The Madam

It was the first time we’d made love on a double bed, and it was as good as I knew it would be. The sheets were soft and clean and we didn’t have to worry about the cell door being thrown open by some pervy screw.

Scar lit a few scented candles and the heady mix of jasmine and coital sweat was quite intoxicating.

We pleasured each other in ways that only women know how. Gently. Expertly. Homing in on exactly the right spots.

For a brief moment it took me back to my first girl-on-girl encounter some years before. I was eighteen and in between boyfriends. Natalie Boyd was a good mate with a firm body and fake tan. We were at a house party and more than a little drunk. Teamed up with two guys whose names I’d forgotten. Mine was an electrician whose parents owned the house and were away on holiday.

After everyone else had gone home, the four of us ended up naked in the garden jacuzzi together. Playful banter and a bit of groping before the guys egged Nats and me on to snog each other. And why not? I was horny as hell and curious to boot. Nats was wet and sexy and clearly up for it.

So we kissed, much to the delight of the two blokes who sat in the churning water stroking themselves. We then went on to explore each other’s bodies with our hands and tongues and quickly got carried away on a tidal surge of passion.

The lads continued to watch until they couldn’t contain their excitement any longer and we all partied well into the early hours.

It was my first lesbian experience and although it was great, it wasn’t life-changing. In fact, I wasn’t desperately keen to repeat it, preferring instead to continue steering a straight course where sex was concerned. Even when I became an escort I didn’t go for the girl-on-girl thing.

But that changed when I went inside and met Scar. We became firm friends and one thing led to another as it often does in prison. It was fair to say that she opened my eyes to a world of new and exquisite experiences.

But this time the sex was something else entirely. I got completely lost in the swell of desire and emotion, to the extent that I felt tears trickle onto my cheeks.

It was clear that our feelings for each other were undiminished. And I was overwhelmed by the fact that Scar was still there for me, despite the hassle I’d heaped upon her.

She was in her element, sucking and kissing every inch of my body, her tongue probing and teasing until I could stand it no longer and let out a high-pitched scream from deep inside my chest.

I shut my eyes tight as I came, then savoured the deep, rocking sensation that carried me all the way to a full, mind-blowing orgasm.

3

For a long time after our love making we just lay on the bed entwined in each other’s arms. A portable fan offered some relief from the heat of the afternoon.

Being with Scar again after a couple of months apart made me realise how right it felt. And it wasn’t just about the sex. We’d been drawn to each other because of an emotional empathy, a shared capacity to talk about our feelings. It was something I’d never had with any of the men in my life.

‘Come on, gorgeous,’ Scar said, rising from the bed. ‘Let’s go to town and do some shopping.’

After we showered, we drove to the West Quay retail complex in the city centre where I got my hair done and then went in search of some new clothes. I’d lost weight in jail and was now a size ten. That was one good thing to come out of my incarceration, I supposed.

Shopping had never been so much fun, even back in the days when the agency work meant that I had cash to spare. I bought a pair of jeans, a couple of skirts and blouses, sandals, shoes and a light summer jacket in beige with big brown buttons.

We spent an inordinate amount of time choosing sexy underwear, and to round it off I treated us to a couple of interesting looking toys in Ann Summers.

A few hours later we hit the town. Powdered, painted and reeking of perfume. It was my first night of freedom and I was determined to enjoy it.

Scar was dressed to kill in a short black leather skirt and lemon halter. I wore my new slinky jeans and a blue blouse that revealed maybe a bit too much of my pert breasts.

We had a tankful before leaving the house, so by the time we got to the Mercury Club we were both gobby and giggly and hot to trot.

The music inside was thunderous, and everywhere you looked there were same-sex couples. But I didn’t feel out of place or uncomfortable. The atmosphere might have been heavy and electric, but it was also friendly.

Scar seemed to know half the people there and introduced me to them as her girlfriend. I wondered how many knew that I had only just been released from prison. I was glad it was too noisy for conversation. It meant I didn’t have to answer awkward questions and could concentrate on having a good time.

