The White Room (17 page)

It blew over. No lasting damage, apart from Bert who was off work for two weeks.

After that, Monica had given up. It was a sign. She couldn't get rid of her daughter, so she had to accept she was stuck with her.

And that, her heart heavy with acceptance, was that.

She looked away from the mirror, took another swig, checked her watch. Mae would be home soon. With Bert. He wanted to take her out to the Crooked Billet tonight. Enjoy the celebrations. She didn't mind. As long as he was buying.

He had been round a lot lately. Ever since the incident with Mae and the window. She knew he liked the child, tolerated her where Monica wouldn't. That was fine, she let him. As long as she herself didn't have to do that.

He liked to think of himself as her boyfriend. That was fine too. As long as he was paying. And didn't want sex.

She looked at her dressing gown, at her watch again. Plenty of time to get dressed. She drained her glass. Enough time for another drink. She fixed it, returned to the mirror.

She was ageing. No match for the young girls. She had had to diversify, specialize.

Pain. Domination. Humiliation. A smaller market but more lucrative if you were good at it. And Monica was good at it. She could dispense and receive suffering as if born to it. She got a lot of repeat business. She got referrals and recommendations. She didn't have to deal with a pimp. She had cuts and bruises, but she thought the odd whip scar or mouthful of piss a small price to pay. She was careful not to damage her punters too much, leave them able to heal quickly, return speedily. And she got paid for it all. And more often than not got some kind of enjoyment out of it.

In the room. With Christ in pain. With the bright white walls and the deep dark shadows.

She knew Mae would stand at the door, listen to the sounds of pain and humiliation, pleading and power that came out of there. She knew they scared the girl. But she didn't care. It was her house. If she didn't like it, Mae could live somewhere else.

She looked in the mirror again, saw the make-up covering the bruise on her cheekbone. Her last punter. Entering into the celebration spirit, getting a little too overenthusiastic. She had felt her face, tender to the touch, checked her teeth, found a couple slightly loose. She had charged him extra for that.

A knock at the door.

Mae, she thought, back from the street party. Bert to take her out. Her heart heavy, she drained the last of her gin, went to answer it.

There stood a man she hadn't seen before. Middle-aged with thinning hair, a moustache, a red face and a beer drinker's belly. Good clothes – Harris tweed jacket, collar and wool plaid tie – but worn for too long without a wash. Holding a piece of paper. Hands shaking.

First timer, thought Monica.

‘Hello,' the man stammered. The red of his complexion deepened.

Monica looked at him, his silence encouraging him to speak.

‘I believe—' he swallowed hard ‘—that you offer certain … services.' ‘Yes,' said Monica. ‘Are you … available?' ‘How did you find out about me?'

‘Someone told me.' His voice was dry. Sandpaper over rough bark. He cleared his throat. ‘An … acquaintance of mine. A Dr Shaw.'

Monica ran the name through her memory. She knew the man. He always made her uneasy. Had a creepy side to him, a barely tamed one. And knowing what his preferences were, he was the last person she would consult on a medical matter.

‘I know him,' she said, voice neutral.

‘He said you were by appointment only, but …' He shrugged. ‘I just wondered.'

Monica checked her watch. No sign of Mae or Bert. Stuff them. Money was money.

‘Come in,' she said, and stepped back.

As she closed the door, she sized the man up. Wondered what to wear, what he would like.

And how much she could get away with charging him for it.

The day was finally dying. Saturday begrudgingly becoming Sunday.

Drunks were everywhere. Their bodies were exhausted but still moving, unused as they were to over twelve hours of dedicated, solid alcohol consumption. Some staggered through the streets like zombies from a cheap Hammer horror flick, their progress landmarked by pooled vomit, dropped chips, broken bottle glass, let blood. Some were laughing and raging, voices and emotions heightened in the night air like declaiming Shakespearean hams. All were determined to wring the last few drops of enjoyment from the day, cling tenaciously to its fading life or half-life, be the last to leave the party.

The King's Cross train, the last of the night, pulled out of Newcastle Central Station heading for Edinburgh. The few disembarking passengers hurried through the station concourse and out into the night, off to their homes. One man stood silently, case beside him, looking around. He smiled.

