on the scene. He was stuck in the doorway, a screwdriver between his teeth like an Oriental pirate; a hammer under one arm, a flat pencil behind one neat ear, and his arms full of wood, tin, and paper. Balanced precariously atop this pile was a rolled-up plan of the set he had been trying to assemble. Hearing the crash and the accompanying mutterings, everyone looked round. Honor shrugged. Enrico looked to his maker once more: 'Ees another one you make a the bad mistake . . . .' Beryl stared wide-eyed. Errol, upset that his demonstration had been interrupted, groaned exasperatedly. 'It's only Chan. You're supposed to be watching me.' And Beryl's eyes snapped back to Errol. She certainly didn't want to upset him. He was her friend. Why else would he be so kind and helpful? Chan kicked his way through the obstruction. 'BRORROCKS!' He glared back at Errol's bitchy stare. 'What you blully look like that for? Huh? FLAIRLY!'

26 3 REHEARSAL II

Violet and Eric sat at their breakfast in a comfortable flat near Blackheath. The room was chintzy with multiple-store furnishings and simulated Swedish design. A flight of ducks winged up the wall above a small plastic cuckoo clock. The plastic looked like wood; the wood like plastic. At the table itself, Eric perused the Daily Express, occasionally reading out snippets that he felt would interest his wife. He was a man of medium build, with a sharp, prurient face. Violet, a large and amorphous woman, did the breakfast, making toast, pouring tea, shuffling the plates. Her cat rubbed up against her ankle and she bent to fondle its ears. It mewed for the top of the milk, and Violet dutifully filled a saucer. Eric looked up from the Express. 'Seen this, dear?' 'Mmmmh?' 'This bloke was stuck in bed for over a week . . . well, seven days.' 'Stuck in bed? What do you mean "Stuck in bed"?' 'It says here: "Mr Arnold Betts, 29, was rescued by the police and the fire brigade last night, after being jammed in the springs of his bed for seven days. Mr Betts, an unemployed chef, fell through the bed whilst in a state of excitement produced by an

27 article he had just read in a magazine. He was taken to St Botolph's Hospital Harrow, where a spokesman said he was as well as could be expected."' 'More tea?' asked Violet. 'That's funny, isn't it? Fancy being seven days in bed.' 'Mmmmmh.' Eric dropped a large glob of marmalade on to his trousers. It remained there unnoticed for the rest of the day. Violet, still hungry, poured a second helping of cornflakes into her bowl. It would be a busy day – she might have no time for a proper lunch. 'You know,' she said, 'we really ought to get a new dinner service soon, Eric.' 'Mmmmh.' 'Well, we ought to really.' 'Oh?' 'It'd be nice.' 'Oh. Why's that then? What's wrong with the one we've got?' 'Nothing really. It just doesn't match. You know.' 'Match what?' asked Eric, more automatically than out of interest. 'Anything really. It just doesn't seem to match. Anyway, the Watsons are coming round to dinner next week.' 'Are they? Perhaps we'd better had then. You know what they're like.' 'I've seen one I like.' 'Mmmmh?' 'Yes. I've seen one I like. In Selfridges. It's more modern . . . know what I mean, dear?' 'Come on. We'd better get moving. I did say I'd be in by midday.' 'All right. Just give me a couple of minutes.' Violet ineffectually cleared around the table while Eric ritually folded his newspaper and stretched. Violet wiped the milk that the cat had spilled, mopping at it with the tudor-cottage tea cosy. She went to her bedroom to find her shoes, called to Eric to lock the front door after them, and made her way to the lock-up which guarded their shiny Morris 1100.

28 Eric climbed into the car and meticulously warmed the motor for three minutes while Violet wiped the inside of the windscreen. After a few minutes driving they stopped at a red traffic light. Waiting to cross the road, and standing only a few feet from Eric's 1100, was a girl. She was attractive . . . sparkling. She knew what clothes would make the best of her and wore them well. She was poised, self-possessed and sexy. Eric nudged Violet, and indicated the girl with his eyes and brows. 'Look at that. Ridiculous, isn't it?' Eric and Violet exchanged knowing looks. Violet spoke for both of them: 'It's no wonder these girls get themselves into trouble. Show everything they've got. Just asking for it.'

Violet and Eric entered Le Can-Can just as Chan, his arms full of scenery, was kicking his way out. 'Morning Chan.' They raised their voices in unison. Chan just glared at them – the epitome of a class he detested, the personification of bourgeois self-satisfaction. He grunted defiantly. 'Huh. Brourgeois.' Eric and Violet were impervious – not only because they had heard it many times before, but also because they were totally wrapped up in their own world and the pursuit of respectability, the fulfilment of solid middle-class existence. They entered the auditorium, to find Enrico abstractedly picking his nose and Honor reading through her notes. 'Morning everybody,' they chimed primly in unison. Enrico hardly looked up at them. He mumbled a reply. Honor closed her notebook and turned. Despite the great difference in their personalities, she was usually glad to see Violet because Violet – apart from her general shapelessness – was one of Honor's best dancers. She was relatively intelligent, at least not downright stupid, and that meant that she didn't have to have new routines drummed into her as you might train a particularly recalcitrant dog. But to balance Honor's feelings towards Violet was her intense dislike for Eric. He was everything she hated, in appearance and

29 attitude. Above all, she hated Eric because he insisted on devising and directing Violet's dances. This was not only inconvenient; Honor felt it a slur on professionalism. She was the club's dance director after all. If anyone could direct a dance, what the hell was she doing in the club? Studiously she avoided Eric's eyes. 'Hallo Violet. Eric.' 'I'll pop and get ready, shall I?' Violet addressed the question to Honor, but Eric answered: 'Right, dear, you go and do that.' He turned to Honor. 'What's the matter with Chan?' 'Nothing unusual,' answered Honor abruptly. 'I can't understand why Enrico keeps him on. He's so . . . rude all the time. Never seems to have a civil word for anyone. I don't know.' 'Well you wouldn't, would you, not working here. Chan is excellent at his job and that's good enough for Enrico and me.' She was angry, wanted to tell this bigoted little man exactly where he got off, but instead she called out to Jeff: 'Right, Jeff. Ready when you are.' Jeff's voice boomed through the P.A. ''Ang about. I lost the bleedin' swordfish. Oh . . . it's all right, I've got it now. Beryl's been sitting on it.' Jeff grabbed a handful of Beryl's soft bottom and shoved her off the wooden fish. The loud female squawk was amplified over the P.A. Jeff chuckled and called to Honor. 'Right. Just 'old it, Honor, while I get in the roof.' With the swordfish under one arm, Jeff struggled into the rafters above the stage. It was cramped and dusty and he picked up several splinters from the rough beams. Christ, what a way to earn £19. Have to ask Enrico for a rise. He wedged himself in firmly, and coughed the dirt from his throat. He rubbed at one watery eye. 'Right Jeff?' asked Honor. 'Yeah. Christ, it isn't half uncomfortable up here.' 'Let's go then. Music please, Errol.' In Jeff's absence from the control panel, Errol put the tapes into action. Music streamed through the stereo system, lugubrious, watery music, bubbly notes and liquid chords. 'Curtains!' called Honor.

30 Errol worked the curtains, and they swung back to reveal an underwater set, backdrop of wavy blue lines and the sunken wreck of a Spanish galleon. Suspended from the roof were numerous creatures of the deep, manipulated from above by Jeff. After a suitable time had elapsed to establish the atmosphere, to make it clear to even the dimmest punter that what was going to happen was going to happen underwater, Violet made her entrance. She was garbed in an outrageous diver's suit – an almost unsupportable brass helmet topping lurex and rubber diving gear in which there were strategically placed clear plastic panels. Violet moved about the stage, vaguely in time with the music, hampered by the heavy helmet and the stiffness of the costume, displaying herself through the transparent panels. She marched to the front of the stage, thrusting her flabby breasts against the plastic, pushing them upwards into package-pin-up shapes, forcing the nipples erect against her fingers. She turned and waved her porky bottom at Honor and the empty seats, the cheeks squeezing together and parting as she rotated her hips. And the deep-sea lugubrious music rolled out of the speakers. Eric called out to his wife: 'Glide, Violet darling. You must glide.' This annoyed Honor intensely and had Eric been able to see her face he would have known it. But, blissfully unaware, carried away by the dance, he called again: 'Glide, dear. You're underwater. Everything's an effort.' You can say that again, thought Honor. Bloody right. Violet, seeing that Eric was trying to tell her something, shouted inside the brass helmet. Which only had the effect of fogging the eyepieces. 'Whaaaa?' 'I can't hear you, Violet darling, you've got your helmet on,' Eric shouted back. Violet, hot and irritated, pulled the helmet off and with great control and deliberation spoke to Eric: 'I can't hear you, you know Eric dear; it's this helmet, you see.' Honor smiled to herself. 'You must glide, dear,' Eric coached her. 'You're underwater,

31 remember, and everything is difficult . . . to move. You must glide.' He could see that Violet was not enjoying his advice (silly bugger. Glide. Of course it's difficult. It's hard enough to move at all with this ludicrous lot on, waving my boobs through the holes and wiggling my arse) so he turned to Honor for support. 'Don't you think, Honor. Glide? Mmmmh?' Honor replied resignedly and slowly. 'Oh yes, Eric.' She turned to Vi. 'Do glide, dear.' Violet replaced her helmet and the rehearsal continued. As she slid around the stage – glided – a large swordfish came on the scene, Jeff's swordfish, suspended on strings and worked from the rafters. The monster fish rocked back and forth attacking Violet and attempting to cut the air hose that was attached to her helmet. Violet fought back with her cork-handled diver's knife – and in truth seemed to be having by far the better of the struggle. Enrico, watching the dance from the back row, shouted to Jeff: 'Ey, Jeff. You can hear me? Jeff? Jeff! You give more zess . . . more boomf . . . ey . . . si, wiz ze cutting fish. Yeah, more zess wiz ze cutting fish.' Jeff pulled and jiggled the strings as energetically as he could in his cramped and uncomfortable position. The swordfish jerked at Violet liked a mad thing. 'Better?' Jeff asked. 'Si,' answered Enrico. 'Cutting fish is good. Much zess.' The fish went berserk. All at once, with the sound of cracking timber, splintering rafters, and tearing canvas, Jeff (oh Christ. First the spear and now this. I'll sue the sod) fell out of the roof, showered with broken scenery and falling monsters of the deep. Despite himself, Enrico had to laugh. 'Ey, Jeff. Too much zess wiz ze cutting fish. Huh?'

A while later, the stage was reset. Enrico returned to his vantage-point by the side-wall of the auditorium and was forced occasionally to wipe tears of laughter from his cheeks. He shook his head wryly.

32 And now Violet glided gently about the stage, every movement watery and effortful. The music from the speakers rolled and bubbled. Superimposed on the tape came dramatic chords, and Jeff's swordfish fell dramatically, wildly prodding at Violet – an ample target. Violet, brave fighting bourgeois aspirant, retaliated, jabbing the wooden fish with her wooden knife. But the beast won through and conquered the beautiful maiden. Her air pipe to the surface slashed, she fell to the boards, to the cruel sea bed. The tube itself, released from the rafters by Jeff, curled itself over the maiden's writhing body. Violet's hands clutched at her throat in a tremendous exhibition of asphyxiation, and with every writhe a few more inches of white fat-dimpled bottom poked out at the stalls. For a few seconds the writhing continued, enough time for Jeff to clatter noisily out of the rafters and down to his control panel. He slapped at a row of switches and all the stage lights went out. When they came on again, the scene had changed, and now Violet was limply flopped on the deck of a boat, her head propped against the mast. Ministering to her, in jolly seaman's knitted jersey, faded jeans, and boots with the tops turned down, was super-masculine Errol. As Errol attempted desperately to revive Violet, so he removed her diver's kit, and the remainder of her clothes, item by lingering item. But Jeff, in his haste to clamber from the roof and organize the scene change, had left a few fish dangling helplessly on their now all-too-visible lines. 'Jeff, Jeff!' Enrico called. 'You leave a the fish 'anging about . . . you t'ink they a flying fish? Huh? Ha ha ha.' 'Ooops, sorry.' And with thumpings and crashings, while more and more of Violet's white shapelessness became visible, the suspended fish were whipped away. Eric was impervious to the fish and to the noise. His eyes were only for Violet, and it is doubtful if any of the others saw the scene as it was played in Eric's mind. 'Oh that's terrific,' he breathed, 'terrific. Oh that's terrific, isn't it Honor.' But it was no question and Honor merely rolled her eyes. At last Errol struggled with and overcame the last stitch that

33 covered Violet's prominent and bushy mound. Triumphantly, he hurled the scrap of G-string away, and opened his arms to the audience. At the same time, miraculously, perhaps brought to life by the cold draught whistling around her, Violet rose to her feet, alive and recovered from her underwater ordeal. Errol turned to her and gently, a little coyly, they danced a hornpipe together. Jeff rang down the curtain. Eric turned to Honor, trapping her in his wet-lipped beam. He clapped wildly, and no last-night-of-the-proms-hooray clapped more wildly than Eric. 'Marvellous, isn't it?' Yes, bloody marvellous, thought Honor. 'Marvellous, Honor. Well . . . I must be off now. Nose to the grindstone and all that.' Yes, thought Honor, I doubt if your nose has been at any grindstone rougher than Violet's . . . . She smiled at Eric, thinly. But if Eric recognized the scorn and hostility, he showed nothing. Calling his goodbyes to Violet, and waving a limp farewell to anyone who cared to return it, Eric left the club and climbed, whistling gaily, to the street. He found his car and seated himself in it, first removing the 'POST OFFICE – Engineer on emergency call' from the windscreen, and drove off.

Moments later he was breezing into the grubby cubby-hole he shared with two engineering clerks. 'Well that's another satisfied customer, boys. Another little complaint ironed out. It was only her meter' – the clerks looked at each other, and small sneers of disbelief were exchanged- 'but I did her a few favours.' Eric winked knowingly at his mates. 'Anyway, she's quite happy now. Told you I'd have it all fixed up by twelve, didn't I?' 'Yes . . . you did, Eric. But it's past one now.' Nothing disconcerted Eric: 'Oh is it?' he said. 'Well . . . let's get some lunch, then.'

34 4 REHEARSAL III

A large sweat droplet gathered high on Chan's forehead, poised at the top end of a furrow that ran from his hairline to the bridge of his nose. Chan knew the droplet was there, but determined to ignore it. It would not disturb his dedication to work. His tunic stuck to his back, and large damp-stains spread through the coarse material. He was extremely uncomfortable, and, but for his fanatical devotion to the cause of toil, would have stopped for a sip of cold unsugared tea. In his mind there grew an image of an iced bottle, a bottle full of dark and bitter ice-cold liquid, a bottle with a crinkle-edged cap, whose contents were similar in taste to unsugared cold tea: Coca-Cola, arch manifestation of all the inherent evil in the exploito-capitalist system. 'Haaagh!' He grimaced, and the growing sweat droplet grew too heavy for its precarious hold on his skin. It rolled agonizingly, deliberately into his eye, and there it stung him, the fruits of toil treacherously attacking the honest toiler. 'Haaaaagh!' He blinked his eyes and wiped a hand across them. This made it worse, and so Chan was forced to leave his work temporarily. He groped around under the bench and found a relatively clean rag. With this he cleared his brow of sweat, and

35 ran the rag around the back of his neck. He stuffed the rag under the bench again. Chan picked up the ever-present Red Book of the Chairman's thoughts. He opened it and read: 'What is work? All work is stluggle.' 'Haaaaaaaaaaagh!!' He panted, and tore into the wood before him like a maddened Ming Palace guard. He took up the saw and hammer again, and struggled with the growing set. Half an hour of this completed the component parts. These he sanded with an electric sander, his eyes slit even thinner than normal against the flying sawdust. Chan gathered the wood together and left the workshop – only to return moments later; he'd forgotten the Red Book. He headed for the auditorium of Le Can-Can.

There Honor was waiting. 'Where the hell is Chan?' She was answered by a rending crash as Chan forced himself and assorted pieces of wood through the auditorium doors. As he entered, everyone looked round. Chan was pleased. For once he had the floor to himself. 'Is O.K. Miss Honor. O.K. I frix sclenely good.' He extracted the Red Book from its dedicated pocket. 'With help of Chairman Mao, sclenely extlemely frixed. Vrictoly to toil.' But Honor seemed not to appreciate the polemics of Chan's solution. She was impatient. 'Yes Chan. Well could you put it up right away, please. We are waiting to rehearse.' Chan was hurt at the lack of appreciation and a little angry at being hustled. Had he not sweated over this set? He tottered to the stage and heaved the wood up, muttering: 'Lehearse? Lehearse? For getting clothes off? Incledible.' He assembled the set. 'Ready everybody?' called Honor. 'O.K. Quiet now everyone. Music, Jeff!' Science-fiction themes filled the room, wails of electronics and eerie chords. In the background an obscene throbbing: this was the rhythm of Dolly's dance.

36 The music faded somewhat and Jeff's taped voiceover introduced the act: 'Gentlemen. 'Ave you ever wondered 'ow your bank statements are produced these days? Well, in case you didn't know, a hard-working machine does the trick. A computer. And even if it does make the occasional mistake, wouldn't you if your lot was all work and no play . . . makes Jack a dull boy, don't it . . . . Heh, heh, heh. 'But Le Can-Can, always first in strip, presents to you the computer's delight, a dish to set the lights flashing, to turn the red to black. Gentlemen, first with the technological strip, Le Can-Can gives you . . . Miss Dolly Apollo . . . .' And the curtains opened as the music's volume welled up, to reveal Le Can-Can's computer, a vast array of flashing lights and garish colours, of crinkly wires and revolving discs, a wild Heath Robinson mass of wood and tin, of glass and wire. Centre stage, where the action was to take place, was the main structure, a silvered, festooned box with several holes cut in it. Through these holes, Errol, hiding in the box, could poke his arms, clad in full-length rubber gloves, and thus was able to undress Dolly while the lights flashed and the discs spun. Dolly herself was beyond sane imagination. A zipped rubber suit, sprayed and laméed, clung to her compact but voluptuous figure, revealing its every sinuous movement, every fold and bump. The outlines of brief underwear were clearly seen under the rubber. The suit itself was smarmed with transistors and valves, with switches and fuses that Chan had ripped from the carcasses of several second-hand radios. Dolly stood there, a stoical smile moving the corners of her mouth, her eyes resigned and hard as she waited for the abominable song that cued her act. This was a song specially written by some of the club's regular girls, under Honor's supervision. To a tune that vaguely resembled 'Death of a Clown', it ran:

'Most girls know the trouble that a lover man can bring For all our men, from time to time, like to have a fling.

37 They say they love you, Never leave you, Always hold you tight – But you wake up in the morning and they've gone off in the night. Now some of us have found a way to deal with all this woe, A little electric lover what is always on the go: Yeah, yeah yeah! My little electric lover Never lets me down Cause whenever I want him He's always hanging around. And whenever I touch him He flashes right away. He gives me good vibrations Each and every day.' Dolly was a passable dancer, and could move lithely even to something as appalling as this song. So as it progressed, she danced, following the words closely; when it was required of her, she caressed the machine, hooking one long leg over a pipe and rubbing herself up and down it. Jeff, watching from the cubby-hole, could manipulate the lights to react to Dolly. As she pressed her breasts to the set, the lights flashed intermittently. As she slid her thigh against a disc, bells rang desperately. When the song ended, Dolly was freer to dance as she wished, to thrust herself at the audience, showing them what they each paid a pound or two to see. And as she danced, she tantalized and teased Errol's groping hands, feebly waving at her through the set. Sometimes she allowed them to caress her, then suddenly she would pull away, slapping at them. Later, she strayed nearer the hands, permitting them to undress her slowly, to feel her flesh, to tug at her pants, to fondle her nipples.

As Errol and Dolly rehearsed, Enrico wandered around the

38 auditorium, testing the view from various vantage-points. Chan stood at the back of the theatre, rapturously watching. He had no eyes for Dolly, though. The set had all his attention. He sighed: 'Lound and lound. Exlellent.' And he patted the Red Book-dedicated tunic pocket. Dolly's dance continued, until Enrico called out to her: 'Ey! Dolly! 'Ang on a minute Dolly. I don't think the man 'oo sit 'ere can see ever'thing proper. You move to the right, ey Dolly. The right! RIGHT ! No, Dio bono, the left . . . aah, tha's a good. Is a good. O.K., Dolly.' Dolly danced on, sinuously weaving by one of Errol's groping hands. The hand made a grab at Dolly's flimsy pants, lunged, just touched them, and missed its grip. Errol's muffled curse was inaudible to Honor and Enrico, but Dolly giggled to herself. Honor called out: 'Errol. Errol, darling, you missed her. You should have had her knickers off that time. We'll have to go back.' Errol shot up over the set, a latterday Mr Chad, his eyes glittering cattily, tantrums fuming inside him. 'Well of course I missed her,' he hissed over the footlights, 'of course I missed her. 'E's just moved her, 'asn't 'e? I mean, you've moved her, 'aven't you Enrico. I mean, do you think you could get her that far away? Eh? Do you? I mean, I 'aven't got three arms, 'ave I dear? And they're not bleeding elastic.' And with that Errol stormed off the stage and into the dressing-room. He flopped down in front of the mirror, tears blurring his vision. He reached for and opened the locker door, dragging out a half-empty bottle of Scotch. He poured a large glassful and knocked it back, grimacing slightly at the sharp warmth that gagged in his throat and thrilled his guts. Slowly, he began to relax. He poured another large glassful and sipped at it.

Violet was sitting in the dressing-room, chatting to Janni the Mutterer, when Errol flounced in. If he noticed her he gave no indication. She and Janni looked up at his entrance and watched the performance with the whisky, but they made no spoken

39 comment. Janni was simply indifferent, while Violet's face tightened disapprovingly, the lips prissy and prune-like. Poor Janni. Errol's problems would mean nothing to her, the club's ugliest, though not least perceptive, girl. Like all the dancers, she stripped for the money. But, unlike the others, she seemed unable to adjust her emotions accordingly, and she hated the job and everything connected with it – not for the humiliation of baring her shapeless and unattractive body to an audience of bleary eyes, sweaty upper lips, fidgeting hands, and squirming bottoms, but for the sheer boredom of the job, its total lack of interest, stimulus or dignity. She loathed her job as a typist hates typing, as a clerk is a deliberately mindless automaton. And because they were the demand that she supplied, Janni especially hated the punters with a vicious and violent hatred that approached the pathological. Janni was about to speak to Errol when Enrico entered the dressing-room. He looked around for Errol and approached him, slowly, menacingly, snake before a chicken. Errol looked up defiantly, a small boy caught with a dirty picture book. Incongruously, Enrico smiled at Errol – cajoled: 'Come on, Errol. Ees not even the lunchtime an' you drinking already. You don't need it. I tol' you this before, about the drinking. You got a the show all afternoon . . . .' Nervously, Errol cut in, gabbling his answer, not sufficiently drunk to be able to deny the truth of Enrico's plea. 'Well the whole rehearsal's been ruined. I mean it's ruined, ruined isn't it? First Chan comes barging in. Then you, I mean you mess up my dance with Dolly. Look, the whole thing's ruined, isn't it?' Enrico was not a patient man and this reply did nothing to please him. He looked down coldly at his club's male dancer, thinking that his replacement had better be a much younger man. And he wouldn't pay him as much, either. 'O.K., Errol. You drink. You drink a the whole bottle. But the nex' time you mess up my show. The nex' time, you out. Like that.' He snapped his fingers; they cracked noisily in the silent dressing-room. Enrico turned and marched out, none too gentle with the door. Errol reached for the Scotch and poured the last shot into the

40 glass, Sulkily he dropped the empty bottle on to the floor where it broke. Violet winced, her mouth more prunesque than ever. Janni hardly registered the splintering glass. On the dressing-table before Errol was a large photograph of his mother, a dumpy, smiling face signed 'My best beloved Errol . . . your darling mother'. He gazed at the picture mournfully, then picked it up lovingly and drew it to his quivering lips. He kissed her and held her to his face as the tears began to burn their way down his cheeks. He remembered . . .

. . . Despite its great size, its height, that drawing-room had been dominated by the grand piano, and that was the way Angela Jolson liked it. Next to Errol and her photographs, it was the most important thing in her life. After Errol came the sepia-brown photographs of herself at the height of her fame, in the various starring roles she had played on the London stage before Major Edward Jolson had taken her away from it all, had overwhelmed the young actress who was beginning to wonder how long she could play the ingénue. Now, in the room, were some of Angela's friends: Miss Gaye Caldicott at the piano, beaming and bespectacled, her pudgy little fingers extorting 'Buttercups and Snowdrops' from the yellowing keyboard; Aunt Ida sharing the dingy-coloured, fluted sofa with Angela herself; Esme Payne sitting on an easy chair, sometimes bored, sometimes enchanted. And near the door, co-opted to make up the audience, and to be readily at hand when the teapot required replenishment, stood a very indifferent Sally, Angela Jolson's maid. In front of these ladies, in a free-form, self-consciously energetic style, danced the seven-year-old Errol, pretty in velvet and a bow tie, his hair a mass of dark curls and ringlets. The music tinkled, his feet twinkled. The music halted, he halted, hands outstretched, poised, posed. The ladies sipped tea, their powdered cheeks glistening as they watched the young trapped male pirouette, an exquisite and rare bird doomed to flutter in a chic bamboo cage for the delight of his mistresses. Ida pecked her lips down to the cup,

41 pouting to meet the dainty china. Delicately she sipped, her eyes flicking this way and that, hating to blink for fear she should miss one of the boy's movements. And especially she watched his pert bottom, his unformed seven-year-old crotch.

Ida spoke: 'He's got your quality, Angela. Look, he loves doing it. Look, you can see. Ah, you never can tell, can you?' 'Oh, I'm not sure,' fluttered Angela, 'Ida, you know I'm not sure. He is good for his age, but Miss Ainsworth says he simply must . . .' But Ida cut her short, gushing: 'Come, Angela, come. He's you all over – and you were a star weren't you? And still could be if it wasn't for that blasted . . . husband . . . of yours.' Oh! And Angela mas shocked, eyes, hands, mouth, entire body, loyally registering shock in a tutored and stylized little movement that was so defenceless. She was so adorable. 'Ida!' she gasped. 'Not in front of the maid!' The music tripped to a halt and the ladies all applauded the little dancer, each in her own characteristic way: Angela theatrically; Ida robustly and nodding her head in accord with her hands; Esme languidly; Gaye enthusiastically; Sally wearily – she had seen it all before and even then it hadn't been that good. Errol shyly shuffled to his mother and stood next to her. She put her arm around him and drew him down to her bosom, a warm, clean-smelling haven. After a few moments Angela released him and he stayed near her, nervous, happy, smiling and a little flushed. Gaye Caldicott left the piano and joined the other ladies. She stooped to hug Errol, and twittered at Angela: 'I cannot help but think that it must be next stop Sadler's Wells for young Errol.' She chucked him under the chin. He was shy and embarassed, and shuffled his feet coyly. 'Oh, Gaye,' answered the mother, 'he's only just started ballet. And anyway, I'm sure they don't do free movement there.' The ladies laughed. Esme spoke, touching Angela's arm as she did so. 'Let the poor boy have his tea, Angela. He must be ravenous after all that.' The ladies laughed again. 'Oh yes, you poor darling. Come. Sit here next to mummy.'

42 Errol sat down, a little awkwardly because Ida did not move far along the sofa. 'Here you are, you tuck into this, my sweet. But you won't eat it too quickly, will you?' Errol, his mouth crammed full, could only shake his head in answer. He watched his mother pour some tea for him, and while the ladies continued their, to him, meaningless talk, he munched the cakes and sucked the sweets. Angela popped a cream slice into her mouth. 'Angela!' Ida shrieked. 'You shouldn't eat that, surely?' 'Ida, you know my dieting days are over,' replied Angela sardonically. 'Why should I worry, after all?' she added a little bitterly. 'Sally?' 'Yes, Miss Caldicott.' 'Be a dear and make another pot, will you?' 'Yes, Miss Caldicott.' Sally resignedly dawdled off to the kitchens. 'The garden is looking lovely, Angela,' Esme complimented. 'What are those gorgeous pink . . .?' 'When does he start at the Kusel school, Angela?' Gaye's sharper voice cut across Esme's question, and it was Gaye who was answered. 'Well, he has to wait another year, Gaye dear, because . . .' 'I think it's ridiculous,' interjected Ida, 'history and all that sort of thing. Well, of course, they're fine for some children, but Miss Ainsworth can't be expected to make him pass his exams and create a dancer. Now . . . if I were you, Angela dear . . .' It was Angela's turn to butt in, and she had an edge to her voice: 'I think I should know what's best for Errol, don't you, Ida? I am his mother, after all. He's doing very well as it is. You do know that Miss Ainsworth has him working on the "Pas-de-Deux" from Les Sylphides, don't you?' None of the group knew this and they all showed interest. 'No,' said Ida, a little peeved. 'No, I didn't.' 'How lovely,' said Gaye. 'Can he do it for us?' 'Oh do let him, Angela.' There was an expectant pause, during which all the ladies watched Angela. Errol was ignored. He waited for his cue. Angela thought for a few seconds, then decided.

43 'Errol, run and put your record on, darling.' 'Yes, Mummy.' The group sat back expectantly. Errol went over to the sideboard, found his record, and put it on the gramophone. He took his place in the middle of the room. After the introductory bars, Errol picked up the dance. Soon he was immersed in it, losing all his hesitancy, all his self-consciousness. But the ladies were destined never to see Errol's pas-de-deux, for Major Edward Jolson was at this very moment striding across the lawn. Sally had seen him from the kitchen. There'll be trouble now, she thought, and decided not to take in Miss Caldicott's fresh pot of tea just yet.