I stuck to vodka, lime and lemonade, fearing the consequences of mixing my drinks. But Scar had no such concerns and was knocking back Tequila shots, Southern Comfort and the occasional wine. She got me in a clinch at one point and told me that she loved me.

‘I hope we can hold on to what we have, Lizzie. I know it won’t be easy for you now that you’re out. But promise me one thing – you’ll be totally honest about how you feel.’

I cupped her face in my hands and made a solemn promise which I knew I might not keep. Then I gave her a long, lingering kiss on the lips that coincided with a slow Jenny Read number that happened to be one of my favourites. So we continued clinging to each other as we moved around the crowded floor until the DJ upped the tempo and the club was once again shaking to the heavy beat of an R and B group.

It was 1 a.m. when we left the club and joined the parade of revellers heading home. The air was warm and muggy and filled with a cacophony of familiar city sounds – drunken laughter, loud swearing, the distant wail of police sirens.

We were both unsteady on our feet as we walked hand in hand through the dingy streets of the grimiest part of Southampton. Drunk, but not paralytic. It was a good place to be. Tomorrow life was going to get a lot more complicated. Maybe even dangerous. But tonight I was relaxed and enjoying the feeling.

We stopped at a mobile snack bar. Bought burgers and chips. Lots of salt and vinegar and tomato sauce. Sheer bloody bliss.

We were crossing the road towards our new home when the roar of an engine suddenly seized our attention. We stepped quickly onto the kerb as a car screeched to a halt right in front of the house about fifteen yards ahead of us.

Then the rear nearside door was flung open, and to my astonishment a man’s body was pushed out onto the pavement by an outstretched arm.

The car then revved up and lurched forward, the door slamming shut as it screeched away along the street, before turning out of sight.

Scar and I rushed over to the figure lying on the pavement. He was on his back and his blood-covered face was bathed in the glow of a street lamp. Blood frothed around his mouth so we knew he was breathing.

I dropped to one knee to take a close look. And that’s when my heart exploded in my chest and I almost fainted.

‘Oh my God.’

Scar lowered herself to a squat beside me.

‘Calm down, Lizzie. The guy’s alive. We’ll call an ambulance.’

I shook my head. ‘You don’t understand. This is Mark. This is my fucking brother.’

The sight of my brother lying there on the pavement instantly sobered me up. I yelled for Scar to call 999, then leaned over him.

‘It’s me, Mark. Lizzie. Can you hear what I’m saying?’

He was conscious, thank God, but I couldn’t tell how badly hurt he was. There was a large dark swelling beneath his left eye and his bottom lip was cut and oozing blood. But most of the blood was coming from his nose, which was red and inflamed.

He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and tight trousers. The shirt was intact, very little blood, and I couldn’t see any knife wounds. That was a relief.

He opened his eyes and his lips parted as though he were about to speak. But blood pooled in his mouth, making him cough.

‘I’m here, Mark. We’ve called for an ambulance. You’ll be okay.’

He scrunched his face up in pain.

‘What’s happened to you? Who did this?’

He swallowed with difficulty, squeezed his eyes shut. I felt the panic rising inside me and fought to control it. Stay calm, Lizzie. He’s not seriously hurt by the look of it. Just battered and bruised. Could have been much worse. At least he hasn’t been knifed or shot.

‘An ambulance is on its way,’ Scar said, kneeling back down beside me. ‘How is he?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m hoping he looks worse than he is.’

My breath grew patchy. I could feel my whole body shaking.

‘So what the fuck is going on, Lizzie?’ Scar said. ‘Why’d they dump him here in front of the flat?’

It was the obvious question and one that had flashed through my mind already. But I was too traumatised to dwell on it right now. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but my brother’s face.

I recalled seeing him like it once before and shivered at the memory. We were kids then and a couple of boys had picked on me in the street, pulling my hair and calling me names. Mark was four years younger than me and about half the size of the boys. But that didn’t stop him wading in to protect me. Trouble was he took a savage beating, during which he hit his head on the kerb and suffered minor brain damage as a result. That was why he had learning difficulties and why my mother stopped loving me.