His suit was Carnaby Street mod-sharp, hair brushed forward, long and stylishly trimmed. Black-rimmed glasses gave him an air of gravity. He stood like an important man, a serious man. Strong, confident, expensively tailored and groomed.

He picked up his case, walked out of the station.

‘Taxi, mate?' asked a cabby at a nearby rank.

‘No, thanks,' the man said. ‘Think I'll walk a bit.' His accent was undeniably London, Thames estuary softened at the edges.

The cabby, no lover of Southerners, turned away. The man walked on.

He cocked his head on one side, listened through his one good ear. So strange yet so familiar. That was how the city seemed to him. Same buildings, same trolley bus lines, but the energy was different. It seemed more in tune with what he was used to. More alive.

London was his city. The city. And Soho the only place to be in that city. But he had gone as far as he thought he could. Climbed that ladder, reached the top.

And learned a lot. Things he couldn't wait to put into practice in his new manor.

His old manor.

It was all about control. Control, direction and patience.

He had learned that.

But not endless patience.

He walked the streets. There seemed to have been some sort of celebration.

So they've finally found out how to enjoy themselves, he thought. Good. I can help them on their way.

He checked his shirt cuffs, made sure there was an inch of white brilliance below his jacket sleeves. He picked up his case, kept walking.

He needed to find a hotel. A good one. But first he wanted to walk.

It had been another person from a previous life who had hidden himself on the mail train six years ago. A frightened, wild boy.

Brian Mooney.

But he was dead now. Had died the moment the train had pulled out of the station.

Ben Marshall.

That was the name on his luggage, his passport. The monogram on his clothes. Ben Marshall was very much alive.

He walked the streets, so strange yet so familiar.

The energy was different.

More alive.

Ripe. Ready to move from black and white into colour.

Perfect. For him.

He breathed in a lungful of night air, held it, let it go. Then went to find a hotel.

February 1963:

Grip of the Strangler

The audience cheered, whistled, stomped, clapped.

‘Thanks a lot.'

The lead singer growled rather than spoke. Deep, Northern. Almost feral. It fitted with the atmosphere: the room was lit by a primal energy. Rich with sweat and physical excitement. Neo-violent, almost sexual.

He wiped his brow, swigged from a bottle, grabbed the mic.

‘Good, eh?'

The crowd cheered. He acknowledged them. Spoke like one of them.

‘Fuckin' aye.'

He put the bottle down, turned to the rest of the band, nodded. Then back to the audience.

‘Boom Boom,' he shouted.

The crowd, Mod-sharp and soaked in sweat and adrenalin, knew what to expect, cheered in anticipation. The band charged right in, a tight, beat-driven combo, music forceful, fist-like, stripping whatever small amount of finesse the John Lee Hooker original had once contained, reducing it to its basic hot, grinding components.

The crowd responded: picked up the energy coming towards them, flung it back at them.

John Steel and Chas Chandler: drum and bass in pounding rhythm; Hilton Valentine: cranked-up guitar squalling and squealing; Alan Price: heightening Hammond poured over like beautiful, dirty cream; Eric Burdon: voice ripping through the song with ragged authority.

Friday night, February 1963. The Animals rocking the Club A Go Go.

Ben Marshall stood against the back wall of the cramped club, unobtrusive but available. He had seen the Stones here, and they were good, but he liked this band. Even hearing them with only one good ear, he knew they had something. If they could excite the boys and girls nationally the way they did in this room, he thought, they would be huge. Another Beatles. Another Stones.

Not that he cared about music; he cared about money. Guitar bands were the next wave. There was a supply and demand market for them, and this band, the Animals, would make a lot of money for the right person. He had been tempted to manage them but decided against it. He didn't want it to interfere with his long-term plan.

He scanned the crowd. The crowd knew him. Or at least what he sold. And he loved the Club A Go Go. Fitted right in. The nearest thing Newcastle had to match Soho.

Brian Mooney had arrived in London lost, penniless. Seven years ago.