Major Jolson, a gaunt, austere man some ten years older than his wife, threw open the French doors of the sitting-room. For a moment he stood there. Then, firing a curt sentence at the ladies, he stalked into the middle of the room and grabbed Errol. He shook the boy fiercely for a few seconds, pointed him to the door and gave him a shove. Errol, in tears of fright and apprehension, rushed from the room. Major Jolson snatched the record from the turntable and smashed it. He turned to the ladies. 'I'll thank you to leave my house. And I don't want to see you here again. Any of you.' Angela approached him hesitantly. 'Edward . . . ,' she pleaded. But he had no time for her, and refused to listen. With controlled fury he spoke to her. 'Not in my house, do you see? Not in my house. Make him into a nancy boy. Put a skirt on him. But I will not have him prancing about in my house. Do you understand, Angela. NOT IN MY HOUSE!' It had been a terrible scene . . . .

. . . Errol's melancholy reverie was interrupted by Violet. She glared at him, and remarked loudly: 'This dressing-room is beginning to smell like a public bar.' Errol hardly glanced at her. 'Well you should know, dear,' he said bitingly. 'I always go in the saloon myself.'

44 'When your boyfriend's buying.' Errol stood up. Violet's feeble and puritan mind gave him little opposition. 'Well, darling,' he said, sweeping out. 'At least I don't have to support my men.' Janni laughed, and got a dirty look from Violet for her pains. 'I think Errol's drinking far too heavily,' Violet said primly. It's bad enough that he's a pansy, she thought. But drinking as well. Dirty little sod. 'Yeah.' Janni laughed shortly. 'Not as bad as my old man. And at least it is his money.' Violet looked sharply at Janni the Mutterer, but could see no guile in the ugly flaccid face. 'What's that supposed to mean?' she demanded. "Ere, you're a bit jumpy, aren't you? What's the matter?' 'There's nothing the matter with me, Janni.' Violet attempted dignity. 'Does your hubby drink, then?' she asked innocently. 'Drink? 'E makes a bleeding fish look parched. I'll tell you, Vi, my old man drinks enough beer on 'is own to keep Whit-bread's going. An' that's without the gin.' 'What's he do, then?' An involuntary sneer of disapproval. 'Sod all. 'E calls 'imself a freelance disc jockey. 'E's no more a disc jockey than I'm Brigitte bleedin' Bardot. Whenever 'e's out of work 'e's a freelance something or other. An' whenever 'e's in work, 'e makes bleedin' sure 'e gets out again as soon as 'e can. I don' know about anything else . . . 'e's a freelance bum.' Violet was intrigued. Her class-consciousness and social strivings usually inhibited her from conversations that involved more than exchanging simple greetings with the other dancers. 'How do you live, then, if he's always . . . unemployed?' 'What d'yer mean? 'Ow do you think? I pay all the bleedin' bills, don't I? I pay everything, while 'e sits and boozes with 'is mates, and pulls all the teenybopper chicks down at the club.' 'Well, I don't know how you do it. We could never manage on my money.' Janni looked at Violet shrewdly. She'd never thought much about her before, but come to think of it she was a bit of a snotty cow. 'Yeah,' she answered, 'well, I 'spect you live a different

45 sort of life. An' anyway, I do three bleedin' mornings at The Knickerama.' 'What?' Violet was amazed. 'Tony's place?' 'Yeah, that 'ole. I do three mornings there. And then there's the films of course.' 'You don't!' "Course I bleedin' do. You asked 'ow we lived, din' you? Well 'ere's your bleedin' answer. And it's a tenner a time.' That surprised Violet. She had never thought that the film racket would pay a tenner for a quickie. 'It never is!' 'It is,' said Janni. 'An' I done one two months ago for fifty. But that was a bit classy. Dogs an' all.' Violet gazed speculatively at Janni. Fifty pounds. Lots of things she'd like for that. Smart Kenwood sitting on the Formica next to the fridge. That'd look good. Perhaps that nice cocktail cabinet she and Eric saw in the High Street. Maybe even a holiday – they were going ridiculously cheap these days. 'How long does it take?' she asked Janni, the question out before she could phrase it more subtly. 'What? To do a film? Well, it all depends. On the bloke, you know. I mean, some of them take a bit of time to get their pecker up, what with the lights and the cameras and all. Know what I mean? 'Ere, you're not thinkin' of doin' it, are you?' 'Oh no,' Violet answered hastily. Mustn't let anyone get that idea. 'Oh no no no no no. Not at all. Of course not. I . . . I just wondered . . . that's all.' Janni stared at Vi and didn't say anything. Violet caught the stare and was surprised at the shrewdness there. To change the subject, she reverted to Janni's husband. 'Quite honestly, Jan, I don't know how you put up with it. I mean him not even being faithful, and all.' 'Well . . . 'e's all right really. I mean, you know, I get a bit pissed off when I'm working. I mean all them bastard punters eyein' me up, an' I think there 'e is at 'ome, pokin' some little slag. But it's the bleedin' club, isn't it? I mean, 'e never used to be like that. Not when we was first 'itched. 'E was quite soft and stupid. You know . . . gentle . . . .' 'Why did he change then?'

46 'It's only since I started the clubs, in' it. Clubs and the soddin' punters. They done it,' Janni replied aggressively. 'Well you can always stop, can't you? You don't have to do it.' It was Janni's turn to be amazed. 'You must be jokin'. What else can I do? I ain't goin' to work in a shop. Or say "Yes sir, no sir, up your flue, sir" to anyone. I mean if I'm goin' to do that, I might just as well stay 'ere. At least I can 'ate the bleedin' punters – even if I do 'ave to work for them.' Violet thought for a moment. There must be something else. But, though she would not admit it consciously, she knew there was nothing else. Had she not been through the same thought process herself, sitting in her chintzy little flat, wondering how she could rake up the extra few quid for the table lighter she saw in Woman's Own? But she couldn't bring herself to believe it. 'Well, there must be other jobs you could do – and enjoy.' 'What? That pays like this? Why do you do it? Why don't you find one of those jobs? And anyway, to tell you the truth, I used to do a bit before we got married an' all. Only 'e doesn't know, of course. But I 'ad a thing goin' with Tony's boy, down the Knickerama. That was before 'e copped a brick lorry in the mush – up the motorway. Anyway, I used to work down there whenever I needed a few bob. Yeah,' she added nostalgically, 'used to be quite a good club then. Better than this 'ole. But when Tony's boy went, 'is old man sort of went to pieces.' Janni stretched and groaned. 'Christ . . . I do 'ate the punters at the best of times. But the last couple of days they've really been gettin' to me.' 'Yeah . . . well they always do about now, don't they?' 'What d'yer mean "about now"?' asked Janni. Violet was surprised that Janni shouldn't know – she'd been on the circuit long enough, 'Well, you know, it's the Motor Show, isn't it? Started last Monday, didn't it.' 'Oh yeah. No wonder. I forgot that. All the slobs up in town for the big week. Leave the missis and see the sights. Makes me bleedin' sick. Well, ta ta then, Vi, I must be off.' Janni stood up and shrugged into her coat. She made for the door. 'Bye.'

47 5 FLASHBACK

'You'll be swingin' soon With Radio Baboon . . . Doowah doowah doowah

Here's the King of all the Airwaves The grooviest of deejays Peter Pinhead Peter Pinhead Peter Pinhead . . . Doowah doowah doowah POM!

'Hallo boys and girls . . . it's 12 o'clock on the dot. Peter Pinhead invites you to roll up the carpet . . . draw the curtains . . . put out the cat . . . cover the budgie . . . let down your hair . . . bring out the bottle . . . brew up the coffee . . . turn the lights down low –

''Cos it's time to GO GO GO With Peter Pinhead's sweet and swingin' show "Melodies for Two" . . .

'Featuring the very best in midnight smoochie woochie, the most romantic tunes of yesteryear. And tonight's first number

48 comes from Bernardo Aggravaccio . . . it's the last recording he ever made: "Your two lips are like tulips".'

Bernardo Aggravaccio's one hundred and ten thousand strings leaked through the radio's small speaker. Shadowy dancers took the floor and glided gently around. A bright moon provided the only light in the long low room, throwing evocative shadows on the walls. Around the edge of the dance floor sat the wallflowers, petulantly murmuring to each other as they watched the entwined couples. Rog Pimpleton surveyed the scene morosely. So far he'd danced with no one, his usual state of affairs. It wasn't that he did not fancy anyone – just that they didn't fancy him. Or if they did, they were themselves so hideous that Rog could raise no enthusiasm. He looked again at the assembled wallflowers, wondering which one looked least offensive. Third from the right wasn't too bad . . . but a bit spotty – and was that a vestige of a moustache? In this light, who could tell? Rog wandered over, weaving through the dancing couples. 'I say. Would you like to dance?' 'Not actually.' 'Why not?' "Cos I don't like you.' 'Why?' "Cos you're big, spotty, and stupid. And you haven't got any money.' 'What do you mean? I gave you my tennis racquet last week.' But the object of Rog's desires merely sniffed and turned away. Rog felt a smelly sweat of embarrassment gathering on himself. He moved on down the line, no longer discriminating, until he came to a small blond sitting primly alone, knees pressed demurely together. The blond looked up, then looked away again quickly. 'I say,' asked Rog. 'Will you dance with me?' 'No,' replied the blond. 'Why not?' Rog was getting irate. But the blond did not answer, merely looked haughtily away. 'I say! Why not?' demanded Rog.

49 'Just because.' 'Just because what?' Rog was shouting. 'Oh all right! If you must know . . . just because I only dance with first-fifteen chaps, and you're in the second fifteen.' Rog was desperately hurt: 'But I was linesman last week!' 'So what? Anyway, you haven't got any money.' 'But I gave you my jockstrap last week!' protested Rog. 'Well, it's too big for me . . . and anyway, I wanted your boots.' Rog turned sadly away. His size availed him nothing now.

'Radio Baboon is full of funnnnnnnn . . . . 'Well boys and girls, the sweet Latin strains of Los Propertioffos brings tonight's "Melodies for Two" to a close. So this is Peter Pinhead signing off- and saying, wherever you are, drive safely . . . keep well . . . don't do anything I wouldn't . . . God bless . . . farewell . . . Abide with me . . . and good night!'

Having made their mutual choices, the couples began to disperse to their beds. The Nelson House, Cretinford School, mid-week (illegal) dormitory dance and social had drawn to a close. From the dim recesses of the dormitory came the muffled sounds of athletic sexual exertions. Only Rog Pimpleton remained out of bed. He swore, cursing his size, his acne, his lack of intelligence, his athlete's crutch, and his stingy guardian who only allowed him ten bob a term pocket money. He stomped off to his bed, leapt between the coarse sperm-stiffened sheets, and applied himself furiously to his member. Two beds further down the dorm, Bannister emitted a pained shriek and shot bolt upright. He glared aggrievedly at the other occupant of his narrow school bed, a rodent-faced thirteen-year-old exalting in the unfortunate name of Bott. Bannister glared, then switched his gaze to his own rapidly-deflating weapon. 'I say! Look here, Bott! It's not a bloody cricket bat you know! Look at it! Look what you've done!' Bott looked. It was drooping and raw. 'See?' continued Bannister. 'That's no good, is it? I can't be up all night, you know – we're playing Wellington tomorrow!' Bott was about to remark that despite his constant application

50 for the past fifty minutes, Bannister had shown no signs whatsoever of coming. But then he remembered that he was Bannister's stooge, had a brief but compelling vision of the infinite brass lavatory pipes he would be forced to clean, thought better than to speak, and resignedly took up his flaccid burden.

When Errol Jolson first arrived at Nelson House, Cretinford School, in Essex, he was immediately much prized for his milk-skinned, hairless body. Much prized – and much hated, for he was obviously a mummy's boy. After a few days at the school he contracted mild flu and this only added to his unhappiness. He was confined to an isolation dormitory (for there was an epidemic of flu that year, and the sanatorium could not hold all the victims), and wrote his mother a letter that, despite its bad grammar and faulty spelling, more than adequately conveyed his misery. She reacted predictably, and to alleviate his desperate home-sickness and his illness she sent him by return an enormous bunch of grapes, a small crate of Beecham's Powders, and a hot-water bottle in a knitted, floral cover. This did nothing to improve his reputation among the other boys in the dorm; indeed, the hot-water bottle only added to his misery. Now, in addition to having been smothered with tearful mother's kisses in full view of a crowd of jeering louts on his first day at school, Errol had to live with physical proof of his feebleness: the hot-water bottle. No young man – sent to Cretinford to become a man – would accept such a sign of weediness unless he were actually a weed. As he unwrapped the hot-water bottle, Errol found himself surrounded by loutish faces. 'Oy! New bug! You missing your mummy, then?' 'Has mumsie-wumsie sent Jolsi-wolsie a hottie?' 'Poor Jolsi-wolsie. Has 'oo got cold feetie-weeties? Never mind. Mummy's nice hottie'll soon change that, won't it?' 'Hey, new tick! You won't be able to keep that, you know.' 'Only prefects allowed hotties – you'll have to hand it over, new tick.' 'Yes, come on new bug. Hand it over!' Errol was frightened. He'd done nothing to these people. He

51 couldn't understand what was happening to him. He was disorientated, and stayed miserably silent. The crowd gathering round him became more threatening, emboldened by his obvious defencelessness, his total lack of fight. Errol clutched his hot-water bottle, physical manifestation of his closeness to his mother, like a drowning man clutches a life-belt. An uncouth acned boy, enormous and ugly, pushed his way to the front of the crowd surrounding Errol. He smirked round at the others and then sat on Errol's bed. Lisping, he said: 'Did our mumsie think we'd get a little chilly, then? Did she send us a nice hottie to warm our little feetie-weeties? Eh? Did she?' Errol stared at him, blinking back the hot tears forming in his eyes. He gripped his mother's gift even more tightly in his arms. He wished he were at home. Anywhere but this incomprehensible hell. The fiendish, grinning faces closed in around him. 'Go on Rog! Grab it.' 'What? Grab his little hottie-wottie? I wouldn't do that. What would we do to warm our little feet, eh new tick?' 'Please leave me alone,' whispered Errol, pleading. But this was only greeted by cruel jeers. Rog imitated Errol's tearful voice to his gallery. 'Yeth. Leave him alone, you rotten cads.' He turned on Errol viciously: 'Give it to me, you horrid little prick!' Rog Pimpleton snatched the hot-water bottle from Errol. A great cheer went up from the crowd. 'Chuck it over here, Rog!' 'To me . . . to me!' 'Pass it, Rog!' Rog slung the hot-water bottle to his friends, and a violent game of dorm-rugby ensued. As his mother's gift was irreverently thrown from lout to lout, Errol pulled the sheets up to his face and wept bitterly. At length he realized the game was over. The shrieks and the laughter had moved out of the dormitory and into the adjoining washrooms. Errol peered out from his bed – just in time to see the mob returning. 'Here you are, new tick.'

52 'Do you want mumsie-wumsie's prezzy back?' 'Do you want your hottie back?' Errol was silent. 'Well . . . do you?' 'Yes . . .' 'Yes what? You little prat.' 'Yes please.' 'Yes please, Pimpleton.' 'Yes please, Pimpleton.' 'Yes please, Pimpleton, sir.' 'Yes please, Pimpleton, sir.' 'Here you are then, new tick. Here it is . . .' And Pimpleton sprinkled the razor-slashed bits of rubber and knitted cover in Errol's face. Everyone collapsed with mirth. Errol wept.

Later that night, in the dark and silence, Pimpleton appeared at Errol's bedside. Errol cowered, desperately pretending to be asleep. But Pimpleton merely shook him roughly. 'I say, new tick. Wake up! Hoy! Wake up!' Errol, being bounced up and down at least a foot, decided he could no longer realistically feign sleep. 'Yes, Pimpleton, sir,' he said. 'Oh, no need for that, new tick. That was just a bit of fun. I say, you do realize we were only having fun, don't you?' 'Yes, Pimpleton.' 'Now look here, new tick, it's not as bad as all that. You've just got to learn to fit in. Everyone finds it a bit hard at first. But you get used to it – just need a little help, that's all.' He paused. 'Now you see, new tick, what you need is a friend . . . someone to help you . . . make sure you know what's what.' He slid a brotherly hand on to Errol's arm. 'Do you know what I mean?' Errol recoiled slightly from Pimpleton's grasp – it was too like his own father's for comfort. Pimpleton tightened his grip. 'Now it's no use doing that, new tick. You have to learn the way things work here . . . . now if you're nice to me, I can save

53 you a bit of trouble, new tick.' 'But Pimpleton . . . .' Errol was confused, didn't understand what Rog was driving at. 'I shouldn't argue, new tick. I could make life very difficult for you. I'd like to be your friend . . . .' Pimpleton had surreptitiously removed most of Errol's bedclothes and was now sliding his hand beneath the sheets. '. . . and I'd like you to be my friend.' As Pimpleton's hand slid around Errol's small buttock, Errol squeaked loudly. 'Now shut up, new tick!' whispered Pimpleton savagely into Errol's ear. 'Shut up – or I'll smash your face in!' So saying, Pimpleton heaved his pock-marked body into Errol's bed. Errol, petrified, tried to escape from the bed, but Pimpleton had a firm grip on the neck of his prey. 'Come here, you horrid little shit!' Pimpleton tightened his grip on Errol's neck, and though Errol was too terrified to put up much of a struggle, he squirmed enough to fully occupy one of Pimpleton's hands. Consequently that gross thug found it a difficult and time-consuming task to extract a tin of Nivea cream from his pyjama pocket and transfer at least half of its contents to his now erect (spotty) dick. But even for Pimpleton necessity was invention's mother, and he at last succeeded, achieving his final objective and causing Errol great pain, intense humiliation, and three weeks' chronic constipation.

54 6 PERFORMANCE I

Fifteen pound a week rubbish,' remarked the salesman dispassionately. His sidekick nodded in dumb agreement. 'We always get them though, don't we?' Again the second salesman nodded. Both men, smartly dressed in well-cut, readymade suits – a hard-wearing, crease-resistant worsted – leant against the cocktail bar of their exhibition stand. The front of the bar featured a long glossy poster of a longer and glossier three-litre grand touring car. The car itself was surrounded by incongruous sweaty jungle foliage, through which its headlights burned like baleful yellow jungle beasts' eyes. Illogically a bored model langorously topped this motor-car; she wore a dramatic evening gown slit from throat to navel, from thigh to ankle. Elsewhere on the exhibition stand were similar photographs and posters of the sporting cars that this particular company offered. All were surrounded by shiny, sultry, desirable girls – who would miraculously become available to the buyer of one of these cars; for the message was that these girls liked only one thing better than fondling gearlevers and handbrakes with long and elegant fingers – fondling the car owners with those same fingers. 'Yeah . . . we always get 'em . . . fifteen pound a week crap,'

55 repeated the salesman as he watched the thronging visitors to this year's Motor Show. Could it be that the titillating posters, the semi-clad slinky chicks, were in any way connected with the fact that 'they always got the fifteen pound a week rubbish'? This stand was an island; an island of thick pile carpets in a sea of exhibition fibre-matting and cold concrete floors; an island of gin and tonic in a sea of beer; an island of after-shave and woman-slaying deodorants in a sea of sweat and body odour. This was achievement, whilst all around was frustrated hope and failure. Apart from the two salesmen, their cocktail bar, and their posters, the island supported other life: several motor-cars of various prices, none less than £2,500; a mahogany office suite; matching stands and tables covered with shiny advertising brochures and fragmented, low-angle photographs of the cars. Here and there on the island sprouted obscure and semi-heraldic devices that tortuously incorporated the company's name. On the most expensive car on the stand, reclined a girl. Every hour she was relieved but, marvellously, each girl was a carbon copy of her predecessor. All identical to the langorous model featured in the big glossy poster above the cocktail bar, though perhaps not so desirable; sexy, in a tedious, constructed way . . . .

The Motor Show. A yearly festival. An authentic holy day – dedicated to twin gods: the Motor Car and Total Absence of Taste. A day when men pay their respects to the mechanical idols that transport them from place to place at stupefying speed (assuming these same idols are not involved in their twice-daily religious processions), and only occasionally demand the death of servers and priests as payment. A day when the laity can gather to admire the new generation of idols that the archbishops and druids have devised to lay trails of inconsiderate noise and noxious fumes across unimportant, insignificant countryside. A day when worshippers can come to be amazed and covetous, so that they determine to obtain for themselves a brand new personal idol – the most prestigious in the neighbourhood – that will convince their friends of piety and success.

56 Colin, Roy, Stuart, Tony and Sean were worshippers. They had almost convinced themselves to attend night school for five years to help them achieve the financial success rewarded with expensive powerful cars, and, anticipating those glorious days to come, they made their way to the island home of the two salesmen. The senior salesman had followed their progress through the crowd, remarking again on the fifteen pound a week rubbish, and reacting according to his analysis of their buying power: that is, he stayed exactly where he was, lounging against the bar. Colin, Roy, Stuart, Tony, and Sean were all young men, seedy, and similarly dressed in sports jackets, drip-dry shirts or polonecked sweaters, and dark, creaseless trousers. Their shoes were scuffed and dirty – except for Sean's. He had a fad about shiny leather. Even his thick watchstrap glowed with the rich sheen of Cherry Blossom and elbow grease. As the five young faithfuls actually climbed on to the stand, the senior salesman assumed an expression of acute distate and spoke to his sidekick from the corner of his mouth – loud enough for the five to hear, he hoped. 'Tell 'em the Ford stand's over there.' The sidekick, second salesman and portable sycophant, smirked ingratiatingly. Stuart, meanwhile, was goggling at the model girl on the stand's central display. Colin elbowed him cruelly: 'Wassa matter? Ain't you ever seen tits before?' 'Course I 'ave,' replied Stuart indignantly, but only too aware that just a few feet away from him there was something as good as you would ever wank over in Penthouse or Girls Illustrated. The others of the group studiously examined the cars nearest this central display. 'Twin overheads, I sh'ink,' said Roy knowledgeably, glad that his audience was as ignorant as he. 'Use a bit of oil, then.' 'Don't reckon much to the trim, though, do you?' 'Well, for two and a half what do you expec'?' 'Walnut, in'it?' 'Yeah,' agreed Stuart, 'I like a bit of wood myself. Adds a bit of class. Like G-Plan.' Colin's attention was wandering. He looked up at the girl. 'Christ! Lovely knockers,' he muttered. Stuart overheard him and scanned the back of the car until he realized his mistake.

57 Hastily he looked around to see if anyone had realized it. Then he followed Colin's gaze. At that precise moment the model turned languidly, and looked at the five of them. She seemed to stare right through them and they shuffled their feet, embarrassed, unused to admass sophistication. "Ere, she's just like them birds in the adverts, in' she?' whispered Roy loudly. 'Yeah . . . well all birds are the same when you get down to it,' answered Colin scornfully, fingering his collar. 'Oh yeah? Let's see you chat 'er up then,' demanded Roy belligerently, angry that he'd been made to feel ignorant. 'It'll cost yer,' giggled Stuart. But Colin shot him what he hoped was a withering look: 'I never paid for it yet, mate. An' I don't intend to start now.' 'Well, go on. Chat her up then.' 'You're dead stupid, you are,' said Colin irritably. 'Can't you see she's workin'? You don't chat birds up when they're workin'. You've got to be . . . like . . . subtle.' This resume of chatting etiquette was greeted with a chorus of jeers. 'Come on, Col.' 'Look! She's lamping you!' 'Yeah . . . 'spect she's dyin' for it, Col.' 'I mean, they're all the same, birds, ain't they?' Roy was elated at Colin's discomfiture. He nudged Stuart: 'All the same if you know what you're doing, that is.' Colin had to react. He pulled himself up to his fully skinny five foot ten and flicked back a greasy curl: 'All right, you lot. Take a butcher's at this. You might pick up a few tips.' But before any of the group could move, the junior salesman strolled over and asked as insolently as he could: 'Can I help you at all . . . gents?' The five lads immediately galvanized themselves, turning to the shelves of brochures and desperately thumbing the pages. Colin inspected his frayed cuffs minutely and explained that he and his friends were just looking . . . thank you. 'Surprise, surprise,' said the salesman. He strolled to the edge

58 of the stand muttering. 'Another three bloody hours of this. Christ.' Colin recovered from his false start. He took a step towards the model. She turned her head towards him a fraction. Colin stepped back. 'Go on,' whispered Roy suddenly. 'Ask her if she'll drop 'em.' He convulsed with laughter. Colin forced his feet to take him to the girl, unwilling step by unwilling step. Now he was within groping distance of what seemed to be a yard of sleek and naked thigh. Not like his wife's dimpled mess at all. He'd never seen a thigh like this. Well, only in the adverts or the flicks. Christ, he thought, and felt a drop of sweat trickle from his armpit into his shirt. His friends watched him furtively, all the while thumbing the now greasy brochures and photographs. "Ere, look! He is chattin' her!' 'Yeah . . . 'e won't get anywhere,' said Stuart authoritatively. 'They all chat 'er up, I sh'ink.' The model changed her position, sliding her pneumatic bottom down the car's bonnet until she lay back against the raked windscreen. Slowly she turned to face Colin. Two large green eyes, utterly devoid of expression, focused on his pimpled nose. 'Nice,' shouted Colin. He looked around guiltily to see if anyone had heard. 'Nice . . . er . . . motor . . .' he whispered. He flashed his dull yellow teeth in a friendly grin. Colin didn't quite hear the girl's reply. It had sounded like 'mmyehas'. 'Eh?' he asked. 'I said "mmyehas".' Ah . . . posh for 'yes', thought Colin. He laughed nonchalantly. 'Oh . . . yes . . . hahaha.' He decided to have another stab at conversation: 'You got a nice job then . . . I mean . . . sittin' abaht all day.' 'Mmyehas.' Colin felt that he'd suddenly been drawn into a world of silence where communication was carried on at a higher level than he understood. But he could feel his friends' eyes boring into his back. He had to seem to converse. His tongue tripped over his epiglottis.

59 'Enargsh . . ,' he said. 'Mmyehas,' she said. 'Well,' he said, glad to find his defect temporary. 'I must be off, haha. My mates are waiting to see me.' The words were gathering momentum. 'Over there. Oh yes. My mates. See? Better be off. Tata, then. Seeyoumymatesovertherewaitinformeseemymates . . . .' He felt the flush of insane and gabbling embarrassment rising from his collar, but retained control of himself for long enough to grope in his pocket for a pencil and paper. The scrap of paper he found bore a legend: 'Light of Pakistan. I chckn vloo. Fr. Rce. 62p.' Effortfully he assumed his air of nonchalant leadership as he returned to his friends, having written his own name and address on the paper. A babble of questions greeted him. 'When you 'avin' 'er, 'en, Col?' 'After you wiv the meat, then, Col!' "Avin' 'er tonight, are you, Col?' Colin patted his wallet where he knew his friends had seen him put the address. 'Nah . . . she says 'er old man's pickin' 'er up tonight. But I got 'er phone number. So we'll fix up a good poke later, see.' He looked around expansively, his aplomb recovered. 'Right. 'Oo's for a pint?'

The Chandler's Arms, desirably situated off the Earl's Court Road, had somehow escaped the attention of its brewery. The Green Man, the Lord Nelson, and nearly all the other pubs in the area had been hastily decked out with black plastic seats, coach lanterns, and piped music. They offered Porkers On Sticks and Ploughman's Platters to hungry travellers. Nightly the fun loving young people of the area flocked to these classless bars and in loud and animated voices discussed the parties they had crashed and the cars they would. Not so the Chandler's. Like a strong-minded pools winner it remained determinedly down-at-heel. The lino floor, the scratched tables, the pointilliste patterns on the dart-board, all combined to produce seediness. The landlord, a depressing, miserable man – and dead ringer for Adolf Hitler to boot – stood

60 perpetually wiping glasses. In front of him a dog-eared placard on the bar read: 'You don't have to be crazy to work here, but it helps.' It was the funniest, most original thing that had happened to the Chandler's since that German 100-pounder blew the landlord's missis out of the Gents bog. What she'd been doing there, no one knows. But she'd landed two gardens away covered in it, and the whole episode had convinced the landlord there was no Lord. In a corner of this pub, separated from the other customers by a pin-ball table, sat five spotty young men. They had little to say to each other, though an occasional remark by one of them would prompt a burst of uproarious laughter. After one such explosion had subsided, Tony asked: 'Where's the action then, Colin? You've bin 'ere before.' 'Action? Action? Well . . . it's all over, isn't it? I mean.' 'Well, why don't we go an' find some birds, then? Where are they all round 'ere?' Roy, Stuart, and Sean nodded their agreement with Tony's questions. Colin stalled. He was conscious that his reputation as organizer of festivities depended solely on results. 'Oh . . . all over, aren't they? I mean, they're all over, the birds, aren't they? But the good stuff, well that's up West, the good stuff. We want to get a tube up West.' At that moment a battered old scrubber came into the bar. Immediately the five lads went into a huddle, their heads all bending forward to listen to Roy's comments. Their eyes furtively flicked at the scrubber. Roy spoke softly and all his friends burst into loud laughter. Then there was only silence.

