Sinners (39 page)

Maxwell smiled. ‘You’re a little late, my dear, but you may come with us if you wish.’

‘Fine, Max, I’ll do that,’ Branch said eagerly. ‘How did you like the film? How did you like
me?

He had forgotten all about Sunday.

*    *    *

‘I know who you are,’ Sunday said. She tried to make her voice sound calm and collected, although in fact she was terrified as she huddled, still naked, in the back of the car.

She wasn’t sure if the speakers were on. She wasn’t sure if he could hear her, but she was determined to appear in complete control. It was important, she sensed, with this madman, not to break down. ‘Can you hear me?’ she asked. ‘I’m cold. Give me something to put on.’

There was silence.

‘You wrote me the letters, didn’t you?’ she continued. ‘Answer me. You wrote them, didn’t you?’

There was no reply.

She bit her lip hard. Where were they going? What now? Was Jean-Pierre all right? And the biggest question of all – where had Charlie Brick appeared from?

*    *    *

Herbert drove wildly. He had to take her somewhere quiet.

He was thirteen years old and jerking off when his aunt walked in the room. She was much younger than his mother, and skinny, with pointed tits that she never bothered to conceal. She stood and looked at him, hands on skinny hips, and then she started to laugh. Her laughter went on and on as she pointed gleefully at his penis and said, ‘You don’t wanna waste all that on yourself, sonny.’

She slipped off her skimpy gown and made him lie down. Then she straddled him and moved herself up and down, up and down on top of him – in and out, up and down – laughing all the time.

Afterwards he stood under the shower for hours, scrubbing, scrubbing; but it was days before he could get rid of the smell of cheap perfume.

He left home, grew up, and there were whores, lots of them, but none of them could help. The only way he could do it was by himself.

Then he met Marge with the great wobbling breasts. She served him tuna fish on rye and a cold beer and ended up marrying him.

She reminded him of a picture he had been using in his fantasies. The picture was of a nude girl in thigh-length black boots, climbing on to a horse, one leg in the stirrup. When he managed to identify the girl in the picture with Marge he was able to perform, so well and often, that soon she became pregnant. She lost the first baby, and the second. After that he just couldn’t do it any more.

He would have liked a baby, a little girl to play with and take for walks, but it was not to be. It was back to the pictures, and then the letters and the telephone calls. He found them satisfying enough, but every once in a while he wanted to try again, and before the hippie girl on Sunset there had been several whores, all of them beaten up in a frenzy of frustration and hate.

Now he had Sunday Simmons, the pinnacle of his desires. If he couldn’t perform with her, there was no hope, and nobody else was going to have her. If he drove high enough into the hills, he could park the car safely, and she was in the back, naked and ready. If it worked they would go away together.

If it didn’t work, well then, what was there to lose? A woman would never be satisfied if she wasn’t getting it. She would never stay with him.

He knew a spot high above Hollywood where he could send the car whirling over the top. Both of them together.

It was the only way.

Charlie felt a sense of unreality. Things like this only happened in the movies. But he had
heard
her scream. He had seen her pushed naked into the car.

He felt a sense of exhilaration, as though very pleasantly stoned.

He got behind the Lincoln and stayed there. They were heading back to Hollywood.

It occurred to him that he should call the police. He had a phone in the car, conveniently placed near his right hand. But what could he say. How would it all sound?

‘Hello, this is Charlie Brick. I’m following some madman who’s got Sunday Simmons stripped off in the back of his car.’

‘Oh yeah?’ he could hear the reply. ‘And I’m Mickey Mouse.’

But what if he
didn’t
call the police? Eventually the Lincoln would stop, the nut would get out, and what then? Charlie was not renowned for his strength, and what if Herbert had a gun?

At the first opportunity he dialled the operator. It was difficult to remove his hand from the wheel for a minute, because the Lincoln was jumping lights, stop signs, everything.

They were bolting up La Cienega heading for the Strip. ‘I want to report a kidnapping,’ he said, when he was put through. ‘It’s Sunday Simmons.’