Now he was twenty-four and fourteen years on I was looking at his damaged features and wondering once again if it was down to me.

He tried to speak, but it was clearly painful, so I told him to stay quiet and stroked his wavy brown hair until the ambulance arrived. Scar wanted to come with us to the hospital, but I told her to go to the flat and get some sleep. She kissed my cheek and squeezed my hand and before I knew it I was in the back of the ambulance watching a paramedic tending to my brother.

‘He’ll live,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Wounds are superficial. Fist damage, I’d hazard.’

Her words were meant to reassure me and I suppose they did to a degree. Even so, for the next hour my nerves were stretched to breaking point. I was worried sick about my brother and I couldn’t shake the image of him being hurled out of that car onto the pavement.

At the hospital, Mark was treated in a cubicle in the emergency department. After he was patched up I was allowed to see him. There were stitches in his top lip and his left eye was swollen almost shut.

He was sitting up on a bed. His face had been cleaned, but he still looked a mess.

He was able to smile, though, and this lifted my spirits. I gave him a cuddle and kissed him on the forehead. I wanted to cry, but managed to hold it in. It wasn’t easy. Emotions were churning inside me like a storm in a bottle.

‘I didn’t know you were out before tonight,’ he said, his speech slow and slurred like always. ‘Why didn’t you call or come to see us?’

‘I was planning to. Tomorrow.’ It was a lame excuse, and I felt the guilt wash over me. But typically my brother did not hold it against me. His smile widened.

‘It’s good to see you, sis.’

I took a deep, stuttering breath to hold the tears at bay. ‘I’ve been trying to phone Mum, but there’s no answer.’

‘She’ll have switched the phone off,’ he said. ‘Always does when she goes to bed. I told her I had a key.’

‘So where were you tonight? And what happened?’

The smile vanished and he stared at a point beyond me, his swollen features taut suddenly.

‘I was at Tony’s,’ he said. ‘He’s a friend. Lives up the road near Iceland. We watched a film and I went home late. I’d let myself in and was pouring a glass of milk when someone knocked on the door.’

He stopped to wipe sweat from his brow.

‘When I answered the door there were two men standing there,’ he said. ‘One had a big tattoo on his chest. I could see it because his shirt was open. They asked me if I was Mark Wells and I said yes and then they grabbed me and pulled me out of the house. Their car was parked in front and they pushed me in the back. The one with the tattoo sat next to me while the other one drove. And as soon as we were moving he started punching me in the face.’

He started sobbing so I handed him a glass of water and told him to drink it.

‘Did you know these men?’ I asked him.

He gulped the water, spilling some of it down his chin.

‘I’ve not seen them before,’ he said.

‘So why did they do it? Did they tell you?’

He looked at me and blinked away more tears. ‘The one with the tattoo told me it was another warning to you, Lizzie. Said if you don’t stop dredging up the past then next time they won’t be so … merciful.’

‘Oh fuck.’

‘He also said if you go to the police again he’ll come back and kill me.’

4

The hospital kept Mark in for observation, and I stayed with him. I did my best to extract descriptions of the two men, but all he could remember was that they were both big and mean looking.

‘Like those blokes in black suits who stand outside pubs and clubs in the town centre.’

Heavy dudes in other words. The type who carry out the dirty work for someone else. Someone with the means to pay them well and keep them in check.

Was this the first real sign that I was way out of my depth on this and should heed the warnings that were coming at me thick and fast?

Mark did have a clear recollection of one thing though – the tattoo on his attacker’s chest. And no wonder. It sounded pretty distinctive. A dog baring a set of sharp teeth. It was just the head, he said, peering out from the opening in the guy’s shirt.

‘It was really ugly, sis. The way a dog growls at you as it gets ready to attack.’

It was an unsettling aspect. The man sounded like a scary bastard, just the sort of psycho you don’t want on your case.

The doctor did his rounds at seven. Checked Mark over and gave him the all-clear. No broken bones, no sign of concussion and no internal injuries. Just a few cuts, a couple of bruises and a loose front tooth.