On the platform at Knightsbridge station stood a striking, beautiful girl. Erica was impatient because she was going to meet her man; she was already late, and the trains seemed to be running every three hours. Not that Tom wouldn't wait for her – he'd wait for ever, she knew – but she loved him and so wanted him quickly. For the hundredth time she peered into the blackness of the tunnel, willing a train to appear. She strained to hear the rumble of the wheels on the track, the metallic swish of the rails. But there was nothing. She spun on one heel and began to

61 walk along the platform, hoping that if she turned her back the train would miraculously appear. As she wandered, she turned heads – even women's heads – because she was beautiful. She moved well, unselfconscious and natural, mile-long legs, svelte skin, masses of dark hair falling like a burst of raven feathers over slim shoulders. All these features were striking, their impact reinforced by an angular yet soft face in which two huge dark eyes burned soulfully. But more than anything, her beauty stemmed from inside her, from her absolute confidence in her womanhood; confidence that promised a man fulfilment of his every last need; confidence that promised her her own individual existence, without exploitation and crises of identity. It was little wonder that men stared at Erica with longing in their tired eyes; that women stared at her with envy and despair – her very existence was a reproach to their ordered, carefully contrived roles. Finally the train rattled busily into the station and Erica skipped happily into a carriage, catching her bag against the cufflink of a man who sat at the end of a row near the door. "S all right,' he grunted to her smiling apology. She sat down opposite,and a couple of seats along from this man, and although the carriage wasn't crowded she found herself across the aisle from five spotty, seedy young men. She amused herself by trying to make them out. Could be football, she thought. No. No rattles and scarves . . . anyway, too weedy. Definitely not Londoners . . . too lost for that. Perhaps they're . . . . But then she noticed the number puzzles for budding computer operators and immediately concentrated on them. While she was working on the third section of the quiz, she became aware that someone was staring at her. She glanced up and straightaway five pairs of eyes leapt away from her face, her hair, her breasts, her legs. Odd, she thought, they really do look as if they've never seen a woman before. But she didn't feel particularly uncomfortable because she looked at men she found attractive, and she accepted that many would look at her in return. She was used to being stared at – though not so used to being gawped at as if she'd forgotten to

62 put on any clothes today. Anyway, these five youths looked so pathetically harmless. She had a mischievous desire to go over and pat them on their heads. Momentarily she felt a stab of sadness for them. Everyone had a right to be as happy as she and Tom – and these men clearly were not. But then her sympathy gave way to slight irritation at their feeble-minded, furtive peeping. If they really feel like that, why the hell don't they say something to me. Either that or piss off. But soon the train arrived at Green Park. Green Park. Tom. She left the carriage. Later she told Tom about the five men. About the pathos. But he just laughed.

'Fuck me!' said Roy as the train pulled out of Green Park. 'Bloody Christ,' said Sean. 'I wouldn't half fancy a bit of that.' 'Yeah . . . I could do 'er a few favours an' all.' 'Imagine gettin' across them thighs. Shit, I can just feel them opening up . . . .' 'Any way . . . why din' you say summink? Eh? I bet she was dyin' for it. You could tell . . . .' 'Yeah. She looked like she was just waitin' . . . 'spec she could of managed all of us.' 'Them type's always on the look. You can tell, can't you? I mean, she was probly cryin' out for it. Know what I mean?'

'Bloody hell,' said Sean as he and his mates stood on the escalators at Piccadilly. 'Oh Jesus. I couldn't half fancy a bird like that . . . .' His voice was plaintive with the injustice of life. But Colin brought him back to earth with a jar. 'Yeah? Well there ain't much chance of a bird like that fancying a cunt like you. So you might as well belt up.' The bite in Colin's voice was real and full of bitterness. Sean was surprised and hurt. He subsided into mournful quiet. Stuart nudged him consolingly in the ribs. "Ere,' he said, 'look straight ahead. Look at that! They look all right, don't they?' But Sean's memory of Erica was too bright

63 for him to react to these nondescript and anyway fast-retreating behinds. He just grunted.

In Shaftesbury Avenue, Stuart tried again. 'What about them two? Ey! Colin! What about them two, eh? They look all right. Try them.' 'Yeah . . . they look all right from here.' "Ere, I don' think much of yours, Roy.' 'Oh yeah? Well they're both a bit wide in the beam, ain't they? Like a couple of barrels.' 'You're no Omar Sharif yourself, mush.' Sean saw Colin straightening his tie, preening himself for the onslaught. 'Oh 'ere we go, lads. Go on then lover boy, show us your technique.' Colin sneered at Sean, threatened him half-heartedly with a puny fist, then strode forward to catch up with the girls. He reached them as they turned into Wardour Street and thrust himself between them. They stopped and looked at him in amazement. Confident that he'd made a dynamic first impression, he opened his mouth to speak – but was caught offguard by a loud fart. He muffed his lines: 'Where are you off to? Eh? I should think.' Christ, he thought. I buggered that up. Still, they're only scrubbers – they'll probably be glad to get a bit. The girls stood stock-still for a moment, then bounded off as if propelled by giant spring-heels. Colin, initially surprised, rushed off after them, himself hotly pursued by a barrage of jeers and catcalls. He caught up with them, moved to one side, and crab-walked alongside the fatter of the two girls. He delivered his second smooth line: 'Do you and your friend fancy comin' for a drink wiv us, then? Ey?' Poetry mate. Sheer poetry. The girls stopped again. Colin stopped, teetering on the edge of the pavement. He bared his teeth in an ingratiating, scaly grin. The more self-possessed of the two girls spoke, clearly and concisely: 'Drop dead you prick.' By this time Sean, Tony, Stuart, and Roy had caught up with

64 Colin. He saw his reputation, already in tatters, disappearing entirely. 'Scrubbers!' he screamed as the girls disappeared into Old Compton Street. 'Filthy bleedin' scrubbers!' He turned to Stuart to explain. 'Bloody scrubbers. All the same these London birds. Bloody scrubbers.' The rest of the group looked morose. So far, they could have had a better day at home. Colin saw the accusing stares of his friends and felt hemmed in. 'Scrubbers they were. Lezzies too, I shouldn't wonder. Yeah . . . bent as safety pins. Well, s'obvious in'it. I mean, these London scrubbers. If they don't want it, they must be lezzies.' He felt he hadn't really convinced anyone. Yeah, he thought. Must be lezzies. Either that or they didn't fancy Stuart, Roy, Sean, or Tony. Come to think of it, I wouldn't much fancy them myself. 'Well come on then. What's the matter wiv you lot?' demanded Colin. 'What'choo waitin' for? Eh? Let's get goin'.'

Saturday-night Soho. A Rover 3500 draws up and disgorges its load of media men into the newest and most fashionable trattoria. They lift their wet-look, buckled pumps daintily and carefully avoid a pool of puke left by a staggering football fan one hour earlier. Next to the restaurant is a Jewish delicatessen, now shuttered, where customers finick all day over pretzels and matzoes. Its proprietor is at home in St John's Wood, softly complaining about the rubbish on television. But further along the street the Funland Arcade is alive, growing more and more lively as the evening wears on, its cargo of human flotsam drifting in and out from assignment to rendezvous; assignment to rendezvous, until the last hustler or punter shoots the last pinball in the late early hours. A dozen German sailors wander hopefully, aimlessly, unaware of what they are looking for . . . increasingly aware they are not going to get it. A bevy of upper-class boys with hooray accents and studiedly casual, ill-kempt, expensive clothes, accompanied by a couple of ugly loud-voiced girls, tumbles out of the 'SEX FILMSHOW CONTINUOUS'. Everyone screams with laughter and

65 one of the boys has a tight grip on one of the girls. An old, old man shuffles painfully along Dean Street, a violin case under one arm. In his pocket is a pound's-worth of copper coins, his take for thirteen hours on a bad pitch, standing in the gutter, using the last dregs of a Viennese musical training. This Saturday the streets are fuller than usual. In addition to the Motor Show, Tottenham and Chelsea are playing at home. Gangs of scarfed youths roam the West End, shouting, seeking, destroying. Colin and his friends move warily through the streets, aware that fighting is in the air. Nervous. A hundred yards in front of them a knot of people cluster round something – an accident? A knifing? A woman's voice screams Italian. The five lads turn aside from the scene, moving towards Charing Cross Road where bookshops and surgical stores make an apt frontier for the acres of sin – acceptable, commercial sin: to be encouraged as long as it makes money; as long as it pays the law; as long as it provides moral men with an outlet for their despair; as long as it doesn't trespass into those men's respectable, Christian, matriarchal homes; but most of all, as long as it pays the law. 'Well, where're we goin'?' asks Sean finally. He is bored and his feet hurt. Colin makes a vague gesture intended to convey knowledge of the area. 'Where d'you want to go then? I mean, there's places all over, in' there?' At that moment a slim, curly-haired youth thrusts something into Colin's hand and walks on unconcernedly. "Allo . . . what you got there? Let's 'ave a butcher's.' ''Ere, it says 'BEBLOS DISCOTHEQUE FRANCAISE. Girls free Saturdays.'' Well, 'ere we are then. They'll all be there. There'll be 'undreds of birds there, won't there? I mean, it's Saturday, in'it?' Colin is dubious and discouraging, unwilling to see his position as a man of the world undermined. 'I dunno,' he says. 'I dunno. Bit dodgy, these places. I mean, all run by foreigners, aren't they?' Colin has no idea whether BEBLOS is run by Frenchmen or Aztecs, but he tries manfully to keep his end up. He won't give up without a struggle. The others, however, shout him down.

66 'Come on, lads. Let's go. Near Soho Square, it says. Up 'ere, right? P'raps we'd better ask someone . . .' They set off down Greek Street, melting perfectly into the crowd of Saturday-night punters; raincoats, suits, trousers, jackets – all shiny with wear; greased quiffs and cheap, leaking shoes.

Later. Eleven o'clock. Pubs closing, spewing out men in fours and fives to add to the aimless throngs. There is a fight outside the Maltese Club – a dissatisfied customer demands his money back and is manhandled into the road. He falls, gashing his hand on a broken bottle. His voice is raised hysterically over the crowd. The police are there. Big. Hard. Imperturbable. Emotionless. It's not these underlings who thrive on the grease that lubricates this part of London. These are – were – shy provincial men themselves, often unable to guide tourists and visitors because they know London less well than they do Barnstaple or Wilmslow. 'You bastards! You bloody thieving bastards! A quid to leave me coat! A quid! They took a quid to leave me bloody coat! A bloody quid! A quid! For me bleeding coat! O you thieving bastards! YOU BASTARDS!' The man screams and screams, waving his bloodied hand about. The bouncer at the Maltese lurks just within the doorway of his club, his face immobile, dark. His hands are hard knots in his pockets and the blood is pulsing in his head. The police move in on the screaming man. They wait for him to quieten and leave. They know he won't. 'All right . . . sir . . . quieten down.' The copper grasps the man's injured arms and quickly looks at the gash. It is not serious. 'Come on,' he says. 'Come on. We can't have all this aggravation, you know.' But this only incenses the man further. He struggles madly, his hysteria multiplying his strength. 'Get off me!' he shrieks. 'Get off! Get off! Let me go, you bastard! GET OFF! It's them you want to take in! Them! Not me! Them!' He wriggles partially free and lets fly a punch, a hopeless, token punch that only flicks the policeman's helmet to the ground. The crowd cheers. In what seems like a split second,

67 the screaming man is borne away by the two coppers, whisked across the grubby pavement and stuffed into the back of a patrol car. The show's over. The onlookers detach themselves from each other, glancing around as if coming away from a shop window.

Eleven thirty. Near Soho Square, an elaborately carved wooden door bearing the motif 'BEBLOS' bursts open and, like a cat therapeutically vomits grass, four seedy young men are disgorged on to the pavement. From the dark recesses behind the door, a complaining, loud, blustering voice can be heard. It is Colin, courage screwed up by a few pints, his pimply face red with braggadoccio. 'Bloody ridiculous, darlin'. Quid a pint! Do me a bleedin' favour! You must think I'm stupid or summink.' There is a soft answer, a woman's voice, so that it is clear that Colin is venting his feelings on a woman. 'Get stuffed!' he howls in reply to her. 'Get stuffed the lot of you.' A man's voice, as yet quiet, enters the argument. It is polite but firm. 'Do what?' whines Colin. 'Do me a favour! 'S all right, 's all right. I'm jus' goin', in' I? I mean . . .' There is a short pause, during which only the mumble of a reasonable but firm voice can be heard. It is not a voice to argue with, and when Colin is next heard his tone acknowledges this. 'Yeah . . . but a quid a pint! I mean . . . 'S not right is it? I mean . . .' The answering voice hardens – almost threatens overtly. Colin yelps: 'Do what? Do what? I should coco!' Colin emerges from the ornate door of BEBLOS. He is irate and looks dishevelled. As he comes through the door, he shouts back into the dark recesses: 'Get stuffed the lot of you!' He looks around at his friends, triumphantly. They are unimpressed. 'I'll show them,' Colin remarks. 'I'll show those pricks they can't do that to me.' He walks back to the doorway and puts his mouth to the letterbox.

68 'CUNTS!' he shouts bravely. 'You're all cunts. FROGGY BASTARDS!' The five friends take off down the street, running through Soho Square and only stopping a hundred or so yards down Frith Street when their puny beer-laden bodies can take no more. They struggle for breath, heaving and retching, gasping for the city's reviving night air. Whatever sporadic bonhomie this evening brings them is now wearing thin. 'What we goin' to do now? Eh?' asks Tony irritably. 'What we goin' to do now Colin?' 'Why don't you think of summink, clever clogs?' retorts Colin. 'What do you think I am? Eh? The bleedin' general of a bleedin' army or summink? Eh?' They wander disconsolately on, past a straight night club offering NON-STOP REVELRY FOR SEVEN HOURS – £5.00 INCL. From a side-street just beyond, again can be heard voices raised in anger. From the end of this street the lads spot a row of tenement buildings. One in the centre seems to be the centre of attraction. They head towards it. Its soot-blackened, uncleaned frontage is broken by dingily curtained windows, three to each floor. Every window is lit by soft coloured light: orange, pink, and red. The ground floor belongs to XCEL BOOKS: ADULT BOOKS AND MAGAZINES, now securely shuttered against the penniless, hot-handed porn-fanciers. Next to this bookshop window is an open doorway which boasts half a dozen bell pushes. Light pours into the street from the hallway beyond. A straggling queue of men shuffles self-consciously, lined up to the doorway by the bookshop window. There are three sailors, nonchalant and talking softly amongst themselves; a couple of smartly-suited middle-aged men; a couple of commercials; and some amorphous, indistinguishable downtrodden nobodies who share solemn depression. As Colin and his friends stop at the end of the street, a great shout goes up: '. . . AND DON'T YOU COME BACK 'ERE, YOU FILTHY LITTLE SOD!' The 'SOD' is ejected into the air like a wad of used mucus. A little man, well into his sixties, scuttles out through the doorway. As he shoots off he desperately pulls up his coat collar

69 in an attempt to preserve his anonymity. Immediately he passes through the doorway, an enormous peroxided head pokes itself round the doorway, looking like nothing so much as a jumbo candy-floss stick. This is Big Shirley. 'FILTHY BASTARD!' she screams at the rapidly departing figure. She spits noisily on to the doorstep, narrowly missing the carefully polished shoes of the little man at the head of the queue. He looks uncertain – would rather skip off" home . . . or somewhere. But he's come here for a purpose, so he stays . . . watches his shiny toecaps. Colin and the boys are transfixed. With a crash a window on the first floor slides up. A head, surrounded by a mass of unlikely blue bubble curls, appears. It shouts down: "Ere! What's goin' on then, Shirl?' Shirley looks up, jaw working rhythmically on chewing-gum cud. ''Ee din' even wan' it, did 'e? I mean. Jus' wan'ed me to be 'is bleedin' muvver an' change 'is bleedin' nappy . . .' Bubble Curls looks puzzled. She tries to break in: 'Well . . . what's wrong wiv . . .' But Big Shirley is still very indignant. ''Ee even brought one wiv 'im an' all.' A ripple of laughter passes down the queue – soon quelled by a fierce look from Shirley. 'An' then 'e asts me to piss on 'is bleedin' 'an'kerchief. I mean . . . Christ!' Bubble Curls is still puzzled. 'Well, what's wrong wiv that? Eh? You done it before,' she says. 'Not for bleedin' thirty bob I ain't,' Shirley roars in answer. She sniffs loudly, which is a symptom of her indignation's spontaneous passing. She begins to laugh, guffawing coarsely, reaching a crescendo in a hacking cough that seems about to kill her. The sound-effect is overlaid by piercing shrieks from Bubble Curls, leaning perilously out of the first-floor window, her large breasts mind-blowingly squashed against the window-ledge. The queue smiles self-consciously and Shirley pulls herself together, squaring up to the little man at the front. She towers over him, for he is only a little fellow in a smart three-piece and bi-focals.

70 'Right,' she says, 'you're next. You don' wan' your mummy, do yer?' 'Er, n-no.' Shirley looks querulous – and almost motherly. 'An' you 'ave got a little more 'n thirty bob, ain'cher?' 'Er, yes.' 'Right, then. Upstairs.' Shirley takes his arm and whisks him away to the inner sanctum. Colin and his friends stand in amazed silence. Their faces variously register disgust, amusement, horror and disbelief. Tony simply appears apathetic. Sean breaks the silence. 'Oh, for Christ's sake!' he says bitterly.

71 7 PERFORMANCE II

At Le Can-Can, The Major had just finished his ninth cup of tea that day. He wiped his moustache carefully and dropped the paper cup into the wastepaper basket. Roll on one o'clock, he thought. Won't be much business now. Quarter to twelve. Last tubes soon be gone. Haha. He was looking forward to Sunday and pruning the roses. He began to pace his time-hallowed track up and down the foyer. Huge-breasted girls stared down at him from the walls. Muffled applause and laughter wafted up the stairs from the auditorium. The Major scrutinized his immaculate black Oxford brogues – but quickly looked up as he caught a movement in the street out of the corner of his eye. 'GOOD EVENIN', GENTS!' he bellowed in reflex reaction. A head appeared round the corner of the door. 'Evenin',' it said, then disappeared. The Major waited. Ten seconds passed. Then five young men appeared in front of the plate glass. With one bound The Major was at the door, his spiel racing up through the gears into overdrive : 'Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening . . . haha. Show's on now, yes. On live now . . . haha. All live show, what? No films, you know. Just eighteen lovely girls . . . haha . . . and all

72 for only . . .' (The Major did a swift calculation of the lads' economic status) '. . . one pound each, gents. What? Twenty little shillings for eighteen little girls . . . lovely girls. Can't ask fairer than that, eh? Not in Soho, sex mecca of London. Of the world. What? Right, gents. Pound each . . . haha . . . who's for . . .?' 'Pound each?' interrupted Colin. 'Pound each?' 'Pound each, sir. That's right. Pound each, sir.' 'Pound?' 'If you'd just like to step this way, sir. Haha.' The Major moved towards the cash desk, waving his arms in vague ushering gesticulations. The lads found themselves in the foyer. 'Fuckinell,' said Tony, eyeball to nipple with the copious mammaries of Zena Zarita on the wall. The Major was in his element. The moment of truth. He had to strike exactly the right balance between coercion and persuasion. To hit the highest price that the punters would wear. He flexed his fingers below the desk-top and raised himself on to his toes. 'Pound's a bit much, in'it?' whined Colin. 'I'll give you four pounds for the lot.' 'Five times one pound equals five pounds, sir. Haha. Or did when I was at school. What?' countered The Major. Colin turned to go, grimacing. 'Come on. Let's piss off. I ain't payin' that.' Whoops. Pushed a bit too far. The Major came round to the end of the desk and laid a military hand on Colin's shoulder. 'Aha . . . now hang on a moment, sir.' He glanced pointedly up at the clock. 'Tell you what sir, being as how late it is. We'll make it four pounds for the lot of you. On account of it's you. Haha. What?' He beamed seraphically at the five friends. Colin was unconvinced, but Tony was already fumbling hysterically with his wallet. Cash changed hands. Colin and Sean grumbled. The Major produced an enormous ledger which the boys signed. Sean excelled himself with wit: he wrote his name Donald Duck. 'Through that door there, sir. Down the stairs,' directed The Major.

73 The lads found themselves in stygian darkness. Sean stumbled and swore. A female voice squeaked up the stairs: 'If you don't belt up, I'll stuff your teef right down your froat.' Sean wondered momentarily if the threat was directed at him. The staircase wound tortuously downwards, encompassing two left and one right turns. At the first bend a shadowy figure detached itself from the wall and barred their way. 'Fifty p. membership fee. Money ready, folks.' 'Membership?' 'What bleedin' membership?' 'Membership. You signed the book, din' you?' 'Yeah. So what?' 'Membership. You signed the membership book. Now you gotta pay the membership fee.' "E din' say anythink about that on the door,' said Sean, peering into the darkness to see whom he was addressing. 'Oh din' 'e? Well you gotta pay. Membership.' 'But he din' say nuffink.' 'We-ell,' the voice sighed sympathetically, then dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ''E should of said summink. 'E really should. See . . . but 'e's knockin' on a bit now. 'E should of tol' you about the membership fee, but you know 'ow it is wiv these old army geezers. War wounds. I mean. Shell-shock an' 'at.' 'Ach. Bugger this,' said Colin. 'Let's go an' get our money back. Come on. I ain't stayin' in this 'ole.' Colin felt a strong arm barring his way – still he couldn't see his adversary clearly. 'Oh no, sir,' said the voice quickly. 'Can't do that sir. No money back. See . . . it's against the law, that is. No money back. Jus' can't do it. I mean . . . 's against the law.' 'What law?' 'Er . . . Resale Price Maintenance, in'it?' So money flowed. Muttering curses, the lads got as far as the second left turning. Another disembodied voice wheedled at them. 'Cloakroom 'ere, gents. Fifty p. for your coat an' 'at.' Tony saw an outstretched hand in front of him. 'But I haven't got a coat and hat.' 'O.K., sir. Five bob to you.' 'That's bloody robbery!' shouted Sean, an edge of hysteria

74 brought on by the seeming invincibility of these money-grabbers and the nearness of naked flesh he desperately needed to see. 'Robbery, sir? Robbery?' The voice was soft and sinister. 'Oh that's a bad word, sir. A bad word is robbery. That's a bad thing to say. I mean, we can't have your coats and hats in our auditorium, can we? I mean. What would happen if there was a fire? Or summin'? We just can't 'ave it, sir. Can't have your coats and hats in the theatre . . .' 'But I 'aven't got a bloody coat and hat!' 'WELL THAT'S NOT MY FUCKING FAULT, IS IT?' bellowed the voice, startling the lads with its vicious volume, and defeating them with its perfect logic. They capitulated, looked at each other in bafflement. Then unexpectedly the voice added: 'Tell you what I'll do. Seeing as it's you. Fifty p. the lot.'

Behind the baroque archway that led into the auditorium, stood a small and disgruntled Chinese carpenter. Chan objected strongly to working overtime – especially unpaid overtime. Even more especially when working overtime meant standing in a hell-hole full of decadent football supporters, waiting for one of his own artistic creations to blow up or collapse. He particularly resented the very possibility of this, despite the fact that the computer had almost electrocuted Errol during the morning show, causing him to drink most of a bottle of Johnnie Walker in half an hour. Blully Ellol, he thought, mournfully surveying the sea of sweaty faces before him. Blully stliptease. Blully maflia Enlico. He heard a movement on the stairs behind him and whipped round. Hah! he thought. He took cover behind a large sprig of plastic ivy that festooned the archway. Colin led the party down the stairs. He peered into the auditorium. 'Hah!' Colin recoiled, trying to switch his focus from the stage to a few inches before his face. He was surprised to find a small yellow face about six inches in front of him at chest level. The face spoke. 'Hah! Money leady gent. Memberslip flee.'

75 'What?' roared Colin, encouraged by the small size of this particular money-grabber. Chan blinked but stood his ground. 'Memberslip flee,' he demanded. 'Memberslip flee. Fifty p.' Colin ground his teeth: 'Look. Do me a favour, right? We paid that already, to some geezer at the top of the stairs.' Chan was taken aback. Hah? He thought quickly. 'Cloakloom?' he asked hesitantly. 'We paid that an' all,' said Sean over Colin's shoulder. Chan thought again. An inspiration: 'Ploppy Day?' he inquired brightly. Colin let out a roar: 'PISS OFF! Just piss off, will yer? We paid everything.' Several punters in the theatre tutted irritably. Chan stumbled off into the dark muttering indignantly. 'Blurry PLERVERT!' An act had just finished. Colin and the lads pushed their way into a row near the back of the room. Above the rustling of plastic raincoats and the tearing of crisp packets, an appalling racket filled the fetid air, pouring through two enormous speakers that hung on either side of the stage. Intended to suggest riotous nights of debauch and arcane sexuality, the music was more like the ramblings of a psychopathic barrel-organist.

WAH-WAH-WAH WAAAAAH! it went. POM CRASH POM CRASH VOOOOOMP.

WAH-WAH-WAH WAAAAH! POM CRASH POM CRASH VOOOOOMP

WEEEEOOOOHH!

The audience was unaware of the music. Two portly men in the front row discussed the merits of the last artiste. 'By God that was a bit rough, wasn't it?' 'Yes . . . a bit rough.' 'I mean, she didn't even dance, did she?' That caused a quizzical look.

76 Behind the curtains, Janni plunged through the stage doorway, clasping her stage clothes to her naked body. She was not at all happy. 'Bastards,' she muttered. 'Bleedin' punters. Load of wankers. Fuckin' peasants.' She was ignored – everyone had heard Janni the Mutterer's opinion of punters a thousand times. 'Crutch gazer's 'ere again,' she announced to Miranda as she entered the changing-room, throwing her costume into a vacant chair. 'Oh no! What . . . not eatin' 'is apples?' 'Yeah. Right in the front row, an' all. Makes me sick, 'e does, stuffin' 'is gob all the time.' 'Oh well, these things are sent to try us.' 'Yeah . . . well I wouldn't mind tryin' to kick 'im in the boat race some time.' Janni stood in front of the mirror and inspected her pubic hair with a professional's eye. Time for a trim, she thought. Maybe I'll cut it heart-shaped. That'd be nice for a change. Miranda sighed and turned her attention to the scrawny child who was sitting beside her sucking a bottle of Coke. Her daughter. 'All right, dear? she cooed. The child looked at her vacuously, vaguely wondering why her mother was wearing a traffic warden's uniform. She also wondered what her mother did when she walked through the door at the end of the room. But her mother would not tell her. So she decided not to ask why she was wearing a traffic warden's uniform. Instead she took another suck at the sticky bottle, and belched casually. There was a deafening crash from the end of the props room, followed by a string of curses. Jeff was having trouble with the set for the next number. He lay on the floor, pinioned by a giant-sized parking meter, his feet trapped in the wheels of a large toy pedal car. Errol was standing over him, looking quizzical. Jeff tried relaxing every muscle and counting seconds. Oh bloody Christ, he thought. I've got to get another job. Maybe teaching wasn't so bad after all. But a vision of infinite

77 rows of pugnacious little faces flashed across his mind and he realized nothing could be worse than that. Errol interrupted the self-analysis. 'Have a nice trip, dear?' Jeff leapt to his feet, ripping off a car wheel in the process. 'Shuddup you stupid little poofter!' he yelled. Errol raised his eyebrows indignantly, but Jeff was gone, vanished through the stage doorway, dragging the debris of the set behind him. Had Jeff's thoughts miraculously become fact, the punter in the front row would never have left his seat. A torrent of fiery lava and brimstone would have swamped him where he sat. But as it was, this punter – having seen the show three times today and remembering the shiny new magazine in his briefcase – decided he'd better get home to his wife and family. He picked up the briefcase, retrieved his coat from underneath his seat, and pushed his way to the end of the row. Immediately pandemonium was loosed. Five other punters, three in the second row and two behind them, sprang, as one man, to their feet and flung themselves forward in a kamikaze attempt on the one vacant seat in the front row. The third row made the mistake of attempting a route around the end of the row, increasing their existing disadvantage of distance. One of the second row three shortened his odds by diving headlong over the front row – and it looked to be heading for a photofinish between him and one of the third-row handicappers who had shown a remarkable turn of speed around the edge of the front row. But surprisingly both were beaten by a dirty nose (a very dirty nose) by Tony who appeared at the finishing-post like a whirlwind. Taking advantage of his prime position on the end of a row, he'd sprinted down the outside lane, spun on a sixpence, and plonked himself into the empty seat. He turned triumphantly to accept the applause of his colleagues and competitors. "Ere, Tone's gettin' a bit carried away, in 'e?' "Ow much not to tell your missis, Tone?' 'Wayhay – fuckin' sex maniac; 'e'll 'ave a bleedin' 'eart attack gettin' that close to it.'