‘Oh yeah,’ said the cop, ‘and I’m Donald Duck!’

*    *    *

‘I’m cold,’ Sunday pleaded again.
‘Please
stop. Give me something to put on then we can talk.’ She paused. ‘We can talk about your letters.’

There was still no reply. The car rushed maddeningly on. If only he would
say
something. She felt a rising sense of panic.

There seemed to be no air in the car. ‘Stop, please stop,’ she begged. ‘I think I’m going to faint . . .’

*    *    *

They were nearly there.

Herbert licked his lips, which felt dry and cracked. He reached in his pocket for some lip-salve and felt the locket, the thin gold chain that had fallen off the neck of the girl he had murdered. He planned to give it to Sunday as a present. He stuffed it back in his pocket, found the lip-salve, and liberally applied it round his mouth.

He was unaware of the Ferrari close behind. He slowed down as the Lincoln twisted and turned higher and higher into the Hollywood Hills.

Nervously, his hand unzipped his pants and he stroked himself, steadily, stealthily, almost as if he were petting a snake.

It was nearly time. They were reaching the spot he had been seeking. It was off the road up a makeshift driveway. There was a house, half built, jutting out over the peak.

He took the car to the edge, and stopped. Then he got out and opened the back door of the car.

Sunday stared at him in the dark. She could see his outline as he peered in at her. The only sound was of crickets chirping. She could smell grass and damp earth.

Herbert climbed in the car, leaving the door open. His hands fell upon her breasts like scavengers, the fingers twitching and kneading.

She shrank back as his lips fastened on one breast.

She started to struggle, to pull herself free.

He pinned her down. He was strong.

They fought silently. He prised open her legs. She clawed and raked at his face.

‘Whore!’ he muttered, and slapped her.

Then, as she felt him about to enter her, there was a sudden release of pressure and he was pulled off.

*    *    *

Charlie stopped the Ferrari when the other car turned off the road. He left it with a special red light flashing, and followed the path of the Lincoln by foot. To say he was nervous was putting it mildly.

He didn’t have far to go before reaching the car. He could hear the wordless struggle, the grunts and groans. He didn’t hesitate, and plunged straight in, grabbing Herbert by the back of his shirt, hauling him off.

Charlie had never been in a fight, but he followed his instincts, and when Herbert rushed him, he tripped him with his right leg and followed that up with a hefty kick to the crotch.

‘That will pay you back for the one you gave me, mate,’ he muttered. ‘One good kick in the balls deserves another.’

Herbert rolled on the ground.

Charlie pulled Sunday out of the car. ‘Let’s move before he does,’ he said, and taking her hand, they started to run back to the Ferrari.

‘Just hold it right there, mister.’ A cop stood by his car, his gun pointed straight at them.

A week later Charlie and Sunday sat on the big jet, side by side. They held hands, his protectively over hers.

They were the most publicized couple in the world. Beyond the endless headlines, speculation and rumours, people wondered what had
really
happened that night.

All of Hollywood had its own theory: ‘They both belonged to this weird black-magic cult, and it got out of hand.’ ‘She was
always
at orgies.’ ‘He’s a well-known pervert.’

Marge Lincoln Jefferson was found dead of a massive dose of poison.

Herbert Lincoln Jefferson was arrested, and charged first with attempted kidnapping and rape, and then, after the discovery of Marge, with murder.

Louella Crisp was tracked down with her mild little husband in Arizona and brought back for questioning. Later she was charged with being an accessory.

Carey and Marshall flew back to Los Angeles when they heard the news.

Sunday was under sedation in hospital. She was perfectly all right, but still suffering from shock.

Charlie had taken over. He dealt with the police and the press. ‘She is not to be bothered with
anything
,’ he informed Carey.

‘Of course,’ Carey agreed. ‘But I sure have got a lot of questions to ask you . . .’

Claude Hussan arrived from Palm Springs to collect his son from the beach house. He came to see Carey at her office.

‘I’m sorry, I’m cancelling Sunday’s contract. We are recasting.’

