The Devil Rides Out (25 page)

We even had an imaginary friend, Kitty, a highly inquisitive old lady, the type they call in Liverpool an ‘owld arse’, who trailed round behind us, dropping in for a visit at the most inconvenient of moments. It got to the stage where Vera was paying for Kitty’s fare on the bus and buying her drinks in pubs. When Vera got a tax rebate we made our way up the Seven Sisters Road stopping in every pub on the way for a large whisky for me, a ditto of vodka for Vera and as always a little something to keep Kitty lubricated. By the time we got to Finsbury Park we could barely stand, but as there was a fair on it seemed a shame not to go on any of the rides and we elected to throw ourselves with gay abandon on the mercy of the Rotor, a ride you very rarely see any more. It was basically a human spin dryer, a drum that revolved at great speed, sticking you to the wall with centrifugal force whilst the floor retracted from under you. Vera’s shopping was scattered to the four winds together with his specs as we spun round and round screaming our heads off, much to the amusement of those looking down on us, Kitty no doubt amongst them, from the observation gallery above.

Kitty’s still around today, still refusing to wear her false teeth and not as active as she once was, but then she’s getting on now, two hip replacements and a little problem with her bladder, but she still manages to drop in now and then for old times’ sake …

*

I jumped into a tepid bath while Vera pressed the cream suit using a crusty tea towel that had been on active service for over a month, infusing my suit with a faint whiff of scorched bacon. There certainly appeared nothing sleazy or tacky about the escort agency selling its wares from a suite of rooms on the top floor of a smart mansion block. I pushed the buzzer marked ‘Rowena Switzer’ and was told to ‘come up’ by a friendly voice. I half hoped that it would be an emporium lit by beaded Tiffany lamps, with a pianist in a tux bashing out ‘Hard Hearted Hannah’ on a honky-tonk piano in the corner, the elegant madam leaning against it fanning herself languidly with a pearl-handled ostrich-feather fan while her girls, in a state of semi-undress, posed provocatively on shawl-draped chaises longues placed casually around the room. Getting out of the lift I could see that regrettably the agency’s decor owed more to a provincial branch of a building society than to my vision of a New Orleans cathouse. Amy was there to meet me, looking every inch the society hostess in a black crêpe evening dress and diamonds.

‘I’ve got a booking,’ she said, giving me a kiss, ‘so I must dash, but I’ll introduce you to Rowena first.’

‘All my girls are high class,’ she said, raising her eyebrows and putting me in mind of Mrs Dickie for a moment, ‘and I expect them to be treated as such.’

And that was it. Another addition to my ever-expanding CV – I was a prostitutes’ walker. Hang on a minute, what had Rowena said? Sorry, I was no common or garden walker, I was a
high-class walker
for
high-class prostitutes
, thank you very much.

I started work almost immediately. My first assignment was to get Shirley, a plump little peroxide blonde from Birmingham who made me question Rowena’s definition of the term ‘high class’, into the Hilton Hotel for an assignation with a very important client.

‘’Ang on, will ya?’ she shouted, teetering behind me as we made our way slowly down Park Lane. ‘Slow down, you’re like a fookin’ whippet.’

Shirley had forced her fat little trotters into a pair of cripplingly high stilettos which had reduced her mobility to nothing more than a painful shuffle. We stopped just round the corner from the hotel so she could have a fag and force a finger down the side of her shoe in an attempt to take the pressure off her swollen insteps, which were rising rapidly like a pair of Yorkshire puddings.

‘Why don’t you take them off for a moment then?’ I asked her, more for something to say than out of concern.

‘Why? Because I’d never get the boogers back on again, that’s why,’ she replied, taking one long last drag of her ciggy before flicking it into the street. ‘Just be glad you don’t have to wear high heels for a living, duck. Now c’mon, let’s get a move on. This won’t get the baby fed.’

I managed to manoeuvre Miss Saltley Gas Works 1962 past the doorman without any bother, as fortunately he was preoccupied getting some guests and their luggage out of a taxi. I marched briskly ahead with Shirley shuffling behind me as awkward as a cow on ice, her full-length leather coat trimmed in a fur of dubious origin flapping behind her. She would’ve been more at home with a Cherry B and cider on a hen night in a Blackpool Wetherspoons than with champagne in a Park Lane hotel.

We made it safely past the reception and slipped in behind a small group of elderly Americans waiting for the lift.