Behind the curtain, Jeff faced the unseen audience, pumping his

78 fists up and down vigorously: the first and second finger of each fist formed an aggressive V-sign. Then, refreshed, he retired to his cubby-hole, calling Miranda as he went: 'O.K., love. Quick as you can, please.' Miranda appeared from the dressing-room, dragging her child with her. She propelled the sticky little girl in Jeff's direction. ''Ere, Jeff. Keep an eye on 'er while I'm on, will you.' 'Blimey, what am I? Babysitter too?' 'I can't 'elp it, dear. We was only thrown out the flat this mornin'. Some bastard tol' the landlord I was a brass. Bloody cheek. Exotic dancer, I am. I tol' 'im too, I said, "Exotic dancer, I am," I said . . .' 'Yeah, all right, all right,' Jeff interrupted. 'Look, it's late. Let's get on stage, right? I'll take the kid.' He grabbed the child and dumped her on the nearest flat surface, Chan's interpretation of a medieval footstool. Miranda disappeared through the doorway. Jeff looked at the child menacingly. 'Right! Now you sit there – and don't touch anything.' He waved his arms about vaguely. 'There's lots of electricity about . . . and things.' The audience was getting restive. A half-hearted chorus of 'Why are we waiting?' fractured the air around Colin and his friends. An old punter turned and scowled at Colin, who simply stuck his tongue out. The punter started to speak, but was cut short by a low electronic raspberry from the loudspeaker – announcing the next act. Another raspberry. A muttered 'Bollocks!' then Jeff's voice, unnaturally salacious: 'Gentlemen . . . we all know the feelin' . . . when you can't quite make it. Heh heh – back to your car, that is. Yes, you can't quite make it back to your car and time is ticking away. And . . . er . . . there's a little lady waitin' . . . just waiting to get her ticket under your wipers. Yes, Miranda, our merry meter maid, is very frustrated. She's got her man. But the trouble is she just can't find it anywhere. Heh heh – her pencil, that is. She just can't find her pencil anywhere. So when her victim gets back, ready to drive off, he finds Miranda searching high and low for her pencil. Er . . . Gentlemen, Le Can-Can presents, our own meter miracle,

79 magnificent, moody Miranda Marvel, the motorist's mate . . . .' Music screamed through the speakers, unaccountably a red-hot Latin number: 'La Cucaracha'. Miranda stood in the middle of the stage, her left arm draped over the parking meter. Over the music ran Jeff's live commentary – read from Honor's script. 'Poor Miranda . . . she's lost her pencil . . . can't find it anywhere . . .' As if galvanized, Miranda suddenly ripped open her blouse and scrutinized her bosom with minute attention, searching for her pencil. 'What is she doing now?' asked Jeff languidly, while Miranda pulled up her dress and frisked her panties. This was almost too much for the Crutch-Gazer. He gagged and a gob of chewed apple shot from his mouth, closely followed by a shower of saliva. The apple hit the stage and bounced to a stop at Miranda's feet. She looked at the Crutch-Gazer accusingly but he, oblivious, was reaching into his plastic bag for another fruit. 'Miranda, oh Miranda,' droned Jeff. Then 'La Cucaracha' stopped in mid-chorus, immediately followed by a facetious little tune on piano and vibraphone. Errol appeared on stage right. 'Oh dear,' continued Jeff, 'here comes the luckless motorist. He can't see Miranda yet . . . .' As a matter of fact, Errol was having trouble seeing anything at all. He swayed slightly, ludicrous in complete city gent's outfit. He held a newspaper close to his face – absorbed and choking on his own alcoholic fumes. 'Ooh, 'ere we are duckies!' yelled Colin. 'Show us yer 'andbag, darlin'!' Errol walked to the front of the stage and lowered his newspaper. He peered blearily into the darkness of the auditorium. 'Poor Mr Jones . . . ,' Jeff intoned from the script, unaware of the halt in the action on stage. 'Poor Mr Jones . . . what is he going to do?' ''E can't do nuffink, can 'e? I mean, 'e's a nance, in'e? Eh? I mean, them nances can't do nuffink, can they? Know what I mean?' Some of the other punters in the club were annoyed at this interruption of their entertainment. Obviously these louts who

80 raced each other for the seats in the front row were not regulars. They had no feeling for the artists. Just yobs up in town for the day – and spoiling anyone else's entertainment. They needed the army. That would fix them. A good spell of duty in Malaya . . . or Londonderry. Soon teach them what's what. But whatever their feelings, none of the other clients of Le Can-Can was prepared to do anything about these interruptions. 'Come on, poof. Get on with the show!' This was Stuart. 'On with the show and off with 'er knickers!' "Ere poof!' bellowed Colin. "Ere poof!' His voice was loud and he captured most of the audience's attention. They waited expectantly for the witty sally. "Ere poof, 'ow much do you 'ave to pay to get that job then? Ey? 'Ow much do yer pay?' There were a few titters. Then silence as Errol teetered on his heels, trying to isolate his tormenter. With great calm and scorn he replied: 'It's your money in my pocket dear, not mine in yours.'' There was a chorus of jeers. Jeff's voice bored on: 'Now he's seen her . . . what is he going to do?' Errol, far from seeing her, was still staring into the punters' sweaty pit. Miranda hissed at him: "Ere, Errol!' And Errol, professional that he was, quickly took up position, feigning surprise at the sight of Miranda. (Traffic warden with her blouse wide open to reveal a black silken and tasselled display bra, with her skirt around her hips to reveal wrinkled and miniscule black pants, perhaps this would be surprising.) 'She's looking everywhere . . . ,' the commentary ran, and Miranda, trying to keep up with it, heaved off one voluminous black boot and tossed it over her shoulder. It hit Errol, who first mimed astonishment then changed gear into an eye-rolling caricature of lascivious anticipation. 'My word, Miranda, he's got the wrong end of the stick . . .' 'Yeah – an' about the only end 'e's likely to get an' all.' Errol ignored this jibe and began to stalk up on Miranda. Undaunted, Colin bellowed up at the stage again: 'Whatcher goin' a do now, nance? Eh?' 'Get 'em off!' 'Get 'em off? 'E 'asn't got anyfink there, 'as 'e? I mean, what's

81 the point of gettin' 'em off if you ain't got nuffink there? Eh? I mean . . .' Colin's mates all roared with laughter. But now Miranda was suddenly furious. She stamped to the front of the stage and leaned over its edge. 'Listen sonny . . .' And her voice was filled with hatred and scorn, cutting and disdainful. 'Listen sonny. You an' your paffetic little mates are enough to make 'im normal an' me queer – so BELT UP, WILL YOU?' Oblivious, Jeff read on: 'Oooh, what is he doing now? He seems to be chasing her around his car. I wonder what he's got on his mind.' Colin and the lads temporarily silenced, Errol and Miranda resignedly looked at each other and wearily attempted to catch up with the commentary. Looking heavenward, Miranda began to jog-trot around the pedal car, Errol in cold pursuit. The music tinkled loudly, a deafening imitation of a thousand silent movie cop chases. Jeff, his lasciviousness exhausted, announced dead pan: 'She's going to stick her ticket on any minute now.' Round and round the dancers trotted, Miranda miserable and Errol sozzled, sweating, bloodshot, until Miranda dodged behind the parking meter. Errol took up his position opposite her and after a couple of feints left and right, shrugged and climbed into the pedal car looking unbearably camp. He pedalled off into the wings, his face set in grim determination. Just before he disappeared from view, he parried a final thrust from the ever-inventive Colin. 'See you outside then, darlin'!' shouted Colin. Errol turned. Slowly and distinctly he spoke: 'You couldn't afford me, peasant.'

In his cubby-hole, Jeff flicked the mike switch to 'off'. 'Sit down, will you?' He glared at Miranda's child. 'If you move, I'll . . . I'll belt you one, right?' Back to 'on'. 'Poor Mr Jones . . .' Oh Christ, I've said that, he thought. Where the hell am I? He peered at the stage and saw Miranda out there alone. What does she do now? He searched the script desperately for

82 his place. What am I going to do now? What the hell am I going to do? What if I don't become rich and famous? What if I don't ever sell another painting? Two paintings in three years . . . at twelve quid each. That's twenty-four divided by three – yearly income eight quid . . . thirteen and four a month . . . . that's sixty-six pence a month. Christ. Course I could go on the dole. Or get a rich chick. Rich chick? Who the fuck do you know that's got more than a quid at a time? Jeff was seized by a panic, a spasm of terror. Oh God, oh Christ. I'm going under. I am. I'm definitely going under. One-time journalist, teacher, proof-reader, musician, busker, failed gigolo, and latterly stage-manager in a Soho striptease theatre, was found drowned in Trafalgar Square early this morn . . . Oh JESUS. 'Miranda is pleased.' Jeff caught up with the act. Miranda looked as pleased as a rhinoceros with piles. 'She's got her man. Mission completed!' Miranda plunged into a kind of victory jig to celebrate her booking another evil motorist, ripping off her remaining clothes with abandon, waving her scanty knickers over her head. The music rose to a crescendo. The Crutch-Gazer seemed about to suffer apoplexy. The 'flash-chord' rang out:

WAH WAH WAH WAAAAAAH!

Applause began to smatter half-heartedly and Miranda prepared to reveal all. One hand rested on her hip, the other pointed high and camply to the ceiling. Just as she thrust her naked crotch to the audience, her small daughter ran out on stage and stood there, struck dumb and staring by the inexplicable sight that confronted her. Miranda spotted her daughter and froze in her pose. A pair of hands shot out from the wings and whisked the child away out of sight, and almost simultaneously the stage curtain fell. Mr McKay turned to the man sitting next to him, strangers brought together in their condemnation of depravity: 'Bloody disgusting, I call it. Disgusting . . . children in a place of adult entertainment.' The man nodded vehement agreement.

83 Jeff was harrassed and the show was running late – an important and worrying condition, as most of the girls had regular appointments to perform in other clubs in the area. They liked to be punctual – for this was their profession and it is not a good thing to be late for professional engagements. Jeff knew from experience that the only way to stem Miranda's predictable and repetitive harrangue was to ignore it. The child had retreated to a dark corner of the dressing-room, where she sucked noisily at her empty Coke bottle, staring unblinkingly at her mother. 'I asked you to look after 'er, din' I? Din' I? Din' I, Jeff? I mean, I asked you, Jeff. Listen, you din' 'ave to, did you . . . I mean I asked you to look after 'er, an' there she is, right when I'm flashin', there she is runnin' on the stage. I mean . . . right when I'm flashin'. Christ, I did ask you, Jeff . . . ,' Miranda whined on. But Jeff simply ignored her, so she turned on the child: 'You know bloody well you shouldn't 'ave done that,' she shouted. 'I tol' you, din' I, when I'm dancin', I tol' you to stay in 'ere with Jeff an' the other girls. Din' I tell you that? Din' I? Not to leave Jeff, I said, din' I? Not to leave Jeff. And what do you do? Ey?' But the child remained impassive and Miranda, who subconsciously would have liked some reaction so that she in turn could have satisfied her anger and guilt by physically lashing out at the little girl, could only feel sorry for her forlorn, still-innocent daughter. She turned away, half sadly, half angrily. The child stared blankly, toying with the bottle. None of the other girls in the dressing-room took any notice of her. It was none of their business . . . . None of the other girls, except Lady Lucy. She was watching the child carefully, like someone trying to place a half-remembered face. But Lucy was known to be odd. She often did peculiar things. Like the time she lay down on stage and wept, till Jeff heard the booing and the catcalls and brought down the curtain. Lucy smoked hash, too – took tablets and that kind of thing. That was what the girls said, anyway. Not that it was unusual to smoke or take pills. Lots of them did it – and quite openly now. But it seemed to affect Lucy differently. She didn't get all giggly like the others. She sleepwalked

84 through her acts, immune to the punters' jeers, immune to the probing lights, immune to the sweaty music, immune to the smell and vibrations of onanistic frustration that floated on the club's smokey air. All the others thought Lucy an odd girl. But they liked her too. Lucy watched the child. Miranda primped her hair. The other girls prepared themselves for their acts, or sat around smoking. Jeff flashed past wrapped in an enormous Union Jack, the prop for the next act. Errol came in, sat down, and poured himself a large glass of Scotch. Everything was back to normal. Then, suddenly, in a twinkling of red, wet-look boots and peroxided hair, Honor appeared. She was angry. Miranda looked up guiltily. Oh Christ, she thought, someone's complained to 'er. That bloody kid . . . . She calculated quickly. At best a ticking off. At worst – well she'd just have to find another club to fill in the gap that Can-Can would leave. She set her face in an expression half indignant, half contrite, and prepared for the onslaught. Honor bellowed: 'GIRLS!' She paused for dramatic effect. 'Girls, we've had a complaint.' Miranda opened her mouth to defend herself, then shut it again. Honor continued: 'You know I don't like any of The Club's clients to complain. Ever.' It was an affront to her professionalism. 'We've had a complaint, and I want you all to do something about it. Now and in the future. Girls . . . you're not smiling enough.'' Miranda was relieved. She could live with this one. It was the most frequent complaint the punters made. They liked to see their girls smiling. Well, it wasn't surprising. You need to carry away with you an image of your fantasy girl, carry her away and store her tenderly in your mind so you can arouse yourself over your wife's slack, unresponsive body, so you can satisfy your demanding flesh alone in your narrow bed, or as gently as possible while your woman gurgles quietly in her sleep. You need a compliant, smiling, fantasy, that will obey your every whim, your every physical demand. She must be contortionist and comforter, precious and perverted, demure and demanding. But above all, she must smile. The girls all looked at Honor attentively, patience

85 hidden deeply in their cold, double false-lashed, eyes. Honor finished her morale-boosting lines: 'I'm going out in front of the house for the next few acts and I want to see you all smiling. Anyone who isn't will be looking for new employment tomorrow morning.' She turned smartly on her plastic heel and teetered out of the room. Immediately, Jeff stuck his head through the door: 'Right,' he said. 'Let's go. We're late.' Lucy and three of the girls wearily heaved themselves to their feet. 'Sooner we get on, sooner we get off,' mumbled one. 'Sooner you get 'em off!' cackled Errol. 'Why don't you shut up, Errol?' 'Whyn't you shut up yourself, you fat pig?' Errol retorted, hastily swallowing more alcohol. A few of the performers muttered about Honor's strictures: 'Christ. What do they want? Blood?' 'Blimey. Yer show yer pussy and yer meant to be bleedin' laughin'. 'S all right, in' it?' "Part from anyfink else, they're such a miserable lot of bleeders out there. I mean, I don't feel like smilin'.' Out front, the punters were again restless. The pause between acts had been longer than usual. The longer the pauses, the longer the opportunities to wonder what the hell you're doing there. The Crutch-Gazer took out another apple. He had no such disquieting thoughts. At last, Jeff's voice cut through the muttering. 'Gentlemen. To attention! Le Can-Can presents to you . . . for your protection . . . the pride of the red, white and blue . . . the girls of the Forces, drilled by their Commander-in-Chief, the Lovely Lady Lucy . . . .' The 20th Century-Fox fanfare deafeningly heralded the opening of the curtains, and another Can-Can set masterpiece was revealed. A Union Jack entirely covered the back of the stage, the white emphasized by ultra-violet lighting. Upstage left marched Miss Lucy, on the spot, smart in a costume strictly Miss Whip (Governess) from the waist down – spike-heeled black lace-up boots, black satin pants – and Park Lane commissionnaire from the waist up. In addition to these ludicrous

86 garments, she had a sword over which to stumble, and a tricorn hat on her head. This hat had been left over from a highwayman number and Enrico insisted that she should use it. No one was sure if it was economics, or just his kink. The three other girls goose-stepped centre stage, their obscene militarism underscored by open-front pants that winked at each step. They made three paces forward, about turned, then made three paces back. It was like watching hamsters in a cage. A musical pastiche of 'Rule Britannia' and 'Land of Hope and Glory' provided the quartet with their motive power, so affecting one elderly punter that he leapt to his feet shouting: 'Bravo! Bravo!' Then subsided embarrassedly as no one took much notice.

Backstage, many of Le Can-Can's girls were gathered, nattering, putting on make-up, getting dressed, getting undressed, drinking Coke, and just sitting around vacantly. Errol looked scornfully at them all and raised his glass, mockingly, to them. 'Here's to the artistes,' he muttered sarcastically. 'To the dancers.' He emptied the glass, then tipped more Scotch into it. He drank again, and snarled to himself: 'Dancers . . . dancers – don't know a pas-de-deux from a father of twins . . . they're just sacks of bloody King Edwards . . . Lady Lucy – Lady, Christ that's a laugh: tits like that she should be in a dairy herd. Aha, and Violet . . . lovely, lumpy, leprous, lopsided old slag . . . once a week with her hubby (but in the dark and under the covers): "come and see me in my diver's suit anytime, sailor". Yeah, you'd need a fucking bathyscaphe, an' all.' Errol called out incoherently at Violet: 'Nothing perverted, eh Violet . . . darling?' Violet looked up in amazement. 'Pardon?' 'Pardon?' Errol mimicked her nastily. Violet turned away. Errol slumped self-pityingly, listening to the punters as they harangued the dancers.

Colin decided to have a go at Lady Lucy. He could see nothing

87 much on which to base his sharp wit – save that Lucy looked pretty miserable – and so called her age into question. Sean took up the cry: 'Yeah! Where's yer pension book, darlin'?' 'Show us yer crutch – before it drops off!' 'Crutch?' bellowed Colin. 'Crutch? Pair of crutches, more like. That's what she needs.' The lads were convulsed. Sean thought it so funny that he leant too far back in his seat and caught the cigar of the man behind in the neck. He howled and careened forward into the man in front, knocking his raincoat off his lap and exposing a pink penis held delicately between thumb and forefinger. Sean's roar of pain turned into a derisive cackle and the little man hastily zipped himself up, picked up his raincoat and shot out of the auditorium as if afire. The Major barely had time to say, 'Come again, sir,' before the man was twenty yards up the street. Still the girls marched, discarding oddments of uniform and smiling as if their lives depended upon it – which in a manner they did – the corners of their mouths pinned back to their wisdom teeth. In a dark corner of the auditorium Honor too smiled. Approvingly. Then a frown passed across her face. Good God, she thought. What's the matter with Lucy? She looks like death. These bloody girls. Do they think I shout at them for fun? She'll just have to go; it's not the first time I've had to warn her. Her attitude's not right. On stage, the army was down to a denim bra, while the air force flapped her wings and the navy danced a sort of hornpipe. Lucy still marched on the spot, a hand to her brow in a tired salute. Under her make-up she was deathly pale. Bloody Lucy, thought Honor. What is the matter with her? I'll fine her . . . . She'll lose her damn bonus. 'What's the matter, love?' howled Roy. 'Not gettin' enough?' Lucy stopped. For a moment it seemed that she might keel over. Then she looked down at the audience, a row of ill-lit moons. The music blared on, now incorporating the 'Dambusters' March'. The other girls pranced on, eyeing Lucy sidelong. Honor glared furiously, willing Lucy to stick to the routine. But Lucy just drifted off backstage. "Allo! She's gone, then.' 88 'Gone for a dose of Phyllosan, I sh'ink. Fortifies the over forties.'

Miranda's daughter looked up as Lucy came into the changingroom. Lucy stared at the child, moved hesitantly towards her, then thought better of it and sat down – still staring at the little girl. Unperturbed, the girl stared back. The faint sounds of applause mingled with jeers came from the auditorium as the act finished. Honor stormed into the dressing-room, the jeers and applause momentarily louder as she parted the curtains, and stalked up to Lucy. 'Lucy! What the hell do you think you're playing at? What do you think you're doing, walking off like that? Ey? Lucy . . .?' But Lucy remained silent, still stared at Miranda's little girl. Honor was taken aback. 'Well . . . I think you owe me some explanation. I mean . . . how can the girls march without a Commander-in-Chief? How can they?' But at last she realized that something was wrong, and her anger cooled to indignation. 'I think it's most unprofessional . . . and . . . and disloyal.' Honor lacked real intelligence, but she was quick to adapt to a situation and she saw that her anger was wasted. 'What's the matter, darling?' she asked, almost gently. Lucy looked away from the child who had now lost interest in the staring game and was playing with some woolly animals used in the Rupert Bare number. Lucy slumped forward, and her voice was muffled by the hair that hung down over her cheeks. But what Honor heard her whisper was: 'Nothing. That's just it. Nothing.'

89 8 PERFORMANCE III

The next act was Errol and Dolly's Technological Strip, and it wasn't going well. For one thing, Errol was too drunk to co-ordinate with Dolly, and as she danced past the transistor-and-valve-festooned casings, Errol's groping arms repeatedly failed to connect with Dolly's costume. So she had to help him, grabbing his hands and exasperatedly intertwining them in her clothes. Sometimes she even had to remove the garments herself. And all the time Chan's masterly computer could be heard screaming,'Sods! Sods! Sods! Wanking, castrated, peeping SODS!' Colin and his friends, by now in the front row, were half-way between anger and amusement. Anger at being harangued by what they knew was the club's gay dancer (even though only his arms were visible). Amusement at Dolly's discomfiture. 'This is a bleedin' load of crap, isn't it?' said Sean to Roy. 'Yeah . . . bloody rubbish.' 'What a load of rubbish!' chanted the group. "Ere!' Colin called up to the stage. 'Come over 'ere darlin'. I'll take 'em off for you.' Sean, Roy, Stuart, and Tony were convulsed. Colin smirked at his own cleverness. "Ere, tell you what,' he said, getting into his stride, 'I reckon that's the only bent computer in England, ay?' Once again the lads were convulsed.

90 For a long time Dolly put up with their insults, though the muttered and screamed curses from the computer were increasingly venomous. By now Errol had given up the idea of undressing Dolly. She was undoing the catches and straps herself, while the computer apparently picked its nose. 'Don't you fancy her any more, nance?' 'Don't you want to take her knickers off?' 'Not surprising really, is it. I mean, look at the state of it.' Dolly, who despite her hard weariness was an attractive girl, advanced to the front of the stage and fixed Colin with her most contemptuous glare. 'Look mate, you ain't exactly no Marlon Brando.' 'Get 'em off!' shrieked Colin joyfully – he'd not had so much fun since the day they all held young Doris down in the park. 'Get 'em off! Get 'em off!' 'You wouldn't know what to do wiv it,' retorted Dolly to the chants. 'Oh yeah? See you outside after. I'll show you.' With immense scorn and distaste, Dolly replied: 'Do us a favour; by the time you've finished tossin' yourself off in that chair, you'll be so knackered you won't be able to get up. They'll 'ave to sweep you out wiv all the other fucking rubbish.' Colin leapt to his feet, his face red, mottled and bloated: 'Shut up you scabby little cunt!' he screamed. Dolly moved back a pace and the two of them stared at each other in silence – a silence that reverberated in the club.

Suddenly the audience's attention switched from Colin and Dolly to the computer, about to blow all its circuits. Lights flashed. Bells rang. The casing bulged. The arms flailed. With a rending of tinfoil and hardboard, the contraption exploded, to reveal Errol aquiver with rage. He advanced to the front of the stage, his eyes set on Colin's group. His face was contorted by a strangely menacing snarl, and his overall attitude was surprisingly, incongruously, frightening. Even Dolly was affected and retreated behind him, clutching her costume to her breasts. The music halted abruptly as Jeff realized that there was trouble. So now there was real silence. The curtains flew together–but

91 Errol stepped in front of them. Jeff faded in the lugubrious, soothing interval music; it could not mask the violence in the air, the hatred that passed from Errol to Colin, Sean, Stuart, Tony and Roy. Those five youths were slightly uneasy, and watched Errol for his next move. Errol slowly walked forward, to face Colin directly. 'Did you say that?' he asked, his words slurred by drink. Colin, bolstered by the presence of four friends, smirked self-confidently. 'Yeah. What of it, fairy?' He turned to the friend on his right and forced an appreciative grin from him. He turned back to Errol. 'Yeah. I did. What of it, nancy-boy?' Errol moved very quickly. He surprised everyone. His right foot smashed into Colin's face with a distinctly heard, solid-yet-squashy thump. The sound was overlaid with the snick of a fracture, and the graunching of crushed gristle. Several punters shuddered at the impact. There was a moment of uncomprehending silence as Colin fell forward, screaming, on to his knees, his hands clasped to his face, the blood pouring, leaking out between his fingers and on to the already stained carpet. Then men in the front rows were on their feet. Two of them bent over Colin, several others shouted at Errol: "Ere, look what you done, you bleedin' poofter . . . .' 'You bust 'is nose. You bust 'is fuckinose . . . .' 'You killed 'im! You 'ave. You killed 'im!' One of the men made a grab at Errol, but he was gone- back through the curtains. 'You crazy bastard. You crazy, crazy bastard. What did you do that for? Absolutely unnecessary . . . .' 'Call the manager! Get the bloody manager down here, will you?' 'Get an ambulance! Never mind the bleedin' manager! Get an ambulance! He'll have to go to hospital . . . .' 'The bloke's a nutter. 'S obvious, in' it? I mean, 'e must be a nutter. 'E was only 'avin' a bit of fun. I mean, just takin' the piss out of the old slag. Just a bit of fun. 'E din' 'ave to do that, did 'e?' 'Bloody crazy, if you ask me . . . .' And then the punters realized where they would be found when the ambulance came. What addresses they'd have to give

92 when the police asked for witnesses. What explanations they'd have to make. Entertaining clients from the North. Well. We-ell. You know what these northern chappies are like. That's all they have to do up there. Go to strip clubs. You know what it's like. In this job, you just have to do what the customer wants. Bit embarrassing really. Ah, shit! If a bloke can't have a bit of fun once in a while . . . . So all the punters left Le Can-Can – much to The Major's surprise: 'Enjoy the show? Come again, sir . . . 'joy the show? Eighteen lovely girls – and all for . . .' What's going on in there? he thought.

Errol made his precarious way back to the dressing-room. 'Bit of fun, bit of fun, bit of fun, bit of fun . . .' The phrase hammered through his head, penetrating the whisky-sodden mists in his mind, running counterpoint to a dim realization of the irredeemable step he had taken. Dolly rushed up to him as he entered the dressing-room. Oblivious of her nakedness, she embraced him like a brother she hadn't seen for a long while. 'Oh, Errol! You din' 'ave to kick 'im, love. You shouldn'a done it. I mean . . . you din' 'ave to, did you?' As Errol ignored her she became more frantic. 'You really shouldn't, Errol! I mean . . . we might be . . . Well, you just din' 'ave to kick 'im . . . .' But Errol took no notice. He walked through the changing-room, Dolly hovering anxiously at his side. He spoke to the room at large, curling his thin upper lip. 'Peasants! What do I care about those peasants?' He knew he was very drunk now, and he enunciated clearly, so that he sounded as if he were playacting at being very snooty. 'Those peasants! It's just casting pearls before swine . . . .' The other girls in the room were all attention. They liked to hear about a bit of trouble. It added excitement to life. Dolly enlightened them, spreading arms wide and rolling her eyes heavenward: "E's only gone an' done it, 'asn't 'e? 'E's only gone an' kicked a punter. Right in the fuckin' gob!' There was a silence of fascinated horror – immediately followed

93 by a babble of inquiring voices. Meanwhile Errol retired to a corner where he muttered grimly, glass in hand. 'It's all too much for a lady of high breeding.' Enrico exploded into the dressing-room, scattering scantilyclad chicks left, right, and centre. The club owner's face was white with fury. His eyes focused evil. In his rage he seemed about to burst every seam of his Italian suit. It was too tight at the best of times. He grasped Errol's arm and hissed savagely at him: 'You get out, Errol. You get outa here, right now.' Errol giggled suddenly and looked round at the girls. They all feigned industry, minding their own business, sewing clothes, applying make-up, one of them feeling her breasts for lumps – as advised by Woman's Own. Errol giggled again. 'What d'you mean, "out"?' He arched his eyebrows. 'What d'you mean?' Enrico completely lost control of himself. He grabbed Errol by the shirt, lifted him out of his seat, and threw him violently at the door. 'Fuck it! Fuck it, Errol! I mean fucking out. I mean get out. I mean you get out now. I mean you fucking get right out of my fuckinga club. You don' never kicka the fuckin' punter. You bloody mad. YOU GET OUT!' Errol struggled upright, bracing himself against the door jamb. He was breathless, and his face began to crumble as he realized exactly what was happening to him. Momentary hysterical desires to giggle would be instantly replaced by an overwhelming sadness. Five years at Le Can-Can. Le Can-Can. His only family. His only friends. His only living. A miserable, safe, horrible, warm womb that protected him from a succession of grimy bed-sitters, from a never-ending stream of last-ditch jobs. He saw himself going back to a room whose wallpaper was rotting damply at the corners. He saw himself poaching an egg on a one-ring electric burner that intermittently turned itself off. He saw himself standing in a public lavatory, sweating, glancing nervously from side to side until the time came that he would be approached by a tight-trousered little tart, hands in pockets. Or by a plain-clothes policeman. Enrico was shouting again. Errol's face sagged further as he tried, pathetically, to defend himself.

94 'What d'you mean? I mean . . . 'e was insulting me, wasn't he? He insulted me. Didn't he?' Errol appealed to two of the dancers as they pushed past him, their high-heels clacking on the floor. They ignored him. He looked round. But only Janni the Mutterer was left in the dressing-room, and she was determinedly, savagely, plucking her eyebrows. 'Well, he was. He was insulting me, Enrico.' But Enrico was totally unimpressed. He poked a forefinger at Errol's face and spoke slowly, sibilantly, anger replaced by cold determination: 'I don' care 'e sticka his finger up your backside. You don' kicka my punters. Punters is a my business. My club is for punter – not for broken-down dancers. So . . . you go, Errol. You get out. Now!' With that, Enrico walked out of the dressing-room, and Errol – now fully aware of what he had done and the seriousness of Enrico's command – stumbled after him to clutch at his arm. 'Enrico! No! You can't do that! Please! No . . . Enrico. Please. Please don't do that to me. You can't! You just can't do that. Please. Enrico . . . wait a minute. Please wait a minute. You can't throw me out – I've been here five years . . . .' Enrico rounded on the sad little dancer. 'Is a five years my charity.' He continued up the stairs. Errol still clutched at him, whining in abject supplication. 'Oh, Enrico. Please help me. Please, please, please. I won't ever do it again. I promise you. What can I do? What will I do if you don't let me work here?' Enrico smiled cruelly down. 'I don' a care what you do. You go sell your arse. You done it before. Sell your arse.' He laughed and turned away. 'But Enrico, PLEASE. I promise . . . oh, I promise . . . .' Enrico looked down at Errol's white, veined, hand on the sleeve of his mohair suit. He pushed it viciously away from himself, unbalancing Errol, who tripped and fell heavily down several steps, landing in a heap at the entrance to the auditorium. He looked dumbly up at Enrico. Through the tears in his eyes, and in the dim half-light of the club, Errol could just see him. He heard him speak – softly and hardly moving his lips. 'Get up off the floor! You get in the way of my customers.'