But before he could be discharged a uniformed cop arrived to take a statement. I let him know that Mark had learning difficulties, and he made a note of it. Mark told him exactly what he’d told me and answered all the officer’s questions as best he could.

I then explained my situation and mentioned the note left on the windscreen at the hotel.

‘I want you to inform DCI Ash,’ I said. ‘He’ll want to know about this.’

At nine o’clock a taxi dropped us off outside my mother’s house. I saw her at the kitchen window as we piled out of the cab. The front door was flung open long before we reached it and when she set eyes on her son I thought she was going to have a fit.

‘Marky, Marky. What in the Lord’s name has happened to you? I thought you were in your room.’

She grabbed his shoulders and looked closely at his face. The swollen eye and stitched-up lip. The large plaster on his forehead. Her own face drained of colour and she started to shake violently.

‘Have you had an accident? Are you badly hurt?’

‘He was attacked, Mum,’ I said, ‘but his wounds are not serious.’

She turned to me, and a frown quickly turned to a scowl.

‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in prison? How come you’re with your brother?’

‘Let’s go inside and I’ll explain everything,’ I said.

She pondered this for a second, then put her arm around Mark and led him into the small, cluttered kitchen that was dominated by an ugly pine table with more craters than the moon.

My mother told Mark to sit down while she put the kettle on. He caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back and winked at him.

‘Lizzie stayed with me at the hospital, Mum,’ he said. ‘She took care of me.’

My mother turned away from the sink, kettle in one hand. She looked from Mark to me and pressed her lips together. That was usually a sign that she didn’t know what to say.

‘I tried to call,’ I said. ‘But Mark told me you take the phone off at night.’

She stared at me, pink, watery eyes full of doubt and confusion. I wanted to cross the room to embrace her, tell her not to worry, that everything was going to be fine. But I didn’t because I knew she’d only pull away. So I just stood there, knowing that what had happened to Mark was going to be another nail in the coffin of our relationship.

The last time I saw her was at Leo’s funeral. She’d lost weight since then from her short, stocky frame. Her face had hollowed out and the harsh lines and bloodless lips made her look older than her fifty-four years. The hair didn’t help. She’d stopped putting colour on it and it was now grey and lifeless.

Ours had always been a strained relationship. I was convinced that to begin with it was because my father doted on me, and she resented not being the centre of his world, even for that brief period. After he died she retreated into herself and what little affection she demonstrated towards me dried up completely. Then came Mark’s head injury, which she blamed on me. She said I’d attracted the attention of the boys by wearing a disgracefully short skirt and heavy make-up. I was fourteen at the time and wanted nothing more than to be like the other girls. But my mother didn’t see it that way.

Having found God everything to her was black and white. She became boorish and intolerant. She never took into account my raging hormones and teenage insecurities. And as I got older nothing changed. Whatever I did she disapproved of. And that had a good deal to do with why I went off the rails.

I stopped caring about what she thought of me. I ignored her advice and became more and more argumentative. Sometimes when she lectured me from her invisible pulpit I’d laugh in her face. If I was high on drugs I’d scream and swear at her. A couple of times she reacted by crying, but mostly she’d just shake her head and tell me I should be ashamed of myself.

Whenever I did try to be nice she would become suspicious because she’d assume I was only doing it because I wanted something. And most times she was right.

Her motherly instincts did kick in for a while, though, when my sorry excuse for a boyfriend walked out on me three months before Leo was born. She even invited me to move back in, but I couldn’t see that working so I stayed put in the flat, gave birth to Leo and tried to hold down a succession of dead-end jobs from barmaid to cleaner. It was hard and depressing and the money, even with tax credits, was barely enough to live on. That’s when the debts piled up and I tried to blank out my woes with drink and drugs.

I knew my life had spiralled out of control when I arrived at my mum’s one night to pick up Leo. I was rat-arsed. There was a scene, and she slapped my face. I deserved it too and it made me realise that I had to do something. The next day I saw Ruby Gillespie’s newspaper ad for escorts. I thought it would be a way out. Do it for a time to get on my feet, like a lot of women do. Some hope!