‘You’re kidding?’ Carey exclaimed. ‘You must have read what happened to her, she’s on every front page in the world.’

Claude shrugged. ‘It’s unlucky.
She
left the film. Anyhow, you may give her my regards and this message – just tell her the extra footage is useless and we won’t be using it.’

Carey glared at him. ‘If you’re not using her, why would you use extra footage anyway?’

‘Just give her the message.’ His eyes lingered and again she felt their physical pull. ‘Goodbye,’ he said abruptly.

Carey was not sorry about his film, but she wondered how Sunday would feel. Why
had
she returned to Los Angeles?

*    *    *

After two days Sunday came out of hospital. Besieged by photographers and reporters, she fled to the comparative safety of Carey and Marshall’s house. They protected her as best they could.

She had made many decisions in the past week. She told Carey she never intended to appear in another movie. In a way she felt responsible for the whole mess. Carey couldn’t believe it. ‘What will you do?’ she asked.

‘Whatever I do, it will be something private.’

*    *    *

It had been announced that Dindi Sydne was to replace Sunday in Claude Hussan’s film.

Carey was surprised at the way Sunday took the news. She just smiled and said, ‘I think he’s got the right girl now.’

Something
had happened between Claude and Sunday, but Carey did not feel it was the right time to pry.

Charlie visited Sunday every day, and sat and talked with her in the garden. He made her laugh; he made her happy. And when he asked her to come to London with him she accepted. She felt low, depressed, and only Charlie made her feel good. He said, ‘No hang-ups, we’ll see what happens . . .’

*    *    *

‘I’m going to take you to Manchester,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s a funny place, but I was born there. Serafina nipped in the hospital and had me between shows.’

Sunday squeezed his hand. ‘I wish I could have met her, she sounds like such a grand old lady.’

‘Yes, she would have liked you. Isn’t it funny, love? Here we are, side by side, like we’ve known each other all our lives. What a lot of time we wasted.’

‘Nothing’s ever wasted in life, Charlie. You always learn something.’

‘Yes,’ he looked at her intently. ‘I suppose you do.’

*    *    *

The jet was swooping in to land.

‘Stay behind me like a Japanese housewife and leave the press to me,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ll answer a few questions and tell them you’re my secretary.’

She smiled softly. ‘Now that would be a good job for me. I
can
type, you know.’

‘Yes? Good God – hidden talents!’

They both laughed.

Cedric Homer peered into the driving mirror of the sleek silver Rolls Royce parked outside the arrival gate at London airport. He combed his straight dark brown hair. He was an ordinary-looking man, thin and sharp-featured. In his grey chauffeur’s uniform he seemed to blend in with the car.

He finished combing his hair and stared rudely at a passing girl in a mini skirt.

‘Little scrubbers!’ he muttered. ‘Going around flashing their bums at everyone.’

His eyes followed the girl out of sight, then he got out of the car and stood beside it.

He thought about the previous evening, which he had spent with his mother in the old flat they shared in Islington. It had been a good evening. They had looked through his collection of photos and cuttings. He had every item that had ever appeared about Sunday Simmons in the English papers and magazines. She was so beautiful, so lovely, even his mother agreed with him.

Then later that evening he had shut himself in his own room, and the evening had been even better . . .

A policeman strolled up to the car. ‘This is a no-parking zone,’ he said. ‘You’ve been here fifteen minutes, you’d better move along.’

‘My party will be here in a minute,’ Cedric said. ‘I’m meeting Charlie Brick.’

‘Oh, Charlie Brick. That’s all right then, I suppose. Coming in this morning, is he?’

Cedric nodded. It was good luck that his boss had picked him to be the driver to meet Charlie Brick at the airport. Charlie Brick knew Sunday Simmons. If he told Charlie, explained that he wanted to write a letter of admiration, then he was sure Charlie would give him her address.

Cedric hummed softly to himself . . .

There have been many imitators, but only Jackie Collins can tell you what really goes on in the fastest lane of all. From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of the power brokers – Jackie Collins chronicles the real truth from the inside looking out.