95 9 PERFORMANCE IV: TIGER BELLE

Le Can-Can had filled again. Aside from the stain on the carpet just in front of the seat that had been Colin's, there was no sign of the drama that had emptied the club not long before. Even in the dressing-room there was no change, for the girls who had been present to see Errol's final humiliation were now dancing their shifts in nearby clubs and would not return to Le Can-Can until the next day. If the new shift missed Le Can-Can's male dancer, none of them said so. Out front, the rhythm of a single conga drum wound its insistent way into the heads of the punters, and the curtain parted slowly. The conga was joined by a bass, softly throbbing in the spaces between the rhythm. At the back of the stage stood Tiger Belle, a tall, very black African girl. She swayed gently to the music, her movements singly indefinable – together uncomfortably sensual. She was dressed in a gold, halter-necked gown which was split from her neck, where it was held by a golden necklet, to the centre of her flat, smooth belly. The gown split again, from hip to ankle and she now stood with her fingertips resting on her hips, just underneath the gown's material, one leg thrust provocatively forward. She smiled the paste-up smile of a professional dancer. Behind that smile was something that no punter would like to

96 see – something that would, at the height of his fantasy, destroy any relationship with Tiger Belle that he had imaginatively constructed. Behind the girl were black drapes. One had half-fallen from the hook on to which Jeff had hurriedly fastened it. As she looked out before her, Tiger saw a dozen dough-like faces – in this light all lined and ugly. But neither the shabby setting, the cliche costume, nor the horrible faces could alter the joyous fact of the girl's looks: she was unchallengeably, triumphantly, beautiful. The music built up, conga and bass now joined by brass and piano, and Tiger Belle moved forward, stepping lightly. She danced at the front of the stage, moving from one side to the other, teasing, leading the punters on. Giving away nothing. She stopped before one man, right at the front, near enough to be touched. But as he reached, she was gone, bending backwards, arching her hand inwards. She ran her forefinger up the inside of her deliciously long thigh, bare and shimmering in the light. An acute listener would have heard a stifled gasp, and Tiger's own secret, scornful smile touched her lips for just a moment. The music changed. Now it was funky low-down organ blues. Purple spots lowered and an aurora of red flame faded in, bathing Tiger at the rear of the stage, glinting off the lean, muscled back. The music built to a crescendo. Tiger released the catch of her gown and, pressing it to her body, she let it slip down her long legs, until it lay in a ring at her feet. She stepped out of the ring, and flicked off her shoes. She was still and taut, light reflecting from the dark sheens of her body. Her back was still to the punters, and she was naked – save for thin, tight black pants. To a haunting flute theme, Tiger Belle began to dance, revolving spots casting a light around her as she toured the stage, turning, twisting, caressing and holding herself in movements of unbearable eroticism. The punters strained to see, but it seemed that every time they might catch a sight of some secret part of the girl's body, it was gone – hidden, vanished before their eyes. Even when she dropped to her knees and leant over backwards, torso writhing, her lovely head resting on the floor, her long and delicate fingers fondling her own nipples – even then, she contrived to hide herself in dark shadows, in the

97 impenetrable spaces between the spotlights' narrow shafts. The punters knew what she was doing – could hear her as she began to pant, expelling the breath between her teeth in little kissing sounds – but they could see virtually nothing. They were teased, and the atmosphere in the dingy cellar room was electric. Once more the music changed, African drumming falling from the speakers in an avalanche of sound. In Le Can-Can, any black chick's act ended with African drumming – though there was a house regulation that obliged all black dancers to wear a blonde Euro-style wig, so as not to seem too primitive. Tiger had avoided the regulation – up to a point – and compromised with a long black wig. She shifted her position to give the punters a view of her silhouette. For the first time they could make out the shape and size of her breasts: they were small and high, contours of her body rather than uncontrollable appendages. She ran her fingertips from her knees to the band of her pants and slowly eased them down – still revealing nothing. She swayed tantalizingly. Languidly she removed even this last part of her costume. But smilingly, infuriatingly, she retreated to a dark part of the stage as she turned to face the audience fully. Contemptously she begand to grind her hips, threatening to move out of shadow, but always remaining coyly private. Suddenly Tiger Belle leapt from the shadows and into the centre of the stage. In the same instant the music screamed; the spotlights flared and immediately died. The punters blinked at the surprise of the movement, the light, and the noise. And the result? They saw nothing. . . .

On the excuse of not feeling too good – 'I reckon I'm gettin' on back, then' – Tony had left Colin and his mates in Casualty and crept back to the show. He had watched this girl with open-mouthed amazement. His eyes were glazed, still spotted and unseeing after the climactic flare of the spotlights. Girls didn't do anything like that where he came from. Yeah, they puffed and panted all right. But with exertion, with the sheer physical effort of making their sweaty little romantic scenes happen in the back

98 of a rusty old Anglia. They pushed you and pummelled you – sometimes even bit you. It was either 'Oh Tony!' and a bucket-full of wet mouth, or the anguished heaving of ruffled purity as they tried to retreat out of range. Tony just could not believe it. He'd never seen anything like it before. But, with a superhuman effort, he reclaimed himself. As if by reflex action he bellowed out: 'Send 'em back where they come from!' Then looked around for approval.

99 10 INTERLUDE

Honor stood before the largest mirror in the girls' dressing-room and carefully drew one eyebrow, the rich pencil line curving deeply to the corner of her eye make-up. She stood back to check the new line against her other eyebrow. They were perfectly symmetrical, generously framing the best features of her face. With a forefinger she gently dabbed at the lines that smiled from the outer edges of her blue eyes. Yes, she thought. They're getting worse. But at least they smile. And, be fair, you're starting to knock on a bit now. She took a comb from her bag and tidied a few undisciplined hairs, carefully marshalling them so that the overall effect was chic but casual. She put the comb away. Still watching the mirror, she pouted her lips, then bruised them with her teeth to fill them out, thankful that she rarely needed lipstick, pleased with the natural and full line that her mouth had retained despite the crossing into middle age. Carefully, she adjusted the natural-line bra, hitching up the straps slightly and running her palms over the breasts, ensuring that her large and round nipples were discernible. She stood away from the glass. Yes. You'll do. Not bad at all. Thank God for dancer's legs. Or someone. Shouldn't think he rates dancers much.

100 Honor walked through the auditorium, disdaining the hot-eyed punters, impervious to their salivating stares. She climbed the steps to the foyer and nodded to The Major. Enrico was leaning heavily against a wall. He watched her, laying odds to himself as to her age and wondering why she had never made herself available to him, why he'd never tried to pull her himself. She looked good and no doubt about that. His tongue successfully probed and dislodged a beef sinew from between a back molar and a wisdom. He swallowed it. Si, si, Enrico. You miss out 'ere. You miss out on a the good jig-jig. 'Ay, Honor,' he called, and she noticed for the millionth time how she liked the lilting inflection that he gave her name. 'Ay Honor, is a good show tonight. Tiger Belle,' he laughed wryly, shaking his head in wonder, 'she a real winner.' He laughed again, raucously and with real pleasure. 'Ay . . . I don't never see so many punters with the spiffoso before.' Honor let the flattery flow over her. It was nice to be appreciated and, one thing about Enrico, he never was nice just to be nice. He didn't need to be. 'Really?' she asked, sounding pleased. 'Si, really.' He mimicked her precise accent. 'You done the good things for my club, Honor. Come, you 'ave a drink with a me before you go 'ome?' 'Well, yes. I'd love to. Thanks.' Enrico turned to The Major, snapping his fingers peremptorily, and The Major fished out a Scotch bottle and two tumblers from his desk. He passed them over to Enrico, with what he fondly hoped was a pleasant smile. A servile, unconsciously envious, sneer. Enrico waved Honor to one of the foyer chairs and sat down with her, out of the mainstream of homeward-bound punters. He sloshed a hefty tot into the tumbler and held it out to Honor. She took the glass. 'Yes,' he said. 'Honor, you gotta the class. Some class. O.K., O.K., Tiger, Lucy, Dolly, they looka O.K. That Tiger,' he added wistfully, 'she really special. Got plenty of . . . of . . . the ting . . . Dio . . . Si.' He slipped into a daydream of Tiger's ting, then hastily remembered what he was after; Honor was Nirvana

101 tonight. 'But you, Honor. You gotta the class. Si. I don't think you a dancer. You def'n'ly boss.' I wondered when it would come, thought Honor. God knows I've worked a few years here and he's never made a move yet. But even though she was wary, even though she saw the motive as clearly as the diamond glittering on his little finger, she was happy to be admired. She went long enough weeks without appreciation to forego a little caution. And though she'd never wanted Enrico, she'd come to think that it might be inevitable. And you resign yourself to the inevitable – sit back and enjoy it if you can. 'It's very sweet of you, Enrico,' she answered. 'But how long can it last?' She tried a little evasive play-acting. Enrico was puzzled. 'What's a the matter? Sad? Now? I don' understand.' And suddenly, she was sad. 'It's just . . . well . . . Oh nothing, Enrico. Forget it.' 'Forget? No. Come on. Tell me. You got to tell ol' Enrico. I don' like to see you sad.' Then it was his turn to be wary. He knew what it was. 'You gotta the money troubles? Huh?' But to his great surprise she just laughed. 'No . . . well . . . who hasn't? No, it's not that at all. I just wonder sometimes how long I can go on.' 'How long?' What was she up to now? He looked at her closely and saw no guile in those hard desirable eyes. 'You go on for ever. Si for ever that I got the club. So don' worry about that. 'You not a dancer, so doesn't matter when the fat come to you.' He patted his own stomach. 'Doesn't matter when the legs a start to go. All you got a to do is sit down an' tell my girls what to dance. An' you can do that even if you take a the pension. Si? How long? How long? Is a rubbish, Honor, rubbish. You got a the years. Always I will have the place for Honor in my club.' Honor was genuinely moved by Enrico's little speech, and was too much an actress to let the sentimental moment pass unnoticed. She felt the tears well satisfactorily to her eyes, blurring Enrico's dark face. Her voice thickened involuntarily.

102 'You are kind, Enrico. And you don't even need a dance director really.' 'Si, si, si, si!' cried Enrico. 'No,' mused Honor. 'I am very happy at the club, but sometimes . . . Oh I don't know, I just want more. . . .' And here Enrico thought he had found the answer to her peculiar mood. He had been right first time. She just wanted more. Well, he would offer more – but if her demand was for too much, she'd just have to go elsewhere. He was surprised at the roundabout means she had used. She was usually so forthright, with him at least. 'More money?' He said it ruefully. But she confused him again, because she merely raised her eyebrows at him and laughed shortly. 'No, no, no. Not more money.' She stared at him and wondered if she'd ever be able to explain. She grew impatient, wanting to unburden herself of the melancholia that seemed to grow almost each day – each night anyway. Perhaps it's watching those bloody punters, she thought. Getting like Jahni. 'No, I don't mean that at all.' And she sounded impatient too. 'No?' Enrico was hesitant. 'Oh I can't explain. I never should have started. Let's just forget it.' 'No, Honor. I don' understand. You must explain to me.' Honor looked into her nearly empty glass and sighed. She wanted to explain, but it was impossible, faced with saturnine curiosity – all the more impossible for Enrico's wanting to help, to play the father confessor; probably plain curious, she muttered wryly to herself. 'Come on now, Honor. I don' like to see you miserable.' And looking at him, she believed him sincere. 'Well . . . I wanted so much to be an artist. I wanted so much to create something. Even when I was a kid I felt like that, though of course I never recognized what caused the mood . . . of frustration – almost claustrophobia . . . of dissatisfaction. But later I realized that I wanted to make something, to feel it and live it. Not to go to it every morning and leave it every night, but to live with it; to love it.' She glanced at his intent face,

103 wondering how limited his vocabulary really was. 'Like a man, to have it like I can have a man,' she added for his benefit. He remained impassive but intent. 'And really, I nearly did. I mean, I was in some good shows. Not just successful, but good. Just for a couple of years I was so nearly there. I felt I was actually going to achieve something, to be something – not famous, or a star, or anything like that. But that I'd truly be able to look back and feel there had been some point to it all. Just for a couple of years, I was nearly fulfilled.' Still he remained emotionless, listening, translating, wondering. She despaired. 'Enrico, you see I really can't explain. I can't explain it to you, can I? Honestly, I just don't think you'd ever understand.' Enrico was hurt. He sat back a little in his chair and frowned at her. 'You talk, Honor. You explain,' he commanded her. 'You think I stupid. No. Enrico, he understand. I listen. Jus' because I don' speak like I live here since I a kiddy. I understand O.K. Don' you worry about that. And I understand here, as well.' He tapped his heart with a long, flat finger. Honor looked at him, sentimentally misty. She knew what a cruel and unbending man he could be – though he had never shown anything but fondness for her. She had seen too much of his violence, his extreme brutality, to believe him a kind and sympathetic man. But she had never realized that he was capable of genuine kindness – of any outgiving emotion. Enrico tapped the side of his head. 'Sometimes there is a something in 'ere . . . .' His hand moved back to his chest. 'No, maybe 'ere.' He patted his chest. 'And he got to get out. Si? If he don't get out, then he eat you, from the inside. He bite and bite until you dead. Nothing left.' He snapped his fingers together. Honor was pleased, relieved to know that she could talk and that her feelings would be appreciated, if not soothed. She smiled a crooked, insecure little smile at him. 'Well, you see it never really did get out of me, whatever was in here. I almost got there, almost let it out, but never quite made it. The thing is, whatever it is just got stuck inside me...... Ohh, and then I couldn't find work, and I had all sorts of

104 jobs, and I auditioned day after day. Well that's what it seems like now, though at the time I expect they seemed few and far between. Oh Christ, it was awful. I mean, I couldn't be a waitress because I just had the stage there . . . inside me. I tried so hard. And none of it worked. Until I finally wound up here. 'And where do I go now?' 'Now?' And again Enrico was confused. 'Now? You my dance boss now.' 'Well yes. I am. But sometimes I wonder how much longer I can go on. Enrico, I think I'm running out of ideas.' She was quiet for a while, musing on the absurdities of what she did, the purpose for which she exercised her imagination, the demand that she and her girls supplied, only one in a hundred actively enjoying it; the remainder, shop-girls – factory girls: they actually produced the goods, didn't they? – despising the custom. But then, so do shop-girls despise their custom; factory girls don't sweat and scrub for love. Perhaps everyone caters for perversion, she thought. The perversion of wanting. Cookers. Fridges. Tits. Bums. What's the odds? Honor Twiss, purveyor of high-class breasts and buttocks to the general public. By appointment. You're never alone with a good, sweaty, leather-bound tit. I'm only here for the leer. 'Sometimes I think I just want a quiet life. Sometimes I even dream of a quiet house in the country.' Enrico was horrified. 'Country?' he virtually shouted. 'No, no, Honor. Country is not a for you. Is a London your home.' Suddenly she wanted to go, to leave the club and forget about it just for a few hours. To pretend that Le Can-Can and the punters had never existed. That she was just plain Honor Twiss with no cloudy ideas, no longings that were beyond her reach, no yearnings to keep her awake in her wide, occasionally shared bed. She stood up abruptly. 'I must go now, Enrico. Thanks for the drink, and for listening. 'Bye Enrico.' 'O.K.,' he answered. 'We see you tomorrow, eh?' 'Yeah, I suppose so, O.K.' 'O.K. An' no more of this sad, huh? It don' look a good on you.'

105 She smiled at him. 'O.K.,' she said. Enrico wandered off to check that the girls were keeping up their smiling, while Honor left the club. Just outside the door she passed The Major. 'Good night, Major.' The Major was a little drunk, as ever, by this time. 'Good night Madam . . . Aha.' He inclined at the waist pedantically. ''Night – and less of the madam.' She smiled in the evening gloom. 'Honor. Oh yes. What?' With no warning The Major grinned hugely. He was a different man. Years fell away, leaving the echo of a happy military man, a hard-drinking, hard-playing major.

Honor walked towards her home, vaguely wondering what there would be in the fridge that she could put together quickly before she went to bed. She hated cooking, not so much because of the actual process but because she always had to cook when she was tired or dispirited, and that was no way to enjoy it. As she passed a small bistro the night air filled with smells of food. She turned back and looked at the menu lettered on the big window. She opened her bag and checked the contents of her purse, visions of the sparse fridge fading. She pushed the door open and walked in, looking round uncertainly for a small table. A waiter greeted her and led her to a gloomy corner. She was glad it was dark in the restaurant – she hated to eat alone, feeling watched and friendless. Usually she took an evening newspaper, or even a book. Sometimes she would go without food altogether rather than sit in a crowded room and eat alone. The waiter was long and thin, his sharp-featured face attractive in a mean, effeminate way. His chin was fashionably stubbled, and his fine brown hair immaculately back-combed at the crown. As he handed Honor the card menu, which was too large to be easily manoeuvred, she caught the smell of his sweat, sharp and stale. She drew away, unhappy that even here she should be reminded of the smell of Le Can-Can's auditorium. The waiter left her to choose, which she did quickly before

106 laying the huge menu down. Self-consciously, she looked down at her lap, where her hands fidgeted like small white puppies. It was always like this when she ate alone, the overpowering feeling that everyone was staring at her, wondering about her, why an attractive and apparently normal woman should be in this restaurant unaccompanied. She knew it was irrational, that no one was the slightest bit interested in what she did – God knows she'd had enough proof of that during her life-time. Eventually a raucous laugh from across the room drew her head up sharply. There sat a group of middle-aged men, deeply engrossed in exchanging slightly alcoholic and slightly smutty jokes – the smut increasing in direct proportion to the wine. Honor was about to look away when something about one of the men nudged her memory. She looked more closely, squinting to focus through the gloom. The man sat across his table from her, so that he faced Honor directly. But she could not study the face at leisure; most of the time it was bent towards his plate, and when it wasn't, he would notice her staring. Yet there was something. Honor could not place it. Across the room from Honor, David Styler enjoyed his food, laughing occasionally as he listened to the stories at the table. He was forty years old and beginning to feel his age. The years did not suit him; he had lost a great deal of hair and that had given him no great distinction or character. He just looked bald. His chest and stomach were flabby, slipping down to rest paunchily – largely below his belt. The fatness of his face, allied to the deep lines around his mouth and the pouches beneath his eyes, was aggravated in its unattractiveness by a poor complexion – a bachelor's self-indulgence in food and drink, and too many smokey days in offices and restaurants. Savouring the garlic in his sucking-pig, he watched Bill speak, only half listening to the anecdote, wondering why Bill always seemed to be talking, needed to dominate any group of which he was usually only a semi-invited part. 'So you see, the moped goes shooting by . . .' Yes, thought David, and so does that small blob of salad cream, as it left Bill's lips on the cue 'shooting'. Sourly, David contemplated Bill's piggy face. '. . . the moped goes shooting by,' Bill continued, 'then comes

107 back again at 120, then zooms past again the other way at no, and so on, backwards and forwards, you see, slowing down by ten miles an hour each time, till finally it stops right by the Englishman's Aston Martin. 'So the Englishman says, "You Germans are pretty clever with your technology, what? Making that bally moped run faster than my £6,000 Aston. Shockin' poor show." And the German says, "Ektually,"' and the group, save for David, laughed at Bill's guttural German accent. '"Ektually,"' he repeated, hoping to repeat the laugh. '"Ektually, zer Cherman technology iz not zo goot. It'z just zat I hev caught mein braces in zer beck bomper of your motor-car!"' Bill sat back in his chair, his eyes shifting from face to face as he watched all the group except David laugh at his joke. When he realized that David had not reacted, Bill stared at him, and his mouth took on a hurt and resentful little fruit-like shape, as if he had a sliver of very bitter lemon on his tongue. He remembered how David had smiled somewhat tiredly at him earlier this evening, when they had first got together, and greeted him with a, 'Hallo, Bill, I see you've turned up again.' 'Yes,' said Bill 'it is rather a good joke, isn't it?' He paused awhile, then deliberately drew the table's looks to David. 'But old David doesn't seem amused.' They all watched David for his reaction, knowing the antipathy existing between him and Bill. But David appeared not to realize the atmosphere building up at the table; he was staring hard across the restaurant at Honor. Bill followed the stare. 'But then, he's always on the spy for some old tart.' He spoke very loudly, and fancied that Honor looked up briefly. David turned his head to Bill.

'Sorry, Bill,' he said quietly, 'I wasn't really listening.' 'We can see that . . .' David's jaw tightened. 'Look Bill, I'm not obliged to listen to every stale joke you work out of your boring little brain. And the reason I wasn't really listening is that I know that woman over there – or used to. She was an actress I worked with once.' 'Actress?' 'Yes,' answered Bill nastily, before David could say anything.

108 'You know, one of those scrubbers that flops at the drop of a hat –or a pound note.' 'Don't be so ploody puerile,' David snapped. For a few moments there was silence while the group around the table decided its allegiances. No one there particularly liked Bill, but on the other hand this was a stag night and the stags were expected, by tradition and precedent, to keep their minds looking inward, to devote all their attention to the business of enjoying the evening together. The woman across the restaurant threatened the solidarity of the group and, in the alliances formed around the table, this was a factor that might outweigh any dislike of Bill. One of the men, Mike, a small paunchy man who owned an engineering business, attempted to stifle the growing hostility between David and Bill by polite, boring, conversation: 'I didn't know you knew any actresses, David?' But Bill would not co-operate. 'Really? Hasn't he ever regaled you with his history? The "When I Was In The Theatre" monologue? Christ, if he hasn't . . . you're lucky, I must say.' David looked around the group, as if seeing it for the first time. His gaze paused at Mike. He liked Mike; quiet and inoffensive, good company and understanding. He addressed his question at Mike: 'Look, would you mind if I leave you for a minute or two? I'm sure I know her – and it was a long time ago.' Mike smiled and David walked away from the table. 'Well. I thought this was meant to be a night out with the lads,' sneered Bill. 'Still . . . you know David. Always got an eye for the scrubbers – and the rougher the better, as far as I can see.' Mike looked over at Honor and thought, she doesn't look rough to me –but then who would compared to Noreen?

Honor cagily watched David approach her. She still had not been able to place him in her memory and hoped that he wasn't heading for her table. If the worst comes to the worst, she thought, I'll just walk out. But they're so bloody persistent now. She looked down at her hands, mutilating a breadstick. David's

109 shadow fell across the table, and she looked up, taken aback despite herself. He spoke. Quite a nice voice, she thought. Soft and good diction. Pity his looks aren't up to the voice. Doesn't even look well. 'I'm dreadfully sorry to intrude, but I've an awfully strong feeling that I know you. I just had to find out.' Not even original, she thought. Shouldn't have too much difficulty with this one. She was about to speak but hesitated, and a small frown crossed her face at his voice's familiarity. 'Yes, I'm sure I'm right,' he said. 'Aren't you Honor Twiss?' 'Well, yes I am. But who? I'm afraid I don't . . .' David was smiling, pleased with himself. It had been twenty years – not that she showed them. The blonde hair still set off the ingenuous blue eyes. He wondered if the gold chain round her neck carried the same crucifix between the small breasts that seemed to have lost nothing of their shape. Would her legs be the same? Dancer's legs below the rather wide hips. He knew he hadn't worn his years as well. 'Honor! It is you. I'm so pleased. I'm David. Remember David?' She floundered, momentarily panicking as she tried to recall her Davids. 'David Styler – God it's years since I saw you. You must remember.' She doesn't, he thought. But then I'm nothing like I was. Still . . . it wasn't every night that . . . 'I saw you last at the old Folderham Rep. . . .' 'David! That David! Oh David, how marvellous.'' She was very excited, and suddenly very actressy. 'Oh David, darling. How are you after all these years? Where have you been? What are you doing? Oh do join me here.' She patted the vacant chair at her table. Then, in a fluster of embarrassed blushing, she remembered the last time she had been with David Styler – the aftermath of Roily Jones' Folderham Rep's wake. But David showed no sign of remembering what must have been a gross and horrible moment for him. Yet surely he couldn't have forgotten? As the details of the twenty-year-old scene flooded back to her, Honor cringed. 'Well, I'm glad you have recognized me. Even if it did take a bit of time.' David laughed.

110 'Oh I'm sorry, David. You've changed so much.' She realized that wasn't the right thing to say, either. 'I mean, well we've all changed, haven't we?' 'Not you, Honor. You still look great. Terrific.' Honor was delighted and tried to return the compliment. But David patted his stomach deprecatingly. 'Oh I know I look ghastly. I'm fat and wheezy, I'm afraid. Rack and ruin.' He smiled ruefully. 'The hard life I lead.' 'You're working a lot?' 'Good heavens no.' He laughed loudly – like a man recalling a boyhood prank. 'No, I gave up the business years ago. Or rather it gave me up. I'm just a fat and prosperous businessman.' How unimaginative, thought Honor. How boring. The very thing we all swore we would avoid. And yet . . . what have I just been saying to Enrico? And 'a fat and prosperous businessman'. Was it that we abhorred the thought of tedious and lowly paid jobs? Would we have settled for boredom and guaranteed wealth? But then, no one could have guaranteed us that – least of all when we were young and starry-eyed in Folderham Rep. Honor was politely enthusiastic. 'How exciting! What business, David – if I'm allowed to know, that is.' 'Of course. No reason why not. Very dull and dreary, I'm afraid. I run an office-cleaning firm. Astrobrite Cleaners. You've probably seen the vans. They're blue – with a big white star.' Honor hadn't seen the vans. Or if she had, she hadn't noticed them. They sounded ugly. 'Yes I have,' she said, some scorn showing in her voice despite herself. 'Successful old David, hey?' Her smile was forced, but David did not see it. 'Very boring, I'm afraid. But terribly profitable. I hardly have anything to do with it now – though I worked like a dog when I started out. And for no money at all. But now I just sit back and watch the muck making brass, as they say. Still, it makes me feel good. I can turn round and wave two fingers at all the knockers who said I'd never make it; and there were plenty of them. But, as I say, it's been worth it.' 'Lucky old you.' Honor looked at David's thickened face and

111 wondered. She felt confused; a little envious; perhaps almost respectful. 'Yeah,' said David, 'lucky old me.' Honor looked at him more sharply. Was that bitterness? She raised her eyebrows inquiringly. 'Lucky old me. It hasn't seemed to bring much . . . . Well, anyway.' David paused, then decided against self-pity. 'Tell me,' he said. 'What are you doing now? Still working?' Honor came to life immediately, a puppet jerked by strings. 'Oh yes! I've got a floor show in the West End. It's great.' She smiled brightly into David's face and saw that he believed her, saw the envy in his eyes – the same envy that she had felt at his success. And suddenly the pretence fell away. Why should she pretend any more? What did it matter what this sad, rich man thought about her, a middle-aged ex-stripper? Her smile collapsed. But she hadn't yet the courage to admit exactly what she did. 'Well, it sounds glamorous,' she said. 'But you know what it's like. When you get to my age, you take what you can get.' David hadn't fully understood. 'You mean you dance still?' he asked enthusiastically. 'Good Lord no. I'm the dance director. My girls do the dancing. Eighteen of them.' 'Great! Where is this show? Where can I see it?' Oh Christ, thought Honor. That's the last thing . . . She answered David quickly: 'Oh it's not your sort of thing at all, David. You'd be bored to tears. Tell me about you. That's much more interesting . . . oh . . . or do you have to go back to your table?' Honor looked over to the group with which David had been eating. 'Oh no. No. Look, Honor, may I stand you . . . Will you have dinner with me? May I join you?' 'Well I . . . David. Couldn't really . . .' 'Why ever not?' 'Well, your friends over there for one thing.' 'To hell with them. They bore me stupid. Look, I'll go over and tell them.' David left her before Honor could stop him. As he approached his friends, they all looked up.

112 'What, give you the brush-off, did she?' asked Bill nastily. The others round the table laughed – Mike a little uneasily. Surely Bill didn't have to be so niggly. David looked down at Bill coldly. 'As a matter of fact, no,' he said, and then added as cuttingly as possible: 'But then she does happen to be an old friend.' 'Doesn't look so old to me, laddie,' said Mike, trying to lighten the mood. 'No,' broke in Bill, dead on cue. 'That's only when you're across the room. Can't see the lines, see? Still it doesn't really matter what the old boot looks like, does it David? They're all the same where it counts, aren't they? Bag over the head and you're away, aren't you? Eh? David?' David did his best to control the insane rage that willed him to smash Bill's leering face into his empty, greasy plate. Quietly he said: 'Look . . . I'll see you all later. O.K.?' and turned to go. He walked across to the maitre to explain the change of tables, then returned to Honor who had surreptitiously watched the exchanges between David and his friends. She smiled up at him. 'They don't look very pleased . . . .' 'Oh sod them,' replied David feelingly. 'They're just a bloody class of ten-year-olds.' 'But well-developed.' David looked at Honor closely, seriously. She smiled into his eyes, willing away his irritation. They both laughed, laughed together – and for the first time both felt at ease. 'Right. Now, what are you going to eat?'

Errol, meanwhile, paid the bill for his nasty undercooked fried egg and chips, and walked out into Gerrard Street. He was casually dressed in elephant flares, wet-look slip-ons, and a faded cotton safari jacket. He looked haggard and was desperate. Model bag firmly grasped in one hand, he paused at the door of the caff. The miserable, greasy, overpriced meal had partly sobered him. He looked right and left. Which way to go? Did it matter? How many more clubs would reject him, would smell the stale

113 Scotch on his breath, look at his fast-wearing figure and the purple capillaries in his now fleshy nose; the reddened, watery eyes? How many more times would he be turned away like a stray dog? Misery and self-pity overwhelmed him. He chose left, and walked away determinedly, pretending purpose though in reality he had no destination at all. Suddenly Chan appeared in front of him, bounding and grinning inanely, like a devilish yellow trick from a Tottenham Court Road novelty store. Despite himself, Errol was gladdened. Until Chan spoke. 'Hey . . . POOF!' screamed Chan. Errol grimaced and decided to ignore him, pushing his way along the pavement, trying to put as many people between the demonic Chinese and himself. But Chan ran after him, cackling, darting between the pedestrians, until he was at Errol's side. Chan, for once, was in a pleasant mood. 'Hey! Flairly! Hallo Flairly. You go home?' Errol clenched his jaws in annoyance, and walked on a few paces. Then he rounded savagely on Chan. 'Listen! Don't call me "fairy". Get it? Don't call me that again. If you call me that again, I'll . . . I'll wring your little yellow neck. Just go away. Leave me alone.' Chan was taken aback at Errol's assault, and puzzled by it. But his mood was too ebullient to be put down. 'Haagh!' he exclaimed. 'What long Ellol?' But the desperate dancer remained silent and inert. 'Somet'ing long? Huh? You in bad temper? What long?' Still Errol did not react. 'When man in bad temper . . . ,' Chan began to pontificate. Errol's initial temper had cooled somewhat and he was perversely glad of Chan's company. He interrupted what he knew would be a long, boring, and incomprehensible Chinese proverb. 'I've been sacked, Chan.' 'Ha ha ha ha ha ha!' chortled Chan. 'Velly funny. You making jokin'. Yes, good jokin'. Ha ha ha ha ha.' 'It's no joke.' 'Ha?' 'Enrico's sacked me. I kicked a punter.' Chan was amazed. Such things were unheard of.