My mother came to see me in the police cell after I was arrested. Until then she didn’t know I’d become a prostitute. She was appalled, told me I was the devil’s child, whatever that meant. And she made it clear that she thought I was guilty of murder, which really hurt.

She took care of Leo when I went inside but refused to bring him to see me. She just couldn’t let go of the grief and the shame. When I demanded to see him she threatened to have him put into care. But I couldn’t allow that because I knew she loved him and would care for him even though I was dead to her. I did ask the authorities if I could have him with me in the prison’s Mother and Baby Unit, but my application was rejected on the grounds that my crime was so serious and I was a known drug user.

I vowed to emerge from the pit of despair a changed woman. I set myself objectives. Hold down a proper job. Make things right with Mum. Ensure my boy had a good life.

But then he got a headache and all my plans and aspirations died with him.

‘So are you gonna tell me what happened or are you just gonna stand there and stare at me all frigging evening?’

My mother’s voice wrenched me back to the present. The trip down memory lane had shaken me. I took a deep breath and told her everything.

I was standing in Leo’s bedroom, which used to be mine. The last time I was here was that evening when I dropped him off before going to the hotel and my session with Rufus Benedict. I told my mother I was going to work in the club, and I told Leo I’d see him in the morning.

I remembered how I tickled him and he got the giggles. And then how he waved at me as I walked out the door. My head was full of such memories and I cherished them even though they upset me from time to time.

His room looked no different. My mother had decided to leave everything as it was. Bright pink walls and matching carpet. Paddington Bear curtains. A shrine to her dead grandson, something tangible to sustain the hatred she felt for me.

The bed was made and I choked up at the sight of the Donald Duck duvet cover. My mother bought it in the Disney store in Southampton along with the bedside lamp and some of the cuddly toys lined up on the shelves.

On one wall was a large framed photo of my son on that first Christmas. He was sitting in his high chair stuffing peas into his mouth. His round blue eyes stared out at me, full of love and trust and it was all I could do not to collapse in a heap on the floor.

There were things in here I wanted to take with me to my new home when I eventually found somewhere permanent to live. But that would have to wait.

I backed out of the room, too emotional to stay any longer. I could hear my mother in the kitchen, still crying. That was why I’d come upstairs. She’d lost her temper and had shouted at me. But I felt she had good reason to lay into me. This time I was to blame for what had happened to Mark. They – whoever they were – had used my brother to get at me. A crude and cowardly threat, but one that was nonetheless prompted by my determination to find out who had stitched me up.

‘I think you should move out for a while, Mum,’ I’d said. ‘You and Mark might not be safe here. Can you go to Aunt Glenda’s?’

That was when she exploded. Said I was a worthless, troublesome daughter and God would punish me. She broke down in tears and I walked out, knowing she’d dig her heels in and expect me to change my mind. And that created a dilemma for me because I didn’t want to. Seeing that Christmas picture of Leo had only strengthened my resolve. I couldn’t stop thinking that if I hadn’t gone to prison he’d still be alive.

I stood on the landing listening to my mother and wondering what was unfolding here. I must have put the fear of God into someone by coming back to Southampton and making my intentions known. Hence the note on the windscreen, and the attack on Mark. But why did they fear me? Was it because they thought I might actually find out who really killed Rufus Benedict?

My mother was still crying when I left the house. She refused to talk to me except to say that she was staying put and that she would never forgive me if those men did further harm to Mark.

I gave my brother my new mobile number and told him to be careful.

‘Stay indoors for a few days and call me if you see those men again,’ I said.

‘Will we be all right, sis?’

‘’Course you will, bruv. I won’t let them hurt you again.’

I phoned Scar and told her I was walking home, but she insisted on picking me up. She already knew what Mark had told me because I’d phoned her from the hospital, and she’d listened without comment. But once I was in the car it was a different story.

‘So there you have it,’ she said. ‘This insane quest has to stop. You’re putting the lives of your family in danger.’