‘He’s a prince, this one, y’know,’ Shirley confided in a voice that could’ve been heard across Hyde Park. ‘Not that it’s a big deal, of course – they’re two a penny over there. There’s a prince on every street corner.’ The Americans pretended not to hear as Shirley explained her version of the House of Saud to me.

‘They believe in big families, see, hundreds of wives with hundreds of kids. Must be a bloody nightmare at Christmas, not that I think they go in for it.’

Thankfully the lift arrived and we all piled in. As we ascended Shirley leaned towards me. ‘D’ya know what the nice thing about Arab clients is?’ she bellowed, breaking the silence.

‘No,’ she answered, matter of factly. ‘They come quickly.’ Someone coughed and one of the American women hastily asked her group if anyone knew what time they were meeting in the lobby in the morning. Shirley yawned, unaware or perhaps just not caring that she’d caused a minor sensation amongst our companions. I stuck my hand in my trouser pocket and self-mutilated my leg, willing the lift to hurry up.

The corridor that led to the prince’s suite seemed never-ending. Shirley’s incessant chatter and her indiscretion in the lift had started to get on my nerves. I’m just going to dump her at the door and get the hell out of here, I told myself as I waited for her to catch up. The realization of just how sordid the situation actually was crept over me as I watched her waddling down the hall in her stupid shoes, a piece of mutton on its way to the slaughter, and my annoyance turned to pity and concern.

Before knocking on the door Shirley took a little mirror from her handbag and picked at her hair. ‘Well, it’ll have to do,’ she said eventually, putting the mirror back up and tapping on the door.

‘You look lovely,’ I lied. ‘Good luck.’

She squeezed my arm in response but as I tried to leave she pulled me back, muttering, ‘Don’t go. Not yet.’

We were ushered in by two armed bodyguards, gorillas in suits, who led us into the bedroom, where a large, swarthy man wearing a dressing gown over a white djellaba lay watching TV on a bed the size of a badminton court.

Prince Abdul seemed equally pleased to see Shirley, grinning like the Cheshire cat over her shoulder at me as he patted her ample backside affectionately.

‘This is Paul,’ she said, getting off the bed and smoothing down her dress, the Brummie accent, previously as thick as a pan of chip shop mushy peas, replaced as if by magic by tones that sounded more Mayfair than Bullring. ‘He very kindly escorted me here from the office,’ she trilled, winking at me. ‘Wasn’t that kind of him?’

Her transformation from pint of northern mild to sparkling Park Lane cocktail was as instantaneous as it was startling. The metamorphosis from the whining lump of suet to the beautiful minx now curled up coquettishly in the armchair seductively toying with a bunch of grapes astonished me. This was no clumsy slapper, this was a seasoned pro, one who obviously reserved the act until she was on the main stage.

The prince slowly and with great dignity slid off the bed, fastening his dressing gown and holding his hand out to thank me. I wondered if Prince Philip would’ve been quite so charming if a complete stranger had marched into his bedroom and caught him in his nightie, but this prince didn’t seem bothered in the least. Quite the opposite, in fact. Gesturing towards a table laden with food he encouraged me to eat something with cries of ‘Please, please’. I quite fancied a butty but Shirley, throwing me a look from the chair that even I could recognize as a signal that translated as ‘Get lost, I’m keen to get down to business’, piped up and told the prince that I’d better not as I had to get back to the office.

Rowena’s clients were mainly wealthy Arabs, playboys who dumped their wives, kids and retinues of servants into rented Kensington mansions and went off and had fun partying non-stop in hotel suites with working girls. Rowena liked her Arab punters. Money seemed to be no object and many of the girls had earned a fortune out of them. Rowena was extremely fussy. Answering the phone one busy night she was asked by a prospective client how to get to the agency by tube. Before putting the phone down she replied curtly that she only supplied to the carriage trade and not, regrettably, to men who travelled on public transport.

Vera was no longer pulling pints in the Sportsman. He too was now on the books of London Domestics and quids in thanks to a nice little earner cleaning for the wives of some of Rowena’s best customers, temporarily domiciled out of the way in Kensington mansions that only the Saudis could afford to rent. Although these beautiful houses had endless bedrooms, magnificent kitchens and an assortment of elegant drawing rooms and morning rooms, the women chose to live and sleep together with all the children in one big room, forsaking the comfortable sleeping arrangements upstairs for makeshift camp beds. The kitchens remained untouched as meals were sent in from local restaurants.