114 'You kick plunter? Kick plervert? Where?' 'In the face.' 'In face? In club?' 'Yes, in the club.' 'You kick plervert in Enlico club? Aha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hah.' Chan seemed about to disintegrate with mirth. The incongruity of it! He'd never heard anything so funny – so ludicrous. So convulsed was he, that he had to stop walking and kneel on the pavement. Errol walked on, hurt by Chan's laughter. I should have known more than to expect any sort of sympathy, any civilized reaction from that little yellow git. He'd laugh while his father was raped. Mind you, so would I. Suddenly Chan recovered. He looked after Errol and ran up the street. When he caught up with him, he grabbed him by the wrist. 'SACK? SACK?' He shouted up into Errol's face. 'FOR KICKING PLERVERT? Kicking plervert is most admilable act in stluggle for people fleedom; is stliking blow for humanity against blourgeois exproitation of human weakness.' Errol had a foresight of what was coming. He tried to hurry on, but Chan stopped him. 'Oh, for Christ's sake, Chan.' 'Should be lewarded. Should be lewarded – immediate plomotion to hero of . . .' Errol cut in: 'Well, funnily enough, Enrico doesn't see it that way. And he is the boss. Remember?' 'Enlico? Maflia? Haagh! Is opplessor and scourge of . . . dancing classes. Exproiter! Maflia! Look, poof –' Errol looked sharply at Chan and made as if to hit him. '– er, ah. Ellol!' Chan conspiratorially drew Errol down to his own height. 'Look, Ellol. You get sack because have no power. Fascist boss class easily destloy one poof, BUT . . .' Errol pulled himself away. 'Oh just leave me alone. Do go away, Chan.' But Chan was launched on his diatribe and would not be halted. His voice rising in power and fanaticism, he continued:

115 'But banding together . . . united . . . is power! Solidality of all poof make poof power! Yes is tlue. Many poof make light work . . . of Fascist boss class. All poof must join together in glorlious almy! Phlalanxes of flairlies, fighting together for flairly lights!' Errol rolled his eyes to the heavens and ground his teeth together. 'Chan you're talking rubbish. And I'm not a poof. I'm not a fairy. I'm . . . GAY!' Chan leapt on this information like a starling on a bacon rind. He jumped up and down, waving his index finger under Errol's nose. 'Haaaaaaaagh! Not so GAY now, flairly!' he screamed. 'I haven't got much to be happy about,' answered Errol lamely. But Chan ignored Errol – he was after all only the detonator to Chan's explosive polemic. Roughly he extracted the Red Book from his tunic and launched into a fanatical peroration: 'NO! NOT HAPPY! MISELABLE! All exproited classes miselable. You miselable. I miselable. Evelyone miselable! Only maflia and Fascist boss class happy. Velly happy! Haaaagh! Evelything hunky dorly for Fascist exproiters and boss classes.' Chan consulted his Red Book, and quoted: 'But "Impelialism and all leactionalies, looked at in essence, flom long-term point of view, from STLATEGIC point of view, must be seen for what they are – PAPER TIGERS, DEAD TIGERS, BEAN CURD TIGERS! '"All leputedly powerful leactionalies are merely paper tigers because they are divorced flom the people." Look! Was not Hitler paper tiger? Was not Hitler overthlown? Tzar of Lussia, Empelor of China, and Japanese Impelialism all paper tigers. All overthlown! 'And Enlico paper tiger. 'But . . . opplessed flairly and exproited clarpenter unite to drive out plervert and overthlow Enlico and gang of bean-curd tiger!' Chan looked around for Errol, to see how he reacted. But Errol was gone – nowhere to be seen. 'Ellol? Ellol?'

116 Chan stopped a chicly-dressed young man, clutching at his ruffed sleeve: 'Have you seen flairly?' 'Ooo, no dear. Not lately.' And Chan was again perplexed.

Honor, full of average restaurant coq-au-vin, walked demurely beside David as they left the restaurant. David was particularly bloated; having eaten two thirds of a meal with his friends before he joined Honor, he had felt obliged to keep her company while she was eating. There's nothing worse than watching someone eat – unless it's being watched. He could hardly walk, and the food and wine made him fond and nostalgic. 'I'm glad I bumped into you again . . . .' Honor smiled – as much to herself as to David. David, however, saw the smile and watched her, waiting for her to say something. But she was silent, so David spoke again: 'Things are . . . much more . . . oh, I don't know. Things seem much more . . . more . . .' 'More what?' asked Honor sharply. She felt that she knew what was coming – knew and suspected it because part of her wanted it, but her practised cynicism would not believe it and she would therefore be obliged to fight against believing David. 'More worthwhile?' David's tone was tentative, as if he knew he would be disbelieved. 'But that's silly, isn't it? It's only been a couple of hours.' Despite herself, Honor replied: 'But a lovely couple of hours.' 'Really?' asked David quickly. It was his turn to disbelieve. 'Do you really think that? It's been a hell of a long time since a woman said that to me and really meant it.' But this was too much for Honor. She could suspend her cynicism for only so long, to only such a degree. 'Oh David,' she said, 'that sounds awful. As if you've got no girl friends at all. And I can't believe that.' David was flattered but honest enough to admit: 'Yes . . . I've got women. What rich man hasn't? But no . . . lovers?' Again his tone was tentative, for he was admitting for

117 the first time a situation which he'd never wanted to acknowledge, prefering to put it down to his own preoccupation with his business affairs. For what woman will love a man who places her below sweeping other people's shit from office floors? He laughed ruefully. 'No. No lovers. No one I've had any feeling for. No one who felt for me. None I'd even like to marry,' he added a little bitterly. Honor was taken aback by David's tone, at his apparent resignation to the situation. It made her think hard. What was her role in all this? How could she benefit? 'I can't really believe . . . ,' she started uncertainly. But she wasn't sure what to say, and preferred to say nothing than something crass. The two of them walked on in silence, both pondering. Honor slipped her hand between David's arm and his body, and rested her cheek against his shoulder. David felt good. 'Shall I take you home now?' he asked. 'Mmmmmmmm.' But then she remembered her loveless flat. 'No. I don't want to go home yet.' 'What do you want to do? A club?' Christ no, she thought. Anything but that. 'No. Not really, thank you David. I don't know what. I just don't want to go home. I'm not in the mood to go home. Though I suppose I should really.' 'Why should you really?' Honor looked at David archly, an expression that said 'You know damn well why'. But looking at him, she realized that David had asked in all innocence. 'Just because I should. I have to work tomorrow. And anyway, I have to wash my hair.' As she said it she realized how stupid it sounded, so she made the most of it and mimicked in prissy schoolgirl tones: 'I'm most awfully sorry, David Styler, but I can't come out with you tonight. I've got school tomorrow – and anyway, I have to wash my hair.' Honor let go David's arm and flounced off. David laughed, and the laughter made him seem younger. 'Do you really have to wash your hair?' Again Honor was arch, inexplicably (even to herself) dreading the heavy pass that she would have to fend off. 'Yes, David. I really do.'

118 David's flabbiness was not exclusively physical. His attempts at gentle, subtle courtship, his romanticism, were feeble, yet heavy-handed and clumsy. He had no idea how to show Honor that his aim was not just a quick lay, and in fact he wasn't sure what his intentions were. As a man, he was acutely aware of his business success, and he knew that its corollary was loneliness. He'd never been the sort of person who could do more than one thing well at a time. And his loneliness meant that he'd taken on the lonely man's characteristics: lack of conversational speed, wit and subtlety. Under different circumstances – perhaps only a day earlier – Honor would have been intensely annoyed by David's flabby attentions, his style and attitude towards her, an attitude that reminded her of her first boy friend's idolatrous mien. Christ, she was a woman. Now, a middle-ageing woman who had seen and done enough not to be treated like a Meissen figurine. If he wanted to screw her, let him say it outright. He'd stand a better chance. If he wanted to . . . . Oh what the hell. Just say it. But today, Honor had begun to wonder exactly what and where her future was. Was she doomed to play out her life in Le Can-Can? More likely she would fall, with increasing speed as she lost her looks, through the various levels of clubs until finally not even 'The 69' would look at her. Honor saw that David was wealthy but unhappy, that he was looking for love, for a relationship. And she wondered whether she could profitably – perhaps happily – supply one half of that relationship. She knew that she and David had things to offer each other, that they might come together in an arranged marriage. So she was able to tolerate the fumbling flirting, David's unattractiveness, and even to encourage him in his wooing.

'Right!' said David briskly. 'Let's go and wash your hair. Come with me.' 'Where to?' Honor was taken aback. 'To the most exclusive salon in town. To wash madam's hair.' 'What? Now? What are you talking about, David?' 'Talking about Renarti's. Of course, Signor Renarti himself will not be there. But he will be delighted to know you called –

119 especially that such a beautiful woman as yourself called.' David dropped his commissionaire's accent and added confidentially: 'Actually he's no more a signor than I am. His straight monicker is Bruno Williams.' Honor was almost exasperated: 'I wish I knew what the hell you're talking about. Everywhere's closed now. And I'm no more likely to go to Renarti's than I am to . . . to . . .' But David hustled Honor on, ignoring her puzzlement and oblivious to her protests. 'Come on.' 'David! Stop fooling. We're not kids!' David hailed a cab and bundled her inside. She bashed her shin on the floor's edge and gasped as the tears ran to her eyes. She was speechless with the effort not to cry. But David had noticed nothing. He slid down the glass partition between the passenger compartment and the driver and gave the man his directions. The driver shrugged resignedly. He smelt the alcohol on David's breath and wondered. He's heard everything – and now Renarti's at 2.30 in the morning. Still, providing he pays. . . . And if he doesn't there'll be trouble. The cab pulled up outside Renarti's salon. The frontage was impressive: a grand Georgian terrace complete with imposing doors and shiny brass knobs. David gallantly handed Honor out of the cab. She tried not to hobble. He paid the driver and, as the cab moved off, turned to Honor. He pointed to the door. 'But we can't go in there, David.' She was embarrassed. 'Why ever not?' he asked. 'You said you wanted to wash your hair.' 'Yes, but won't . . . isn't . . . well I . . .' 'Come on. No buts. Don't be chicken.' David produced a large bunch of keys from his jacket pocket. With one he opened the front door. He pushed Honor through and into the hall. It was well-scaled and spacious, with a wide white staircase leading to the salon. The fittings were all one size larger than life, and ornate, their rococo elaborations incongruous in the immaculate proportions of the building. Honor was somewhat overawed as she and David climbed the staircase. She tried not to show it, but she felt uncomfortable and wondered exactly what was going to happen. She was, after all, alone

120 in this large building. Alone with a man she hadn't seen for many years and whose back she'd once covered in vomit. 'But what about . . . I mean . . .' 'Renarti?' replied David. 'He's my oldest customer.' 'Customer? David, what . . .?' 'You never did remember too well, did you? You used to have trouble with your lines. I remember prompting your Salome.' 'What's that got to do with it?' 'I run an office-cleaning business. Remember? Renarti's salons – we do all of them.' Honor laughed. God he must think I'm thick. She relaxed a little, though she still felt uneasy in the big building. The two of them entered the salon itself – a tall and long, white, luxurious room fitted with floor to ceiling mirrors. In one corner was a huge Bang & Olufsen stereo system. The four spherical speakers were in the four corners of the salon. David walked over to the record changer. 'Music?' he asked. 'But David . . . What about . . .?' 'Renarti? You've asked me that once already. A fussy old bastard – but he'd be delighted to hear that I'd borrowed his salon to . . . to woo a beautiful lady.' David indicated one of the chairs in the hair-washing alcove. 'Come on. Just sit down and relax. You look like Little Red Riding Hood. I'm not going to eat you. Just sit down and relax.' Honor looked at David speculatively, then shrugged and sat in the chair, sweeping her hair back and leaning her bare neck against the cool marble cut-away. David began to enjoy himself thoroughly, unaware that Honor was vacillating between patronizing his courtship and feeling uneasy at his insistent efforts. To David, Honor was more glamorous a woman than he would normally be able to attract. Yet she seemed to be available to him. While she sat in the chair, slowly relaxing, David sensuously washed her hair. The music from the stereo directed his movements and rhythm, and he was loving and gentle. Honor reacted slowly to the warmth and tenderness, gradually lowering her resistance to David. Her thoughts freed themselves from their self-imposed inhibitions and she sank into the chair,

121 squirming into the most comfortable position. She sighed contentedly. 'David . . .?' 'Mmmmmmh?' 'Do you ever get tired?' David laughed. 'Of course. Every night about eleven.' 'No, I don't mean that. Not sleepy tired. I mean . . . Oh, I dunno. It's rather difficult to explain really.' 'Well go on,' David prompted. 'I'm just so tired. That's all.' 'But not sleepy-tired?' 'No.' Then she added quickly: 'Well, I am, but that's not what I'm talking about. I feel . . . all inside . . . Oh God, I'll never be able to explain it.' 'Why not? Go on. Just say it.' There was a pause while Honor collected her thoughts and framed sentences in her mind. David continued gently massaging. When Honor did speak again, it was almost with enthusiasm. It surprised David. 'It's like the first party you ever went to. Like wanting to go home. I can remember the first party I ever went to. Proper party, I mean; the first time I had a proper boy-friend, and he took me to a real party – well . . . a proper party. A dance it was really, right at the end of the war. And the boy who took me had actually been in uniform. 'And I really can remember being so excited for days and nights before. I tried on all the things my mother had, all the things I had, everything we'd made. Of course it wasn't very bright compared to now. Or exciting. But . . . then . . . it was fabulous. And finally the day came and . . . do you know, I can't even remember his name? But I can recall him . . . he was very skinny. Nothing to write home about at all really. But he was my first real boy-friend and very correct and proper and polite. It seems like another world . . . however ancient that sounds . . . another world. Not better . . . or worse. Just different. 'When we arrived there, there were decorations, and new paint – the smell of whitewash – and drinks, and more food than I would have believed possible with coupons and all that.

122 'And the band – a big swing band. God, it may even have been Nat Temple. We haven't really changed at all, have we? 'Anyway, the band was . . . super. The soloists all stood up when they had to play. And the sections stood up one by one. The saxophones all glistened in the spots – and the drummer was so smooth; doing all the corny things, like throwing the sticks into the air and playing very flashily. 'Everyone was happy and . . . hopeful? Laughing. 'And I danced and danced with my skinny, brave boy-friend. Danced solidly. Without stopping. All the steps I'd learnt in secret, in front of the mirror.' Honor tried to look up into David's face, to see what he was thinking, wondering what his reaction was. But the shampoo ran into her eyes and she closed them again quickly. What did it matter what he thought? It was relieving just to be able to say whatever went through her mind – not to have to watch every word, every emotion, as if it were a detonator that could explode her highly-strung life. 'Oh David,' Honor sighed, 'It all sounds so hopeless and innocent . . . and maybe it never really happened. Or at any rate, not like this. 'Then, suddenly – and it wasn't even very late – everything was just too much for me. It was all too much. Like as if a spring inside me had run down. I couldn't go on. 'The party was there. The people were there. Still laughing. Dancing. The food was still there – a bit tatty now and half-eaten. The band still played – and the lights: they had one of those things that goes round and round flashing spots on to the walls. Well, that just carried on. But I had stopped. Everything else happened – everything went on. And I had stopped. 'I just wanted to go home.' Honor paused, feeling she must seem foolish. But David said nothing, continued to massage her scalp. 'My poor soldier. He was so kind and gallant. He took me home. He didn't understand. But he took me home. Said a polite good night, and I never saw him again. I just went into my room and collapsed on the bed.' Honor stopped speaking for a while. When she continued, her voice was sad and a little helpless.

123 'And now, David, that's how I feel. Everyone's still dancing. The band's still there. The spots are shining on the brass. The party's all going on. And it's still early. 'But I just want to go home.' Still David showed no emotion or reaction. By now he was towelling Honor's hair dry. As she turned in her chair and looked up at him, the damp straggly hair completely destroyed her glamour, and for the first time David felt truly in control of the situation. She looked like a cold, wet puppy, her large eyes sentimentally appealing. 'David . . . please take me home.' Whether David understood Honor's plea, what she meant by 'home', was doubtful. But he looked down at her and spoke masterfully: 'I think you'd better come back to my place tonight. You sound as if you shouldn't be alone.' Honor's reaction was immediate: wary and sceptical. Come on, she said to herself. What the hell are you being so jumpy about? Why the virginal heart-skip? What difference does another make – yet another with no love? But before she could speak, David saw and forestalled her objections. 'Come on. Don't look like that. I have a spare room, and you can use that – if you don't mind sharing it with my books. It's a sort of library too.' Honor smiled apologetically. 'I'm sorry, David. I'm not very grateful, am I? But . . . it's just that I've . . . for too long . . .' 'I know. Don't say it. I'll take you home now. Come on.' As she left the chair, Honor caught sight of herself in one of the big mirrors. She looked a mess, but she surprised herself by simply not caring.

On the way to his flat David said nothing, and Honor was too tired to make obligatory conversation. At his front door, she was hardly able to walk and David had almost to carry her into the flat, one arm firmly round her, her head pressed against his shoulder. David's flat was expensive and untidy. The front door opened directly into the sitting-room, whose floor was three or

124 four steps down from the door level so that as you entered the room it spread out below you like a scenic view. It was impressive and David was proud of it. 'Well, here it is,' he said. 'What do you think of it?' Honor realized that something was expected of her, but she was too tired to react properly. 'David . . . it's marvellous. I wouldn't have thought it.' She thought of Le Can-Can's chaotic dressing-room and the smell of the punters that insidiously crept through the stage and into the dressing-room. David wondered what she was thinking, but said nothing and led her into the spare bedroom. 'It's a bit shambolic,' he apologized. 'But just treat it like home. Everything's ready – I always keep it ready for guests. Mostly business colleagues.' Honor felt hysterical: 'All your office cleaners. . . .' She grinned stupidly. 'No, no.' David looked at her. What the hell is wrong with her? 'I have other irons in the fire as well. Mostly they're continental chaps that come here.' Honor's stupid grin faded. 'Oh,' she said, 'big things in the business jungle.' She moved around the room, examining it, reading the book titles in the shelves, feeling the textures of the curtains, touching the woodwork. So this is David's achievement, she thought. So far, anyway. How much further will he go? She admitted that he'd left her behind years ago – though she doubted if she'd have admitted that even yesterday. Glamour, style, a lifestyle, that was what they'd wanted. Not dreary rounds of meetings and investments. But this is what it could bring you, and what had her glamour and style brought her? She went over to the bed and sat down. It was soft and comfortable. 'God, if I lie down I'll flake out completely,' she said to David. 'Look, I said make yourself at home. You flake out.' 'David?' 'Yes?' 'Thank you . . .' He smiled at her. 'I think I'd better go to bed now.' 'Fine,' he said. 'Can I get you anything?' 'A cold drink would be great – but soft.' David left her and went to the kitchen where he made two

125 iced drinks, one with Scotch for himself. Horror meanwhile undressed to her pants, perfunctorily combed her hair, and got into bed, pulling the sheets up to her shoulders. When David knocked on the door, she was almost asleep. 'Come in, David.' 'Here you are. One long drink.' He passed Honor the glass and took his Scotch over to a chair. As he was about to sit down Honor beckoned to him. 'Come and sit here, David,' she said, patting the bed. Obediently, David moved over. He sat down and they both drank, watching each other, thinking. 'David, you've been very kind.' David made the requisite 'I am embarrassed' signs and noises. 'No, you have. All I can say is thank you. Thank you very much. I'd have been very pissed off and depressed tonight without you.' 'Well you don't need to be depressed now – or at any other time. You know where I am – and I've enjoyed tonight too.' He stood up hesitantly. 'I'll see you in the morning. All right?' 'David . . .?' He turned back to her. She reached out an arm to him, holding the sheet to her with her other arm. He took her hand and she brought him to herself. He bent down to her face and both her arms went round his neck. She kissed him warmly on the lips then released him. David was undecided what to do next – not because he was slow or naive, but because he had elevated Honor in his mind to some unobtainable ambition. Again he turned to leave, and this time reached the door. 'David!' He paused, one hand on the doorhandle. 'David, don't leave me . . . please. I don't want to be alone tonight.' He faced Honor and looked down at her, demurely pleading, only her face visible, a face framed by straggly damp hair. He was about to speak when she said very quietly: 'David . . . want me. . . .' Despite its softness, it was almost a command. David returned to the bed. Again Honor embraced him, but when she kissed him this time it was not a warm grateful kiss, but a fierce, driving passion. She slid the tip of her tongue into his mouth, and he felt her hands slipping inside his shirt, caressing his warm soft stomach. Slowly, she bared him to the

126 waist, while he in turn smoothed her naked back, marvelling, as always, at the texture of a woman's skin. Honor moved away, across the bed, making room for David to lie next to her. She pulled him against herself, her breasts against his chest, the sheet caught up between their waists and legs. Both her hands worked up his back, into his thinning hair, massaging his neck. She arched her face away from his lips, offering him her white, unlined neck and as he kissed and nipped it her lips parted with sighs and the sounds of parting melancholy. David worked slowly down her neck and into the hard warm skin between her breasts. One hand remained underneath and around Honor's shoulders and neck, fondling, tenderly squeezing, while the other loosened and removed his remaining clothing. Free of his trousers, he worked his face across Honor's chest and on to one of the smallish breasts, pressing the nipple into his cheek. He felt it grow and harden and he took it between his teeth, teasing her with his lips, his tongue. He eased himself away from Honor's moving body just enough to take the sheet from between them, and slid his hand down her thighs, around her bottom which tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed in his palm. His mouth began to wander, across from one breast to the other, probing, tormenting, tickling, across – and then down over Honor's tummy, into her navel. Honor let it all happen to her, enjoying, wishing, active in her movements to please David and to please herself. This was something she knew she was good at, something she knew she could control and enjoy. She marvelled at the way her tiredness had left her and wondered fleetingly how many women David had had; he'd certainly improved his technique. But as she felt him moving down her body, as she felt his lips on her hip bone, she remembered a night twenty years ago and gently pulled David up to her face. She kissed him hard, then eased herself underneath him. She whispered into his ear and reached for him. David felt Honor's searching hand; his heart crashed as she found him and stroked him against herself. He quivered at the small tongue that explored his ear, at the teeth that pinched his sensitive skin. And gently, almost imperceptibly, he was inside her moving moving moving. . . . Honor concentrated all her thoughts, all her senses, into

127 movement and rhythm. Every whimsical distraction, every picture in her mind that did not concern David and her own body, her own mind, and what they were doing at this moment, was dismissed – was shut out before even it had established an identity to be dismissed. Everything was subordinated to the one end, the achievement of momentary, unbearable, ecstatic, releasing pleasure. She rocked with David . . . . And they moved together. Gently. Fiercely. Briefly. Infinitely. Cruelly. With tenderness. Always for each other and always for themselves. They moved and moved. Until they reached that destination; with sighs and cries. And then they moved again, on and on, till neither had the desire to move any further.

128 11 SOME QUICK TAKES

'Cut! Cut! Cut!' Wolf Von Bates rounded on Bernie, his cameraman, in despair. 'Another take, darlings. We'll just have to do it again. That'll be slate 4, take fourteen.' Bernie rolled his eyes in disgust, crashed his 8 mm. Fujica Auto Zoom down on the mantelpiece, and rounded on his assistant, The Gripper. 'How the fuckin' hell can we make a fuckin' film about fuckin' when the fuckin' actors can't hardly fuck?' 'Oh, well. Fuck it,' agreed The Gripper. Victor Lion, the male lead, heaved himself wearily off the sofa and the naked flesh stretched out there. He fumbled for his glasses, fixed them to his beaky nose, and faced the crew. He was thin and weedy, the sort of man who would get sand kicked in his face on the beach, but doesn't because he's never with a girl. His hair was wiry, the colour of scraped carrots, and topped a pale, freckled, watery-eyed, programmer's face. His body was scrawny and knock-kneed – at this moment naked and bathed in sweat. His cock – a scraped carrot to match his hair – hung limp and defeated between his shining flanks. Victor pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and squeaked petulantly:

129 'Er . . . it's all very well, Wolf. I mean, it is take 14. I've done it thirteen times already. I mean . . . I've fucked everything in sight, haven't I?' Doris, one of the girls on the sofa, a part of the act, piped up. 'Not so's I've noticed, dear.' 'Er . . . well, let's face it – you're no bleedin' fruit-cake either.' 'Fuckin' cheek. If you're not careful, I'll have them right off you – not that I can see them, mind you.' Wolf Von Bates pulled his eyeshade down and spoke to the actors. 'O.K., darlings, please. No quibbling. No quibbling on set, please. We've got a tight schedule. We can't afford to bicker. Look, we'll all have a nice cup of tea. You'd like a nice cup of hot and wet, wouldn't you Victor? Revive your pecker a treat, that will. Poor boy.' Wolf banged on the living-room wall and bellowed: 'Lorraine! Lorraine!' Lorraine Von Bates poked her head around the door. 'WOT?' she demanded. 'What the fuckin' 'ell is it now? Ey?' 'Could we possibly have some tea, darling . . . please? Nice and strong – and give us a few . . .' "ERE! Wot abaht them pigs? Ey?' Wolf sighed. 'Could we . . .?' he began. 'Them pigs is stinking the place aht. Stinkin' the garidge right aht. They're eatin' your golf shoes, and what's more they've shit in the lawn mower. Clogged it right up, they 'ave.' 'Look, dear . . .' 'I mean, that bleedin' sloff was bad enuff. I mean, I know sloffs is meant to be lazy, an' 'at. But this one's so fuckin' lazy, it din' even bovver to 'ang on. Fell right on me 'ead, din' it? I mean. I tell you straight, Wolf, all these animals. I mean, they're gettin' me dahn. Givin' me asthma, an' all. Listen, you gotta choose, I mean, you gotta choose. It's me or the pigs.' 'Blimey, what a fuckin' choice!' remarked The Gripper to Bernie. 'Yeah,' Bernie replied, 'it's a fuckin' photo finish, in' it?' The girls on the sofa, Sandra and Doris, giggled furtively. 'WOSSAT?' demanded Lorraine.

130 'Oh . . . nuffink, dear. Nuffink at all. I was jus' talkin' abaht the film. To Bernie, I mean. Abaht 'ow we're goin' to . . . er . . . photo the finish . . . of the film . . . like. Know what I mean?' Wolf saved the situation: 'All right, dear. It'll be all right. I promise the pigs will be gone tonight.' 'Fuckin' right, they will. Uvverwise they'll be in tomorrow's fuckin' breakfast. I'll tell you that for free. RIGHT?' 'Yes, dear. Er . . . do you think . . . I mean, could we possibly have some tea . . . er . . . possibly?' Lorraine glared penetratingly around the room, daring anyone to speak, her massive frame quivering with indignation. There was a moment's silence, broken only by faint foraging snorts from the bottom of the garden. Then, with a mighty 'HUH!', she slammed the door, knocking the china Alsatian off the mantelpiece. A moment later came the sound of cutlery and crocks wielded in anger. The occupants of the room breathed again. 'Oh dear,' Wolf sighed, tipping back his eyeshade to scratch at his rapidly receding hairline. On the sofa, Sandra turned to Doris: 'It's getting rather chilly in here, isn't it?' She rubbed her goose-pimpled arms. Doris noticed Sandra's near-posh accent, and wondered about it. 'Yeah. Too right. Oy! Wolf!' she called. "Ow abaht turnin' the 'eatin' up a bit. What do you fink we are, Eskimos or summink?' 'Cor Christ, I 'ope not,' muttered The Gripper to Bernie. 'They share their bleedin' wimmen, don' 'ey?' "Ere, Bernie,' said Doris, 'lend us yer coat.' Bernie obliged, taking his battered Gannex from the back of a chair. He nodded towards Victor, talking to Wolf. 'An' don' let 'im come all over it.' 'Do you mind?' whined Victor. 'I never come when I'm working. 'Snot professional, is it?' 'Not possible, more like.' Victor affected not to hear, and resumed his conversation with Wolf. Doris draped the Gannex over her mountainous torso, offering the little of the coat that was left to Sandra.

131 "Ere y'are, darling. Cop a bit of this . . . . 'Course it's 'is wife, you know,' she added. 'Who? Lorraine?' 'Yeah. Shockin'. Right old cow. Mean as arse'oles. I reckon if she moved aht ov 'ere, she'd take the bleedin' wallpaper wiv 'er – well, I seen 'er dryin' teabags under the grill, ain' I?' 'Have you been here before, then?' 'Bin 'ere before? I've got poked in this room more times than you've 'ad 'ot dinners. I don' suppose there's more than an inch on this floor I 'aven't 'ad some bloke – or some FING – bahncin' up and dahn on me. . . . 'Ere, this ain't your first time, is it?' Sandra tried to look unconcerned. She was torn between the shame of appearing a novice, and the embarrassment of admitting to what she was doing. 'Well, yes. Well, no. Well, nothing quite like this.' Doris was quick to seize the chance to show off her experience. 'Gor blimey, I could tell you a fing or two. Gor Christ, you wouldn't read abaht it. . . .' She folded her arms across her oleo-pneumatic tits, rolling her eyes and tapping her feet as she waited for Sandra to cue in her reminiscences. Sandra was non-plussed. 'Er . . . like what?' 'LIKE WOT?' bellowed Doris, changing into overdrive. 'Like that time Wolf only brings a larfin' eyena in. Well, 'e wasn't larfin' by the time we finished, I can tell you – well 'e may 'ave bin, but I certainly wasn't.' 'Oh Gawd, Doris, not the larfin' eyena story,' interrupted The Gripper. 'YOU SHUT YER GOB, GRIPPER, UVVERWISE I'LL TELL A FEW ABAHT YOU . . . AND YOUR LITTLE TIBBLES.' The Gripper paled and began fiddling with his Fujica. Doris continued. 'Anyway, these larfin' eyenas, they're not internal, see . . .' 'Not internal?' 'Yeah, not internal. That means they 'ave their kip in the day, see? Wake up in the night. So, there we are, tryin' to 'ave it off all day wiv this larfin' eyena and all it does is kip off, go to sleep; right? So we call it a day at ten o'clock, and then the little bleeder wakes up. 'Course, we bin muckin' abaht wiv 'im all

132 day, so when 'e does wake up, 'e feels a bit perky-like. Know what I mean? Anyway, I'm dossin' dahn on the sofa, an' 'e jumps on me. I give 'im the boot and, the next thing, 'e's up the stairs, jumpin' on Wolf. Even 'as a go at Lorraine – an' that shows 'ow 'ard up 'e is. Next thing, 'e's done 'alf the pigs, jumped on the sloff- 'alf killed the sloff, 'e did – jumped on the cat. I reckon 'e would ov jumped on the goldfish if 'e could ov got in the bowl . . . . Well, finally, 'e jumps on the stove – an' 'e ain't larfin' any more, I can tell you. More like a screamin' eyena. . . .' At that moment, Lorraine brought in the tea.