Another person, another life.

He had jacked and mugged his way to a room, a few clothes, food and drink. But he needed more.

He drifted into Soho, attracted by the bright lights, the dark shadows. He loved it there. And things were happening to him, realizations dawning. This wasn't Newcastle. He couldn't go on as he had there, relying on energy and anger to carry him. He needed more. Subtlety. A strategy. A long-term plan. Soho might provide it.

He studied the area, saw how it worked, how he could make it work for himself.

Then, a piece of self-engineered luck, the right place at the right time: a man he spoke to in a Soho pub was looking for someone to do some work. Mr Calabrese, the man said, a Maltese businessman, owned a string of bookshops. He was having trouble hiring and retaining staff. He needed help.

Brian knew the score, heard truthful words between the spoken ones. For Mr Calabrese, Maltese businessman, read Big Derek Calabrese, Epsom Salt gangster. For bookshops, read porn palaces. For trouble hiring and retaining staff, read shop managers skimming profits, then doing a bunk.

Brian could barely contain his excitement. It was the break he had been looking for. Strong-arm stuff, people to be found, lessons to learn.

Brian found the managers, taught the lessons. Enthusiastically. He impressed, was paid. Was used again. Impressed again. Then put on the payroll.

Big Derek found him special jobs. Ones that utilized his particular skills. Grasses and singers were picked up, stuck in a basement, forced by Brian to express love and fidelity to Big Derek. To see the error of their ways. Sometimes they just disappeared completely. Those were the kinds of jobs he liked best.

Then there was the day-to-day stuff, the bread-and-butter stuff: collecting rents from girls in flats, making sure they paid what Big Derek said they owed. Working the door in clubs, security in brothels. Keeping the shop managers in line. He would pay off the bent coppers, the ones with blind eyes and greedy pockets. Dirty overcoats, even dirtier souls.

Brian loved Big Derek like a father. He listened to him, remade himself in Big Derek's image. Big Derek loved Brian in return. Like a wayward, psychopathic animal he had tamed and housetrained.

Brian loved Soho too. And Soho, it seemed, loved Brian. Made for each other.

But.

Dissatisfaction began to creep in. He had gone as far as he could with Big Derek. He knew that. But working there had allowed him to see the future. He built up ideas, formulated plans.

But not for London.

Newcastle.

He told Big Derek, explained his plans, expounded his vision. His old scores that needed settling, his new way of doing it.

Big Derek didn't want him to go. Found him too useful.

Brian talked, showed his heart was set. Offered, as a last resort, a cut to Big Derek.

Big Derek relented, gave his reluctant blessing. Even gave him a contact.

But. Another thing:

Brian insisted on a new identity. New clothes, glasses, hair colour. Polish the accent Brian was already using.

And off he went. Home.

Newcastle had changed since Brian had left: the city was all new to Ben.

He had found the Club A Go Go, based himself there. Beat kids and Mods, wanting to get high on anything they could get hold of. The club had energy. Ben could give it more. He identified a market, cut himself in, started dealing.

Uppers. Downers. Weed for the hopheads. Black bombers and purple hearts; demilitarized iconography given a post national service meaning.

And there he stood: the hatred, anger and impetuosity of his earlier incarnation now varnished with the veneer of a suavely confident entrepreneur. The spiritual son of Big Derek Calabrese. A patient man. A planner.

Anticipation making the eventual outcome taste all the sweeter.

The Animals finished ‘Boom Boom'. One more song, then the set would end. Ben left the room, went to the bar. Authentic blues played from hidden speakers. Muddy. Howlin'. Elbowed his way to a lime-green bar stool, ordered a scotch on the rocks, looked at the painted walls. The jazz greats stared down at him in huge monochrome relief. He sat directly below Earl Hines. Next picture along was of the Emcee Five, a home-grown jazz group. All the paintings were by Eric Burdon, the Animals' lead singer.

Ben sipped his scotch, waited. Let the raw sounds wash over him.

Waited for customers wanting to extend the high the music had just given them, mellow out away from it. But more important, waited for the signal that would enable him to move his plans along to the next phase.