'All right, everybody. Tea-break's over. Let's get down to it . . . remember I've another film to do tonight, after you've all gone home. Now, let's recap on our plot – just so's everyone's in the mood of it.' Wolf pushed back his eyeshade and squinted at his grubby typewritten script. 'Now. Gaylord Bunce – that's you, Victor – is going to pick up his fiancee, Marigold Murphy – that's you, Doris – from Penelope Pollock's Poodle Primping Parlour and Posh Poocherama, where her racing greyhound, Flasher, is having his shampoo and set. Gaylord is early, to give Marigold a surprise. But it's Gaylord who is surprised, for, when he arrives, he hears certain noises coming from behind locked doors. Overcome by curiosity he peers through the keyhole and espies Marigold and Penelope naked on the sofa – with Flasher an interested spectator. He is so astonished that he watches their bizarre antics for some twenty minutes. Then, exploding with lust, he bursts through the door and pokes Flasher.' Wolf paused and gazed sternly at Victor: 'And we all know who made a balls-up of that little sequence, don't we?' Victor looked hurt. 'Well,' he whined, 'I couldn't catch the bloody thing, could I?' 'Never mind. At least we've got it in the can now. So now all we've got to do is the bit where Gaylord, Marigold, and Penelope have their little romp together on the sofa. O.K., everybody? 'Positions on the set, please. Knickers off. Cameras rolling? Oh, Victor! Do put those sugar tongs down!'

133 Filming began. 'Come on, Bernie. You've read the script. Extreme close up. Closer dear. Closer.'' 'Wolf, you know this Fujica Auto Zoom won't do less than eighteen inches,' Bernie complained. Wolf clapped his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes in an ecstasy of creative frustration. 'Oh God . . . the burdens we artists have to suffer. All in a good cause, I suppose. 'Sandra! Sandra, come on, darling. More tongue there. We can't see enough of the tongue.' A muffled wail emanated from beneath the tangle of threshing limbs. Wolf ignored it. 'Bernie, pan to that nipple. Yes . . . no! Not that one. That's it. Victor . . . . Victor, dear, squeeze the nipple. No not your own, darling. Yes, that's right. Zoom in there, Bernie. Fine. More squeeze on the nipple, Victor. Lovely. Lovely! 'Oh, don't look so bored, Doris. It's supposed to be an orgy, not a commercial for sleeping tablets.' Doris poked her head out at Wolf from between Victor's right elbow and Sandra's left buttock. 'It's all very bloody well. You want to 'ave 'im pokin' you sometime. I mean . . . .' 'Yes, dear. All in good time.' 'Well it is fuckin' borin', I can tell you.' Wolf turned wearily to Bernie, but Bernie had already stopped the camera. Victor squealed despairingly: 'Eeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaagh.' With great difficulty he extricated his hips from between Doris's gigantic white thighs and his head from Sandra's amorphous crotch. He stood up. Sandra slid ponderously to the floor, coming to rest against the china Alsatian. Victor's every part drooped in defeat. He glared accusingly at Doris. ''Now look what you've done,' he said. 'Look what I done? Look what I done? What do you mean, "Look what I done"? Don't it always look like that? I fought it always looked like that. Doesn't look anybleedin' differen'to me.' Victor turned to Wolf, peeved. 'Wolf, I can't stand it any more. I've put up with it long enough. . . .'

134 'That's a joke! That's just the trouble – it ain't long enough!' Doris interrupted, laughing harshly at her own play of words. 'Shut up! Shut up!' screamed Victor. 'Shut up you horrid old bag. You've got no artistic sensibility, that's your trouble . . .' 'Now, now, darlings . . . ,' pleaded Wolf. 'Well, I mean. How can I be expected to keep pokin' that decrepit old scab for hours on end? I mean, you've got to have some co-operation, 'aven't you? I mean . . . well . . . it's like stuffin' a bowl of stale Rice Krispies.' 'Yeah,' muttered Bernie to The Gripper. 'No Snap. No Crackle. An' sod all Pop, I sh'ink.' Doris meanwhile was apoplectically silent, still unrecovered from the insult of being called a scab. Purple veins swelling, eyes bulging, tits heaving, hands pawing the air, flanks quivering, she searched high and low for her voice. Sandra watched fearfully, torn between escape and phoning for an ambulance. Wolf tried to calm the cast, patting away the strife. 'Oh dear! Please . . . PLEASE . . . come on, darlings. We must finish this film by tonight. Victor, Victor, dear, you'll just have to pull yourself together.' Doris found her voice, and with an enraged roar leapt to her feet brandishing the china Alsatian. She advanced on Victor, and Sandra winced sympathetically wondering whether Victor felt more threatened by the pathetic broken dog or the elephantine flailings of her monumental mammalia. A body-blow from one of those, she thought, and Victor would be no use to man or beast. 'Pull 'imself togevvah!' Doris roared. 'Pull 'imself togevvah! I shouldn't fink 'e could pull 'imself on 'is own – let alone togevvah! Slimey little . . .' She hurled the Alsatian savagely at Victor. But Victor saw it coming and ducked. The china dog bounded on through the air and struck Wolf a fiendish blow on the bridge of his amply protruberant nose. 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaagggghhhh.' He collapsed to the floor, clutching the damaged projection, blood seeping between his fingers. For a few seconds there was absolute and ghastly silence. Then seemingly a family of maddened, stampeding warthogs crashed through the door and on to the scene. They were Lorraine Von Bates.

135 'WOTTHEFUCKINELLZATFUCKINRAH? EY? I MEAN? EY? WOTTHEFUCKINELLAREYOUALLSTARINAT? EY? EY?' Her eyes followed the shocked gaze of the crew and the cast, followed their gaze to the apparently deceased Wolf. 'AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGHHHH.' Wailing, she fell atop her husband. 'MMMMMMmmmmmeeeuuuurgh.' This agonized grunt proclaimed that life was still in the fallen film director. Her worst dread allayed and disappointed, Lorraine sprang to her feet and bellowed: "OO DONE THIS 'ORRIBLE FING? EY? TO MY POOR DARLIN'? EY? I MEAN, TO MY LITTLE WOLFIE? EY? I MEAN? EY? 'OO? EY?' There was silence. Lorraine reached out and grasped The Gripper's ear. "OO IS IT, GRIPPER? EY? I MEAN, 'OO DID IT? EY? I MEAN, WOTTHEFUCKINELL 'APPENED? EY?' The Gripper, in agony but too frightened to try to release himself, attempted to levitate the rest of his body to the level of his ear. He failed, and Lorraine twisted the ear harder. 'COME ON, GRIPPER. 'OO? EY?' 'Itwas'er. Itwas'er. Itwas'er!' wailed The Gripper, wildly gesticulating at Doris by means of his foot. With a neat ju-jitsu flick, Lorraine fired The Gripper into the wall. 'Gnnrrrrrrgh.' He fell insensible beside Wolf. Lorraine advanced hideously on Doris. Jesus, thought Bernie. King Kong versus Godzilla. On my left, undefeated champion of Willesden and Harlesden, in the bulging red dress with the egg stains down the front, Lorraine Von Bates, paramount porker poker. On my right, 'orribly naked, in mottled skin and red pimples, Doris HEATH!! The crowd falls silent (especially them as are unconscious), stupefied by the collision of the two Sumo wrestling colossi. An' it's first blood to Disgusting Doris! A savage left tit to Lorraine's gob leaves the Porker Poker dentureless. But a tricky moment this for Disgusting Doris as she tries to remove the choppers from her person. She's hesitated a moment too long! And it's Lorraine in with a resounding Fujica Auto Zoom to the fanny. ('Oh bugger! That's me bleedin' camera up the pictures again.')

136 She follows through with a knee to the gut . . . a foot to the shin, and a quick elbow in the boat. Disgusting Doris is down! This could be the knockout blow. No! She's getting up again. She's staggering. But here comes Lorraine from her neutral corner . . . and she . . . is she? IT IS . . . Lorraine's old one-two: a Japanese Cuckoo Clock to the throat, followed by a Woolies goldfish bowl over the head. Lorraine straightened her dress, dusted herself down, and gave Doris's recumbent form a quick boot. 'Well done, oh well done,' simpered Victor, clapping his hands and smirking ingratiatingly. He trod deliberately on Doris's outstretched hand. 'SHUDDUP YOU SNIVELLING LITTLE PONCE,' bellowed Lorraine, still heaving mightily. 'PISSOFFAHTOVIT.' She glared around the room menacingly. Victor quickly pulled on his trousers and shirt and scuttled out of the door. 'RIGHT. YOU!' Lorraine pointed at Sandra. 'PICK UP THIS 'ORRIBLE BAG OF WORMS AND YOU CAN PISS OFF AHT OV IT, AN' ALL.' Sandra dragged Doris into a sitting position and strapped on her clothes as best she could. Doris moaned and opened her eyes. With Sandra's help, she struggled to her feet. 'Er . . . Mrs Von Bates?' queried Sandra. 'WOT?' 'Er . . . well . . . I mean . . . my money?' 'WOT MUNNY?' Sandra quailed but stuck to her guns. She'd earned £15 that day, and for all the terror that Lorraine could inspire, she was not about to be cheated out of her rightful earnings. That £15 was budgeted down to the last new penny. 'Well, I have done two films today.' For a moment Lorraine seemed about to explode again, but Bernie saved the situation. He reached behind the five-year calendar on the mantelpiece and pulled out a thin wad of notes which he tossed to Sandra, keeping a wary eye on Lorraine. 'All right,' conceded Lorraine. 'But that old slag heap ain't gettin' nuffin'. Nah, SHOVE OFF, the pair of yer.'

Out on the street, Doris struggled to free herself from Sandra's support.

137 'Here, are you sure you can manage?' 'Take more than 'er to lay me out for long,' replied Doris. She swayed as she stood. She fidgeted with her clothes, trying to make them fit her lumpy body. 'I'il fix 'er for that. One day. You'll see. I'll fix 'er.' 'Well, be careful,' cautioned Sandra. 'Careful my arse. She ain't nuffin' to worry abaht. If I 'adn't copped her bleedin' false teeth in me knockers . . . Nah. The worst fing abaht 'er is 'er smell.' 'Smell?' 'Yeah, 'er smell. Well, 's'obvious, i'n'tit. I mean, she pokes pigs, doesn't she?' 'Pigs?' 'Yeah. Pokes pigs. Disgustin', i'n'tit? I mean, I done dogs – done plenty of dogs – but pigs! Pigs is dirty. Ugh!'

Lorraine cradled Wolf's head in her mountainous bosom. 'NAH NAH. IT'S ALL RIGHT, WOLF. IT'S ONLY ME.' Wolf opened one eye and immediately closed it again. 'WAKE UP, WOLFIE. IT'S YOUR LITTLE LORRAINE.' Wolf stirred comfortably, allowing himself to regain consciousness slowly. Bernie and The Gripper sat innocently in the corner, The Gripper sipping tea while Bernie moodily examined the damage to his camera. Lorraine rocked Wolf peacefully in her arms. All was quiet, the silence broken only by occasional snuffles and grunts from the direction of the garage. Bernie looked up, hearing footsteps outside the front door. Lorraine glared at him. 'If it's that Doris come back, you tell 'er she's never goin' to work 'ere again. Or anywhere else, if I can 'elp it.' The doorbell rang. 'I mean it, Bernie. No one's goin' to 'urt my Wolfie and get away wiv it. Especially not wiv me own china dog.' Bernie went to the front door and opened it. There stood a large man in a dark uniform. Bernie blinked at him. Oh Gawd, he thought. Annuver six munfs' porridge. 'Mr Von Bates?' asked the uniformed man. 'No,' said Bernie. 'This is 46 Howard Road, Willesden?'

138 'Yes,' said Bernie. 'The residence of Mr and Mrs Wolf Von Bates?' 'Er . . . yes.' 'Are Mr . . . and Mrs Von Bates in residence?' A raucous screech fractured their dialogue. "OOVERFUCKISIT? BERNIE? EY? 'OO?' The man winced slightly. 'Mrs Von Bates, I presume?' he asked Bernie. 'I'd like to have a few words with her. If I may.' Bernie shrugged resignedly. 'Don't suppose I can stop you. You'd better come in.' Bernie led the uniformed man into the sitting-room, where Lorraine sat fanning Wolf's face with a copy of Bondage Weekly. ''Allo . . . what 'ave we 'ere? An affray? A fracas of some kind? A contrytomp?' Lorraine gawped at him. 'DO WOT?' she shouted questioningly. 'A spot of bother, Mrs Von Bates?' Lorraine remained vacant. The man indicated Wolf's battered nose. 'Trouble?' he asked bluntly. Lorraine was galvanized. 'OH NO . . . er . . . YES . . . that is, simply a . . . merely a simple domestic h'accident.' 'Really?' The man raised his eyebrows. 'Not a regular occurrence, I trust.' 'Oh no. Oh no no no. I mean it's this china Alsatian, in' it? I mean. Fell on 'is 'ead. Din' it? Off the mantelpiece. On 'is 'ead. See? Pokin' the fire, 'e was.' The man glanced at the empty fireplace. Lorraine gabbled on: 'OH . . . NOT POKIN' THE FIRE 'XACTLY . . . more, er, lookin' up the chimbley. Inspectin' the flues, Inspector.' 'And the Alsatian came down the chimney, I assume?' Lorraine felt trapped. Her piggy eyes shifted from Bernie and The Gripper to Wolf as she searched for a plausible explanation. All three were preoccupied, respectively intently examining the patterns on the wallpaper, scrutinizing a freshly plucked bogey (prior to nibbling it), and determinedly feigning unconsciousness. Lorraine moved ponderously from defence to attack, like an obsolete tank whose commander has finished with running. "ERE . . . 'ang abaht. WOT YOU COME POKIN' YOUR NOSE IN 'ERE FOR ANYWAY? EY? WODGER WANT? EY? I MEAN . . .'

139 The man slid smoothly into his official spiel. 'Well, Mrs Von Bates, I 'ave come 'ere to investigate certain complaints filed by certain persons, concerning certain activities said to be of a reprehensible nature, concernin' certain domestic hanimals – and indeed certain uvver beasts not normally associated wiv certain activities . . .' 'EY?' Lorraine was totally dumbfounded. The man sighed and prepared to start again: 'I 'ave come 'ere to investigate certain . . .' But Wolf decided that the time had come to regain consciousness and take command of the situation. He stirred, groaned dramatically, and opened his eyes. He peered at the uniformed intruder. 'And who the hell are you, may I ask?' 'I, sir, am the Area Inspector of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Hanimals . . . and I have come here to investigate certain . . .' 'PISS OFF!' shouted four voices in unison.

'Sandra' merrily hummed the theme from Love Story as she opened the door of her Blackheath flat. The money in her purse gave her a warm feeling. She went straight to the sitting-room, a room chintzy with multiple-store furnishings and simulated Swedish design. A flight of ducks winged up the wall above a small plastic cuckoo clock. The plastic looked like wood; the wood like plastic. Eric put down his Evening News and rose to greet his wife. ''Allo Vi, dear – did you 'ave a good day?' Violet pecked him lightly on the cheek. 'Oh, yes, dear. I even won some money. The Major gave me a tip for the 3.30 – and it came up this time. We'll be able to buy that dinner service . . . you know, the one we saw in Selfridges.' 'Oh really? How much did you win then?' Violet beamed seraphically. 'Fifteen pounds.'

140 12 FINALE

When he thought about it, which wasn't often, Enrico felt he was a religious man. He never opened the club on Sundays, and for this foible he took a lot of ribbing from his fellow club owners as they sat over cards in Donny's. 'I mean, 's a lotta money on Sundays, 'Rico. Lotta money. I mean, you do more on a Sunday than any uvver day. Know what I mean?' 'Ay, Enrico! You still notta runnin' on a the Sunday? You crazy. Baby, you crazy. You coulda clean up.' But Enrico stood his ground. 'A man got a to have the one day for rest. The Lord's Day, Dio Mio. The Lord's Day. For spending with the wife and kiddy. You jus' got to shut up the shop and have a the good time with a the family.' He also had much respect for Christmas – a sentimental, semireligious respect that owed more to the opportunity it lent him to give things away than it did to devotion or piety. Every year at Le Can-Can there were presents for all the girls who danced a regular spot at the club. And presents for the permanent staff too. Every year there was a Christmas Eve blow-out. It was well known throughout Soho for the prodigious quantities of alcohol available and for the unexpected events that took place – particularly

141 after half the alcohol had been consumed. One year a dozen of the C.I.D. dirty squad burst in, eager for blood, tears, and payola. By the end of the evening, four of them had been laid – one by Errol – and the rest had passed out. Since then the club had remained untroubled by official interference, and invitations to the Christmas Eve party were eagerly sought after. This was Jeff's second Christmas at the club and he was not filled with festive cheer. Rather, he was overcome by seasonal angst and viewed the next few days gloomily. Twenty-four hours in Hertford with his folks. Boxing Day in his cold and mouldy flat. Next day back at the club, stocked up with good cheer for another year. Last year his father had given him ten bob. He wondered vaguely if it'd rise to a quid this year, on account of inflation. And how much was the return fare down there, anyway? Meanwhile he was stuck backstage, with this bloody great Christmas number to deal with. Christ, he thought, it gets more like the bleeding Palladium every day. Snowballs, reindeers, castles; shouldn't wonder if we have a revolving stage next year, and lights strobing 'MERRY XMAS PUNTERS'. He leant back in his hard chair and tried to concentrate on Freud. It seemed he'd been reading it forever. But then ten minutes on, five minutes off wasn't much of a way to read Freud. A couple of the girls bounced past him, singing festive greetings. He grunted – then, seconds later, leapt to his feet as the penultimate number of the evening finished. He flashed the lights, pulled the curtain rope, and switched over the Tandbergs. 'Good King Wenceslas' here we come, he thought savagely. Out front, the punters settled expectantly. Above their heads paper-chains and streamers, erected with much grumbling and swearing by Chan, gently swayed in the stale warm air circulated by the fan heaters. In the corner, over by the entrance, stood a silvered, plastic Christmas tree that sporadically rained small bits of itself on the floor – just like the real thing. A banner reading 'Season's Greetings' hung lopsidedly on one wall. The season had little effect on the punters. A typical evening's batch. A couple of them were very drunk. But a couple of them were always very drunk.

142 There was a click from the loudspeaker, and then a pause. With increasing volume, the plangent strains of 'Silent Night' flooded the auditorium. Honor's voice cut in, on the P.A. 'Jeffrey! What the hell are you doing?' 'What d'you mean? Oh bugger! Sorry, love. Wrong tape.' 'Silent Night' squawked silent. After a few seconds, Jeff was heard – his voice bouncing with jollity:

'Gentlemen . . . 'tis the season of Good Cheer What only comes but once a year. Joy and good will do abound, And carols make a merry sound. So sit back and watch with glee As we add to the bonhomie. Our girls, those angels of delight, Will make your Yuletide extra bright. Le Can-Can – always first in strip – Will take you on a Christmas trip. Our club is proud to present Lots and lots of merriment . . . .'

Cymbals crashed: YA TA TARAN TAN TAN . . . OI !! The curtains parted. Three girls pranced forward, screaming the opening words of 'Good King Wenceslas' at the tops of their voices. Behind them rose another of Chan's masterpieces: the Good King's castle, which – except for an incongruous turret – strangely resembled a sawn-off bungalow. 'Good King Wenceslas looked out . . . ,' sang the girls, looking out over the audience, their hands shading their eyes. '. . . On the feast of Stephen, 'When the snow lay round about . . .' Jeff brutally hurled two shovelsful of polystyrene chips down from a vantage-point in the loft. 'Deep and crisp and even. 'Brightly shone the moon that night . . .' No. 6 light switched to bright amber. 'And the frost was cruel . . .' The cruel frost caused the girls

143 to clutch themselves and look dolefully, frozenly, at each other. This did not require much acting ability. (In winter there was always a howling gale blowing across the stage and most of the girls danced as near to the warm auditorium as possible – much to the punters' delight.) 'When a poor man came in sight . . .' Enter Miranda, clad in strategically placed rags and hauling a large plastic branch. 'Gathering winter fu-ooo-elll!' One of the girls detached herself from the chorus and climbed up into the turret of the castle. She placed a small golden crown on each breast, and one on her head, and launched into a raucous solo – all the while attempting with difficulty to maintain a kingly mien. 'Hither page and stand by me,' she bellowed, 'What thou knowest telling . . .' One of the remaining two girls pranced over till she was directly beneath the turret. She mimed rapt attention. Miranda, meanwhile, cast around for another plastic branch, at the same time contriving to show a little of herself to the punters through the ragged holes in her costume. The third girl seemed to be having a fit. No one knew exactly what part she had. 'Yonder peasant who is he?' screeched the king, pointing towards Miranda. 'Where and what his dwelling?' 'Sire,' bellowed the page (what she knowest telling), 'He lives a good league hence, 'Underneath the mountain, 'Down behind the forest fence, 'By St Agnes' fow-ow-ow-nnn-tain!' Finally, after much play had been made of bringing food and wine, and much business had been done with the pine logs, page and monarch forth they went together – into the wings–followed by the third girl, now in the last stages of her fit, and Miranda dispiritedly dragging her branch behind her. As they exited, they sang the last lines of the carol: 'And the filthy we-eeeeaaather!' Jeff, straining over the handle of the wind machine, watched the tableau, and cursed as the girls passed him.

144 ' 'Ere! That's not bleedin' Christmas Spirit, is it? I mean . . .' YA TA TARAN TAN TAN OI! went the music. On pranced the three girls again, wearing mouses' heads fitted with horns. 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,' they sang – pointing to their mouses' noses by way of explanation. 'Had a very shiny nose . . .' They hurled themselves about the stage, indiscriminately ripping off bras and pants and assorted peculiar stringy, lacey garments, until they were prancing around stark naked except for their mouses' heads. 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,' they sang. 'You'll go down in historeeeeee!!' You're telling me, thought Jeff. The horned mice shot off into the wings. YA TA TARAN TAN TAN OI!! went the music. Back came the Christmas chicks, this time covered from head to foot in small bells. By now the punters realized that this was a Christmas number, and greeted each new costume, each new flight of Honor's imagination, each erotic and ingenious device, with enthusiastic applause. 'Jingle bells, jingle bells,' sang the belled girls in a conventional chorus line hoofing it up and down the tiny stage, which creaked in protest. For the third time the skimpy costumes bit the dust. 'IN A ONE (POM) HORSE (POM) OPEN (POM) SLEEEEIGH! (POMP-TIPOM).'

Lights went up on a hitherto darkened corner of the stage, to reveal a papier-mache chimney-piece. It bulged. It writhed. The girls pointed at it expectantly. A single Santa boot appeared in the fireplace, kicking feebly and followed by a string of curses. Another boot descended. The chimney-piece heaved and cracked, then burst asunder with a stupendous crash and deposited on to the floor a festively garbed, small, Chinese Santa Claus. For a moment he lay there, virtually unconscious with alcohol. Then with a triumphant yell he scrambled to his feet and delved into the pockets of his Santa cloak. He pulled out a polystyrene

145 snowball and hurled it in the general direction of the audience, where it laid out a surprised punter. 'Melly Clistmas pointer!' screamed Chan. He beamed benevolently at the stricken punter. 'Haaagh! Blow for worker! Corrapse of decadent prunter!' An angelic, glazed, expression drifted on to Chan's face. He swayed slightly. The girls watched, fascinated – as you might watch a dynamited chimney. The punters were a little agitated and began to glance at each other nervously. But they need have feared nothing. Pole-axed, Chan dropped to the floor and lay still, his Santa cap falling over his left eye. As if Chan's collapse were a signal, the stage immediately filled with screaming squealing girls, all chucking snowballs at the punters. They loved it – and hurled the 'snow' back enthusiastically. Janni appeared from the wings. She looked menacing. One of her snowballs fell from her arms and hit the stage floor with a dull thud. Chan sprang back to life, cavorted merrily around the stage, hurled a few snowballs, then collapsed again. One punter leapt up on to the stage and did his best to prove he had four pairs of hands. There were some outraged squawks from the girls and the punter's joy was short-lived. Faceless's large hands appeared round the wings and clamped themselves firmly round the punter's throat. Executing a neat Buster Keaton backward prat-flick, the punter disappeared. Faceless chortled joyfully and strolled through the corridor leading on to the street, the weakly protesting punter suspended from his hands, some nine inches off the ground. As he reached the street door, Faceless burst into a tuneless dirge:

'Jingle Bells Jingle Bells Jingle all the way . . .'

He hurled the punter five yards into the street, where he collided with a passing hot-dog vendor's trolley. Hot-Dog stopped, looked shocked:

146 "Ere! You 'it my trolley!' He looked down at the inert figure crumpled against the trolley wheels. Faceless shrugged: 'Where's your Christmas spirit, mate? Live and let live. That's what I say.' He turned and disappeared back into Le Can-Can. Hot-Dog moved on, muttering darkly. He stopped, looked back at the insensible punter, then stooped quickly and lifted his wallet. He moved on, a little happier, humming:

'Jingle Bells Jingle Bells Jingle all the way . . .'

147 13 CELEBRATION

The show was over. Jeff had closed the curtains, and as the girls tottered offstage, he handed them drinks from a tray balanced precariously on one of the tape decks. Enrico surveyed the scene benignly. The girls filed past him, and he complimented them charmingly. 'You looka lovely darling.' 'Ees a very good – you worka beautiful darling.' He took a swig from a paper cup which held a massive Scotch. He chuckled conspiratorially at Jeff, who was still completing mopping up operations, turning off lights and running back tapes. 'Ey Jeff . . . a Merry Christmas huh?' 'Yeah, Merry Christmas,' said Jeff morosely. Enrico suddenly caught sight of the tray of drinks balanced on 500 quids' worth of electronics. 'AY JEFF!' he spluttered, almost choking with indignation, 'FUCKINELLO!' He pointed at the tray, gurgling. Jeff started guiltily, removed the offending article, and steeled himself for the onslaught he was sure would follow. But Enrico had caught half a tumbler of Scotch in his windpipe and coughed violently for half a minute. By the time he'd finished, his fury had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

148 'Jeff, ay, the machinery don't a like the drinking you know – if it a start drinking, pretty soon it starta smoking as well, huh?' Enrico's face slowly split into a smile that showed every one of his four gold fillings, and he gave Jeff a friendly vertebrae-joggling punch. 'Ha ha ha, ay, Jeff, ha ha, you 'ave a drink now, you a very good boy, Jeff, you 'ave a Merry Christmas.' Jeff grinned, looking sick. Jeff and Enrico's interchange was mercifully interrupted by a peculiar sound coming from the direction of the auditorium. It sounded rather like a pig being slowly strangled. Enrico raised his eyebrows, walked across the stage and stuck his head between the curtains. The sight that greeted his eyes was not attractive. It was mainly Kenneth Blaine, B.A., known as Biffo Blaine for his assiduously cultured habit of farting at inopportune moments – like chapel and prefects' meetings at his fondly remembered school, and at weddings and board meetings in his adult life. Biffo now slumped in his tip-up chair in the middle of the auditorium, his diagonally striped tie at half-mast, his fashionably long hair in his eyes. When Enrico appeared, he let out a yell. 'Hooray! More! More! Bring on the wog again . . .' Enrico was reasonable. 'Show is finish now. O.K.? You leave now – like other customers. Right?' Biffo was too far gone to know. He grinned inanely at Enrico. 'Hooray!' 'Listen. I said the show is finish. You get out. I said "Merry Christmas", din' I? Din' I say "Merry Christmas"? Now you go. O.K.?' But Kenneth Blaine showed no sign of wanting to leave, and merely slung his legs up over the seat in front of him. 'Come on, old boy. Let's have the nigger again. Let's have the bit of black . . .' Enrico's face darkened. He stepped down from the stage until he stood directly before Biffo. 'You go now.' He was very menacing. Biffo mumbled incoherently. With great power and control, Enrico brought his locked fists

149 down on to Kenneth Blaine's knees where they were draped over the seat. Blaine was unable even to scream with the pain of bone, cartilage, and flesh grinding against wood. Faceless materialized at Enrico's side, lifted Blaine out of his seat and carried him out to the street. Blaine whimpered, his face grey with fear and agony. The clatter of his twelve-stone body hitting a group of dustbins could be heard even inside Le Can-Can's dressingroom.

There, Miranda was looking for Enrico. 'Where's Enrico?' she asked Jeff. 'I want to give him his Christmas kiss.' Jeff shrugged. He had troubles of his own. Miranda pouted at him, and wandered off. The atmosphere in the club changed subtly. Anticipation grew in the air as those present began to flex their party muscles. The girls had little enough time to let off steam most of the year – working as they did anything up to a fourteen-hour day, seven days a week. So when they knew they were in a safe, friendly place where they could let go, they really did let go. And this applied not only to the girls: most of their husbands and boyfriends worked in similar lines – or at least in night-time jobs: croupiers, musicians, minicab drivers. They too liked to let go when they could. A few of the men were straight. Office workers and civil servants who desperately wanted a big Zephyr or a small boat. Even a teacher who enjoyed three-month holidays abroad. They closed their minds to their chicks' work and opened their arms to the cash. But when they met the people with whom the girls worked, they were embarrassed, shame-faced; stood slightly apart. For their part, the club people regarded them with a curious mixture of envy and contempt. Envy of the secure positions in society, their easy ability to write down on forms, in big, black, bold letters 'CIVIL SERVANT', 'COST CLERK', 'SCHOOL-TEACHER'. Contempt for their fence-sitting hypocrisy, their smugness, their too-easy way out. These people didn't take the money and open the box. Just took the money and let the wife open her box, twelve hours a day, six days a week.

150 But at a time like this, no one minded anyone else . . . much. The straights were always the first to leave anyway, usually in a shower of tinselly Christmas cards. What the hell. It was Christmas, and for some of the people there the only time of the year when two days off came consecutively. No time for sociological reflections – however simplistic. The party began to move, to take life of its own: a determined, frenzied, suicidal life. Chan, at least temporarily recovered from his drunken torpor, staggered about with an outsize box of Christmas decorations. They looked as though they had last been used on Armistice Day. Chan impaled them to the walls – here a bunch of mistletoe, there festive bells – with the aid of a large wooden mallet. Janni's line of patter changed from 'bloody punters' to 'bloody Christmas'. But she trailed around with Chan, helping him to erect the more complicated paper-chains. The tatty decorations combined with discarded props and costumes to give Le Can-Can a mixed ambiance: Woolworth's Santa's Grotto crossed with a New Orleans whorehouse. More guests arrived – girls who had been doing late numbers in other clubs; some had even gone to the trouble of returning home to change from working to party clothes. There was every variation of style and fashion, from a full-length, outrageously decollete sequinned evening gown to black leather hot-pants, from kaftan robes to Woman's Own jumpers and skirts. Jeff poured drinks as fast as he could: some into guests' glasses, others down his own throat. Chan hampered him – he had abandoned the decorations and now decided to be chief bottle opener. In his present state he could not muster the requisite strength and stumbled from guest to guest with bottles between his knees, grunting and cursing as he heaved at the corkscrew. 'Flucking clorksclew! More hard to lemove than decadent alistoclat.' Already he had knocked over a tray of Martinis and jammed himself bottom down in a wastepaper basket. The music was turned up full blast and a few couples danced. Most of the revellers, however, concentrated steadily on the consumption of Enrico's liquor. Janni was the most assiduous of these drinkers, regarding the free booze ration as a small payment to set against the year's indignities.

151 Conversation grew, becoming more raucous with each empty bottle. '. . . so he says "What did he call the daughter?" And the nurse says, "Denise." "That's great," he says. "What did he call the boy?" "Why . . . de nephew" . . .' 'Oh Jesus . . .' '. . . so then the geezer only tells me I can't claim me leather knickers as legit expense. Well . . . I tol' 'im, din' I? I mean, does 'e fink I wear the bleedin' things for fun? . . .' '. . . Yeah. Big Julie had a bit more aggravation. Luckily there's some boys from Molyneux House down there . . . yeah, off-duty, of course. Anyway, they sorted it out for 'im . . . .' '. . . No. What happened was, the fella died on the job wiv her. So she goes runnin' down the shop and tells the duty sarge. He gets some of the lads round to 'er drum, they take the geezer off the bed, rip all the frilly knickers, stockin's and everyfing off 'im, dress 'im up in 'is street shmutter, an' dump 'im in the road. Yeah. Next day the papers all got it down 'e dies of a 'eart attack in the road. Jus' dropped dead. Saved his wife and stovelids a bit of bovver, I s'pose. But I bet they wouldn't 've done it for me . . .' '. . . the boy's booked in for Wellington, but God knows where Cynthia will go. It's so difficult finding a place for girls. I don't think boarding's right. Do you? . . .' '. . . at Lords? Bit far away to make a definite date – but I'll think about it . . . .' '. . . WHY DON'T YOU PISS OFF?'

Honor arrived with David. He looked slightly sheepish and trailed in a few feet behind her. Their entrance caused a stir among the girls. This time, Honor had overdone it: walking, talking, dreaming, scheming mutton dressed as lamb. Her hot-pants were miniscule, reflecting every contour of her bottom. Silver lurex tights contained her legs and disappeared into thigh-length pink suede boots. A pink transparent blouse and a silver bolero top completed the outfit. She was unembarrassed and genuinely glad to see the girls. She beamed at everyone.

152 'Hello darlings! Merry Christmas!' David shuffled nervously, eminently presentable in a dark suit, cream shirt, and polka-dot tie. He fingered his initialled gold signet ring and his eyes shied away from the acres of naked and semi-naked flesh that threatened to engulf him. Enrico sat in a corner, dandling Miranda's child. He was on top form, beaming benevolently as he entertained her. He held a large package in one hand and he teased the child with it, waving the package just out of her reach. She giggled happily as she tried to grab it. 'No kiddie. Ees a not the Christmas Day yet. Bambina ees a not open the presents until the Christmas Day, huh?' 'Please . . . please, please, please, Uncle Enrico. Please let me open it.' She made another grab at the package. 'No, kiddie . . .' 'Ohh!' She flounced sulkily. 'I know what's in it anyway.' 'What?' 'Ohh! I'm not telling you. Not unless you give it to me.' At length, Enrico succumbed. 'O.K., just this once. You 'ave the nice present, bambina. Enrico give you the a present swafamente.' He beamed indulgently and Miranda's child began eagerly to unwrap the parcel. At that moment, Enrico caught sight of Honor and David. He deposited the child on his chair, patted her head affectionately, and left her with her present. 'Ey Honor . . . David. You 'ere at last. Ever'body waitin' for you Honor. You looka beautiful. She look like the film star, ey David?' 'Oh yes . . .' David was uncomfortable. For the first time he began to think what some of his friends might say and think about his future wife. He saw them nudging and winking, laughing sweaty schoolboy laughter. 'David's all right there, I reckon. Nothing like an old boiler to keep you warm.' 'Warm? I should say! Red hot more like. I reckon we'll have a go after him. Plenty to go round.' David suspected that in a different situation, with Honor someone else's intended, he would have joined in the laughter. He tried not to think about it, and braced himself for this ordeal.

153 Enrico guided David and Honor through the crowd. The changing-room was now filled with rocking bodies. Even Jeff tipsily executed some bizarre steps on the fringe of the crowd, occasionally letting out a bellow of laughter, or such observations as 'Alienation!' and 'Entfremdung!' Enrico poured out two wicked Scotches and handed them to Honor and David. "Ere's to the a happy marriage!' Enrico threw down his drink. Honor and David sipped theirs. 'O.K., David?' asked Enrico. 'You think the party all right?' 'Oh fine . . . yes. Looks jolly jolly.' 'You all right, Honor?' 'Yes. Fine thanks, Enrico.' Suddenly Enrico's expression changed and he assumed a theatrically mournful face, like a bloodhound in a television commercial. 'Ees a the last Enrico's Christmas party you come to, Honor. Is a make me a very sad . . . . .' Honor was quick to contradict him. 'Don't be silly, Enrico darling. Of course we'll come again – won't we, David?' 'Of course . . . ,' said David unconvincingly. Enrico looked even more doleful. 'No. Is a not true. Clubs is finish for you now.' There was a short and maudlin pause. Enrico turned to David. 'You don't never see Honor working, huh?' 'Not actually.' 'Jees . . . you don't know what a you miss.' Enrico gestured expansively at the other girls, most of them well on the way to total collapse. 'These other ragazzi, they no good . . . they jus' get a their clothes off like nobody's business, eight to dozen. Oh yes, they O.K. for punters . . . they dance like the ton of bricks. 'But this Honor. Fuckinello! She know how to do it. When she takes it a off like this . . . .' Enrico began to make elaborately sinuous motions with the hem of his Italian jacket. Honor looked away. David stood, rooted. Enrico continued, oblivious: 'I tell you, when she get a them off like that, you feel . . . you feel . . . feel . . .' He was lost for words and instead, made a lusty Italian gesture, raising his clenched fist vigorously from waist level. He was entirely unaware of the impression he had made and threw

154 himself on the couple, embracing them affectionately. Over their shoulders he saw Chan's face peering quizzically at this strange tableau. Enrico extricated himself and once more assumed his sad expression. He manoeuvred himself to avoid the hovering Chan, and tried to put Honor and David between himself and the polemic-threatening Chinese. Enrico shrugged expressively and raised his hands, palms upwards, to indicate despair: 'An' now you go. Is a being dance boss of Can-Can draw to close. The chapter it is a writed . . . the show is a shut for the las' time. Now you go Honor . . .' At this moment Chan saw his chance – he had been biding his time for weeks, ever since Errol had left the club, waiting for a chance to corner Enrico. But always Enrico had fobbed him off. 'I'm a busy, Chan.' 'Chan . . . you gotta no work to do? You more luckier man for me. I got the too much work, Chan . . . .' Chan was not nearly as stupid as his appearance, clumsiness, and violent philosophy indicated. Had he been born in Peking rather than Gerrard Street, he might have been a minor – if erratic – government official. As it was, he remained a clown, an oriental lunatic whose ideas should be taken no more seriously than his sets. He leapt before Enrico, squaring up belligerently. The top of his head came to Enrico's chest. 'Haaaagh!' he exclaimed, 'Ellol go – he not dance at all!' 'Piss off a Chan. I talk to Honor and David . . .' But Honor quickly interrupted Enrico, glad to find an excuse to escape his penetrating analysis of her abilities as a striptease dancer. 'No, no. Don't worry, Enrico. I want a word with the girls – and we can always come back and talk to you later – can't we, David?' 'Of course, dear,' said David, unable to conceal his relief and already sidling off. 'Ay! 'Ang on a minute . . . ,' Enrico called vainly after them, but they were already helping themselves to drinks from Jeff's tray. Enrico turned resignedly to face Chan. 'All right a Chan. What's the matter now?' 'Evelything flucking matter, maflia. Ellol matter. Ellol not

155 have happy Clistmas . . . Ellol melly Clistmas flucking miselable . . .' 'Ey Chan . . . come on.' Enrico turned to move away, but Chan caught him by his sleeve. 'O.K., Chan, is a Christmas. You drink. Stop complaimoaning. All the time you miserable. All the time you talking. You like a the priest . . . look Chan, have a the fun.' Enrico produced a raspberry blower – the type that unrolls, with a feather attached to its end – and blew it at Chan. The Chinese remained impassive . . . Sphinx-like in the rigidity of his features. 'Fun? No place for fun in levolutionaly stluggle. Is no place for fun until opplessed crarpenter and miselable flairly unite to overthlow Fascist boss maflia class. You maflia!' Chan waved his finger under Enrico's nose. Enrico grabbed the finger and bent it back, forcing Chan to his knees. 'You jus' a listen to me, Chan,' Enrico rasped. Chan contrived somehow to cower defiantly, and retorted bravely: 'Haaagh! Tlypical! You leact with violence!' Enrico thrust Chan away with a gesture of disgust, and bent forward menacingly: 'Listen to me, Chan. Every day you tell me I mafia. Every day you tell me I Fascist. Every day you bite the hand that a feed you. You tell me, 'oo pay your wages? Huh? 'Oo give you the money?' 'Wages? Wages? Fourteen pound? Fourteen pound not money! Fourteen pound . . .' Enrico interrupted irritably: 'O.K., O.K. . . . so you get a the job somewhere else. O.K., you get a job. You find another boss.' At the word 'boss', Chan sprang to life with renewed vigour, capering about and angrily waving his arms. 'Haaaagh! Like Ellol? Ellol find another boss? No! Ellol jus' clapped out flairly. Ellol not get new job.' Enrico raised his voice. One or two of the guests looked apprehensively at the arguing pair; they didn't reckon much to Chan's chances if it came to fisticuffs. 'Listen, Chan. I sack Errol because he always bloody drunk.

156 I sack Errol because he kick a fucking punter. Punters is a my business. Punters is my money.' He paused for effect. 'Ten year ago, I got no money. All I got is the clothes on a my back. Ten year ago I got my mother and twel' brothers and sisters. They got no money. Now I got money; I send money home. So, Chan, ten year ago I got nothing. Now I got the striptease. Now I got the two, three, four hundred quids a week. Now I got the money. O.K.?' For a moment Chan was nonplussed. Then a slow smile of appreciation spread across his face. 'So!' he said. 'So! If got no money, then open stliptease club, huh?' Enrico nodded seriously and swigged at his glass. 'Ees a right, Chan. Molto work very hard. You can do it too. Make a the packet.' Chan's grin was now alarmingly fixed. 'So! All people no money open stliptease club,huh? Velly good maflia. All worker, all opplessed classes open stliptease club, huh? Velly good maflia.' He sprang forward, his eyes ablaze with argumentative fervour. Enrico was more puzzled than angry, and gestured in resignation. 'Now . . . where find punter, maflia? All punter open stliptease. Where find flairly dancer, maflia? All flairly dancer open stliptease. Where find plops man, maflia? All plops men open stliptease. Where find stliptease ladies, maflia? All stliptease ladies got own club. You be punter in own club, maflia?' Chan was seized by a paroxysm of mirth at this thought. He jumped up and down and flapped his arms happily. He pounded his hands up and down in imitation of a pub pianist: 'You play stliptease music as well? And be stliptease lady?' Chan paused, then spoke with great scorn and triumph. ''Velly clever, maflia!' With a furious and despairing groan, Enrico strode off, leaving Chan to hop up and down, clutching himself in an ecstasy of triumph.

Jeff clutched at a prop lamp-post to steady himself, and watched interestedly as it fell to the ground and broke into three pieces. Somewhere in his whisky-irrigated brain the thought registered that in a couple of days he'd be grovelling, trying to stick the

157 bloody thing together again. He kicked it morosely, then resumed his occupation of detachedly observing the scene. One thing about Enrico, he thought, he doesn't half know how-to give a do. Around him the scene resembled an army field hospital. Every couple of minutes another reveller slid to the floor glassy-eyed. A chain-gang, composed mainly of late-comers who hadn't had time to sink their quota yet, passed victims into the auditorium, where the were none too gently propped in the cinema seats. Naturally, as the seats were collapsible, several of them efficiently folded up so their unconscious occupants squatted knee to chin, their bottoms poking through the gaps at the back. Glorious excess was the dominant theme. The girls pranced around like excited peacocks, shrieking with laughter at their menfolks' dirty stories, singing at the tops of their voices as pop songs they knew belted out over the stereo system. Every now and then a quarrel started up as all the splinters embedded in the last year worked themselves loose, lubricated by alcohol. 'Well, at least mine aren't all stuffed up with wax, are they dear?' 'Well, they bloody ought to be darlin', then they wouldn't be hittin' your knees all the time.' This was the signal for a bout of frenzied scratching and clawing, but Enrico soon broke it up, hurling Yuletide bonhomie over the proceedings: ''Ey, come on a girls. Ees a Christmas. We all love each other, no?' The girls didn't look as if they loved each other at all, but they nevertheless retired from the fray, grumbling bitterly. There was a pause – then suddenly an appalling racket from another corner. This time an unwelcome gatecrasher. Faceless stood remorselessly on the foot of the unfortunate little man, impassive in the face of his continued squealing. 'Sorry mate. 'Ave to see the boss.' 'Well, can't you call him? He knows me, I'm . . .' 'Yes mate, I know 'oo you are, that's why you can't come in.' The little man, Faceless's full weight still on his foot, pretended he was just casually surveying the scene, moving his body and craning his neck as much as his pinioned foot would allow. He was in fact the manager of one of the other clubs who, years

158 before, had quite unwittingly insulted Enrico. To this day he did not know exactly what he'd done. Enrico knew, however, and didn't forget easily. Now he was on the scene. He faced the little man menacingly. Faceless obligingly stepped back so that the little man could cower decently. 'Get out,' said Enrico, 'you get out, din' I tell you never to come in 'ere?' The intruder looked distinctly frightened. He took a step backwards, and cleared his throat nervously. 'Er . . . well . . . hang on a minute Enrico, Barbara said you was havin' a do, and I thought . . .' Enrico interrupted: 'You little crawling thing, when I say keep out, I mean keep out.' Often when Enrico was very angry he spoke almost standard English, as if his dignity depended upon it. He was very angry now and, with the full force of his body, punched the little man on the nose. Faceless watched with interest while the little man executed a complicated mid-air movement before crashing to the ground. 'Not bad, boss,' he murmured to himself. Enrico glared around him. Several of the revellers had come across to see what was going on, although the main body of the party took no notice. Most of them were used to such confrontations. Enrico's face softened with a chuckle. He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the departing Faceless, who was dragging the unconscious would-be partygoer along the corridor towards the street. ''Ee 'ave a the nice rest this Christmas . . . at the hospital, huh?' Outside, at the street door, Faceless hummed happily.

'Jingle bells, Jingle bells . . .'

He hurled the body into the far gutter, then wiped his hands with satisfaction. Suddenly he stopped short. His mouth fell open. His eyes widened. His whole face expressed utter amazement. Now Faceless had seen a few things in his time – what with

159 having been at various times a pro wrestler, bodyguard to various 'financiers', stuntman, gun-runner, and part-time ugly model, Faceless had quite definitely seen a few things, including the wrong end of a sawn-off shotgun, the right end of several up-and-coming starlets' up-and-comings and, at least twice, the end of the line. But he'd never seen anything like what had just emerged from a taxi. It sped towards him, its massive bulk casting a vast shadow. Faceless cowered into the doorway to make way for this vision. It was at least six and a half feet tall, built like a padded-up American footballer, with barrel chest, bulging biceps and massive thighs the dimensions of a slim pillar-box. The head looked as if it had been stuck straight on to the shoulders – a hint of neck added only as an afterthought. There was a rocky knob of a broken nose and an impressive array of pockmarks. Faceless was not one to frighten easily. He was not normally overawed by size alone. What really impressed him about this particular giant was that it wore six-inch stiletto heels, a very stylish gold-lame crochet-work mini-dress, a jangling array of bracelets and jewellery, and a platinum blonde wig. The late arrival swept past Faceless with a breezy 'Hello dear' delivered in a cultured baritone voice. Bloody 'ell, thought Faceless. Weakly, he sat down. He didn't know what to think. I mean, poofy poofs is all right. But heavy poofs . . . blimey. Faceless put it all down to the paradoxes and enigmas of modern society and, sighing, decided to rejoin the throng. He poured himself a stiff Scotch. The party had regained the hurricane impetus that had been temporarily slowed by Enrico's display of fisticuffs. But the new guest stopped the whole show. Enrico nearly asphyxiated himself, being in mid-swallow at the time. Several of the girls stopped fighting. Even Jeff, by this time well-glazed, evinced a flicker of interest. As the vision came in, it smiled sweetly at everyone, gently twirling a handbag on its right index finger. Then Sarah, a girl who did occasional fill-ins at Le Can-Can, squealed with delight. She'd been in the lavatory when the newcomer arrived, but now

160 she ran over and, clutching its arm, she shouted: 'It's O.K. everyone – this is my brother Charlie . . . or Charlotte, actually.' Charlotte curtsied daintily, his heels cracking slightly under the strain. Quicklyhewas the centre of a throng of delighted girls. 'Well, really, girls, if only you'd have told me.' He arched his bushy brows eloquently: 'Well, I mean . . . I thought it was just us girls together. If I'd known there was going to be men here, I'd have dressed up.' He eyed Enrico coquettishly. This time Chan had to thump the club owner repeatedly on the back to avoid his immediate demise by choking.

Jeff meanwhile had decided to take a momentous step. Jeff had decided he was going to ask one of the girls for a dance. It wasn't that he was shy – he got on well with all the girls. But he had never been a dancer, preferring to huddle in corners with other non-dancers at a party, and discuss the latest manifestations of capitalist self-interest, or the latest Socialist sell-out. He doubted that he'd ever danced before – but then he'd never been so drunk before either. Jeff peered round at those revellers still left standing. There, in the corner. Billie. All on her own. She was a nice girl. Jeff got on with Billie – she treated her job much the same way as he treated his: satirical resignation. So Jeff staggered over to Billie, weaving his way through the crowd. Once in front of her, he swayed over her till she looked up in alarm. 'Wanna dance then?' he demanded belligerently. Billie jumped up happily, and quite unconsciously moved into a slow, knee-bending, hip-grinding strip routine. It wasn't till she saw Jeff staring aghast at her that she realized what she was doing. 'Ohh! Sorry, love.' She tried to dance 'properly'. But Jeff had clapped a hand to his brow, uttered an agonized screech, and collapsed to the floor, overcome by everything. 'Whassa matter wiv 'im?' demanded Billie to no one in particular. Chan, too, essayed terpsichore. He trotted up to Beryl to show

161 what he wanted and Beryl, amazed though she was, said: 'Yes, of course love.' She stood up to dance. But as she stood, Chan fell – pole-axed with alcohol for the second time that night. Beryl shrugged and moved off.

One person was not enjoying the party. The Major. Misery was never far from his hearty surface, and liquor often induced the misery into the open. He was maudlin and self-pitying now. He lay sprawled in the back row of the auditorium, his doorman's uniform of dinner-suit and bow-tie dishevelled and askew. At his side, making vague attempts to comfort him, sat Stella, his wife. She was an ageing ex-stripper who had once been attractive – though always tending to cow-like buxomness. Now her spare tyre was more permanent than her purple wave. The Major could not comprehend how he had ended up as the doorman of a strip joint. He supposed vaguely that he had been the unwitting victim of a random fate machine. But perhaps he had been a loser from birth. He had shone at school – possessing all the qualities beloved of a certain type of teacher: a heavily physical sporting instinct, a steadfast belief that what everyone else thought was right must be right, and an unfailing admiration for authority. Naturally he excelled in the army, which he had joined via Sandhurst immediately he had left school. But neither his education nor his army training could help him when he was invalided out with three months of the war to run. The Schmeisser bullet that smashed his thighbone also smashed the only life-style in which he could be happy. He had progressed through a number of ever-more-degrading rep's jobs until Enrico picked him up off the floor of a pub in Neal Street and offered him the door at Le Can-Can. For all the job's indignities, Enrico at least became 'the old man', the C.-in-C., the figure that The Major desperately needed to follow. But, drunk, The Major still puzzled at his own history. Above all else he could not understand how he, a presentable, educated man, had wound up married to Stella. He could not comprehend how the cold and lonely nights he'd cried on her warm, comforting flesh had led to this permanent relationship. She prodded him and smiled in an attempt to cheer him up.

162 'Come on, George. Let's join the party, eh? Have a bit of fun, George . . .' '. . . Shrrup . . . look at you . . . party . . . .' The Major trailed off into unintelligible grunts. 'Everyone else has fun,' said Stella. 'Why can't we have fun, George?' 'Fun? Fun. We had fun . . . raidin' the sergeants' mess . . . .' His wife sighed, resigned. She flopped back in her seat, knowing at least the theme of what would follow. 'Oh don't start all that again. Please, George, don't start all that. We're supposed to be having fun. We are at a party. Please, George . . . .' 'Bloody tramps!' The words came with vicious emphasis. 'Bloody tramps. No class . . . common as muck. We used to have parties . . . officers' mess . . . officers and their wives . . . daughters . . . pretty gels they were . . . my God . . . in their long frocks. . . .' 'George. Dear, you've drunk too much. Please don't start all that. These are your friends. They've been good to you. You wouldn't say all those things if you weren't drinking . . .' 'DRINKING?' bellowed The Major. 'Call this drinking? We used to drink . . . my God . . . .' He lost his train of thought and rambled. 'Fought in the war . . . wounded . . . medals . . . wounded.' He jabbed his finger at his thigh. 'Bloody Schmeisser bullet 'George. Listen love, I don't want to hear all that again. I know you won medals and things. But the war's over, love. It's a long time ago . . . .' 'BLOODY MAJOR!' He pointed to where his insignia should have been. 'Bloody Major, Stella. Bloody Major, what?' Stella pulled her stole around her shoulders and made those movements that signify a woman is about to stand up and leave. 'George, I'm goin' in the party, right?' The Major only grunted. 'I'm going in the party and I'm going to talk to Lucy. All right? I'll only be with Lucy.' Stella got up and headed backstage. Her departure didn't seem to affect The Major. 'If the Colonel could see me now . . . all these pansies . . . nancy boys . . . bloody tarts. Come on Major. Got to get out . . . get . . .

163 position . . . decent job . . . cottage. Couple of dogs. Bit of ridin'. Shootin'. Got to get out of this . . . .' At that momenet Enrico walked over to The Major. He cradled a full glass in one hand. In the other was a fat, evil-smelling cigar. He'd noticed The Major missing from the action of the party, and guessed what he'd been doing. He spoke kindly: 'Ey, Major. Come on. You drink with me. Be 'appy. Ees a Christmas. What for you want to be sitting out 'ere in a the cold?' The Major snapped out of his reverie. Here was authority. Telling him to do something. He stood unsteadily and attempted to adjust his drooping bow-tie. 'Aha! Aha! What? Enrico, old chap. Bit stuffy in there, what? Bally smoke in my . . . what? Haha! Just comin, old boy. Just comin'. . . .' Enrico linked his arm through The Major's, and the peculiar pair moved off towards the main action.

The party swung on. Many of the less hardy had left, but the hard-core ravers thrashed themselves on, bent on enjoyment till they dropped. Sammy, a Jamaican girl, was doing a complex limbo beneath a broomstick held by an ecstatic Chan and a paralytic Jeff. She wriggled delicately . . . deliciously . . . her whole body bent back on her heels. There were squeals of delight from the girls and piercing 'Haaaagh's' from Chan. David surveyed the scene with distate. He came to the decision he'd been wanting to make all evening and downed his glass of Scotch. He turned towards Honor, who was surveying the scene tipsily with an air of indulgent enjoyment. David took her arm roughly and spoke crossly: 'Come on. We're going.' 'What?' 'I said "We're going".' Honor had no desire to leave that particular moment. In fact she was feeling rather nostalgic – not only for her time at Le Can-Can, but for all her times in the business. All the bright lights, the backstage panics, all the applause – whether from provincial pantomime or raincoated voyeurs. Finished. Gone for good. Momentarily she was under the impression, entirely

164 false, that she was fond of all her girls. David's brusqueness came at the wrong moment. 'I don't want to go,' she said. 'Well, I don't want to stay. You can please yourself, Honor. I'm going. . . .' Honor flounced irritably.'. . . If you want to come with me . . . fine. Or stay if you like. I don't mind, but I'm going.' 'Well if you're going, I haven't got much choice, have I?' David shrugged, affecting to gaze disinterestedly around the room. 'I said please yourself.' Honor disappeared to collect her things, reappearing a moment later, ready to leave. Immediately there was an outcry from the girls. This drew the attention of Enrico. He rushed across the small room, his face a caricature of dismay. 'Ey, Honor! You not going already? Oh no – is a early. The party is a not sput yet, the party. Plenty to drink . . . plenty of fun still. . . .' 'No Enrico, darling. We must go. We have to leave tomorrow early . . . to go down to David's mother's . . . .' 'So ees a goodbye now, Honor. You leave the poor old Enrico. You never see Can-Can again. . . .' For a moment Enrico seemed as if he would burst into tears. But instead he threw himself at Honor and engulfed her in a bear hug. Finally she managed to free herself and, with many promises to visit the club again, she and David made their way to the street door, accompanied by an escort of Enrico and his girls.

'Oh for Christ's sake!' David exploded. 'Why don't you ever remember to put petrol in?' He gesticulated to the fuel gauge. Honor gazed out of her side-window, chin cupped in her hand. She sat curled up on the seat, her fur wrapped closely round her. She said nothing and David drove on, glancing from side to side in search of a service station. He clicked his tongue exasperatedly – but mainly for effect: the car had a reserve tank.

Quiet West London streets slipped rapidly by. In the distance David saw the cold fluorescent blaze of service station display lights. He pulled up on to the forecourt.

165 No one appeared. David blasted the horn irritably. Honor just gazed out of her window. After a few moments, an attendant strolled over, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them to keep them warm. David lowered the window: 'Five five-star – and quickly . . .' 'O.K., mate. All in good time. . . .' The attendant operated the pump, mumbling about 'Christmas spirit' and casually spraying a pint over the boot lid. David fidgeted. Honor stared blankly. Finally money changed hands, the attendant walked to the pay kiosk and rapped on the glass. The cashier started and put down the Western he was reading. It was Errol. A little paunchier, redder in the face. But the same Errol. He sighed theatrically and pushed up the kiosk window. The attendant handed over two pound notes. 'One-eighty, love. . . .' He was a fair-minded working man who had no quarrel whatsoever with homosexuals. 'Love' came naturally to his lips. Errol bridled, then checked himself and handed over the change. He pushed the little window down again, lit an Embassy, and continued reading.

Inside the Jaguar it was warm. Still Honor shivered. She pulled her fur round her even more tightly. David drove hard, his face set in lines of concentration. Honor wondered. She remembered the past, trying to calculate the happy times, to set them against the hell. She thought of the future . . . would the balance be similar? She saw endless accusations, counter-accusations, ratty invective, silences, reconciliations, sulks. 'I'm forty-odd . . . ,' she said aloud. She pressed the switch that extended the car's aerial, and turned on the radio: 'Christmas Eve night-lifers. Welcome to the show that brings the wee small hours alive. Our first record for late swingers is the smooth sound of the late, great King himself . . . . Nat Cole's . . .'

Errol turned a page. Time for the shoot-out. He checked his watch: only twenty minutes till the end of his shift. Twenty

166 minutes, twenty pages. He lit another cigarette, settled himself more comfortably, and read on:

Ah'm tellin' yer, marshal. Yer doin' yer job a mite too well. Me an' the boys think you ought to take it a little easy, marshal. Ballanger slowly brought his hand to rest on the butt of his Colt Peacemaker . . . .

167