Devil in Disguise Page 4

  ‘They didn’t make you?’

  ‘They couldn’t. I’d have run away. I spent a few weeks with foster-parents occasionally, but I saw to it that I was sent back to the home. To me, those foster-homes were a holiday, nothing permanent.’

  ‘I longed to be adopted,’ said Simon, imagining the glamour of auditioning new parents, perusing their bank statements and asking if they had a swimming-pool.

  ‘I didn’t. I was staying put in case my mother wanted me.’

  ‘And did she?’

  Molly’s voice went very low and quiet. ‘No, as it happens.’

  ‘Do you know who she was?’ asked Simon, gently.

  ‘I remember her,’ said Molly, with the first echo of sadness in her voice. ‘People thought I wouldn’t because I was so young when I went into care, but my memories from before then are a lot more vivid than people assume. When you’re five, you take in a great deal. She was called Susan, and she had brown hair. She cried a lot. Screamed when they took me away. I can still hear her howling my name as they bundled me down the stairs and into a car. Two policewomen were holding her back, gripping her wrists.’

  ‘Why, though? Why did they take you from her?’

  ‘That I don’t know. I was hungry all the time. I remember that. She obviously wasn’t coping. A five-year-old’s memory, vivid as it is, doesn’t really deal in facts, just feelings and emotions. I don’t know if it was drugs or what. I was at risk, that was all the authorities needed to know, so they took me away.’

  They sat on a bench high on Greenwich Hill, looking down at the elegant white pillars of the old Royal Naval College.

  ‘And your father?’ asked Simon, his ears freezing in the frosty air.

  ‘That’s a complete blank,’ said Molly. ‘He doesn’t feature at all in my memory. There’s a whole scenario that I made up when I was about thirteen to comfort myself. I decided that my mother worked in a flower shop and he was a married man who came in every Friday on his way home from work to buy roses for his wife. They fell in love and began an illicit affair, and she got pregnant with me but didn’t tell him. To stop his wife suspecting, he still came in every Friday for her roses, and my mother, in her jealous misery, would press her hands into the thorns and smear the stems with her blood. Because there were other people in the shop they had to remain civil and polite, but they gave each other sad, passionate looks as she rang the till and handed him his change. Then he left the shop and, because he was crying, stepped into the road, right under the wheels of a bus.’

  ‘How terribly tragic!’ exclaimed Simon.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ agreed Molly. ‘Then, of course, I was born. Just imagine. It was 1978. Susan was an unmarried, not to say broken-hearted mother, struggling to cope with her grief, and it all became too much for her.’

  ‘Did she take to drink?’ asked Simon, caught up in the drama of the story.

  ‘Worse than that. Drugs.’

  ‘No!’ said Simon, horrified.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘It was the only way to numb the pain, I expect,’ concluded Simon.

  ‘That’s what I told myself,’ said Molly, turning her bright eyes on her new friend. Her tone changed to plain and brutal. ‘On the other hand she might have been a common prostitute and my father some sweaty car mechanic.’

  ‘I think it was quite different. Your father was a visiting Hollywood star with a penchant for sordid sex in a lay-by,’ said Simon, countering her dejection with some flighty energy. ‘After a hard day’s filming at Pinewood your soon-to-be father indulged himself with a spot of kerb crawling … He was stunned by your mother’s beauty and paid an extra flyer to take his pleasure without the protection of a condom. Stardom’s in your genes!’

  Molly laughed. ‘So my mum was a prostitute, not a flower-seller?’

  ‘No,’ Simon said hastily. ‘She was a beautiful girl down on her luck, who couldn’t resist the power of your father’s fame and sex appeal.’

  ‘Well, that would never happen.’

  ‘Why not? It’s just as likely as your story. Why shouldn’t it?’

  Molly looked thoughtful, then beamed at him. ‘You’re right. Thank you, Si. Somehow you’ve just made the world a better place for me to live in.’

  ‘It’s a great pleasure,’ said Simon, taking Molly’s gloved hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘Any time you’re feeling sad about the world just come and see me. I’ll confirm your worst fears.’

  ‘You can turn sweaty car mechanics into film stars,’ said Molly.

  ‘It’s a gift,’ agreed Simon, with a shrug.

  ‘That one,’ said Simon.

  ‘With the broken nose? Surely not.’

  ‘Yes. Him. I simply have to have him.’

  Simon and Molly were drinking in the student-union bar, settled in a corner seat where they could study everyone coming and going. It was eight o’clock in the evening and they had been there since they’d decided not to bother with a lecture on the metaphysical poets that had been scheduled to start at three. After a couple of glasses of wine, Molly had felt rather squiffy and switched to water, but Simon was downing the half—price cider like there was no tomorrow. As they had become closer, it had dawned on Molly that Simon’s drinking was excessive. They went to the pub most days between lectures and he could easily manage two pints of lager to her modest half. In the evenings, if he wasn’t getting pissed in the student bar, he was off to Soho, doing much the same thing. His drinking seemed inextricably linked with his reckless pursuit of unlikely sexual conquests. Now he was staring at the bar, where some members of the college rugby team were having a post-training drink. He was transfixed by one particularly rugged individual.

  ‘I think he’s too rough,’ said Molly, a note of caution in her voice. ‘He looks as if he’d beat you to a pulp as soon as look at you.’

  ‘Mmm …’ said Simon, shuddering with pleasure at the thought. ‘Now you’re talking.’

  ‘You’ll end up like Joe Orton if you’re not careful.’

  ‘It wasn’t rough trade who took a hammer to him, was it? Look. He’s having another bottle of beer.’

  ‘He just burped!’

  Simon sighed. ‘He gets better.’

  ‘Well, he’s doing nothing for me.’

  ‘Go and talk to him. Find out his name for me.’

  ‘I’m not procuring for you! Ask him yourself. But you’re barking up the wrong tree, honey. In fact you’re in the wrong bloody forest. Those blokes are red-blooded heterosexuals to a man — look at them!’

  ‘The boundaries of male desire are not so easily categorised. The fact that he’s just been pumping iron or laying into a punch-bag or whatever they do in the gym means testosterone is pumping around his gorgeous body. He’s also halfway through his third bottle of Becks so his judgement is affected.’

  ‘He’ll need more than a couple of jars to mistake you for a page-three girl, Simon.’

  Simon stared at her. ‘Believe me, I know. Everything will work out very nicely. I’m going to the bar. Are you ready for another exciting glass of fizzy water?’

  ‘Yes, please. Try and show some restraint. He’ll swing for you if you proposition him. I don’t want to spend the rest of the evening escorting you to A and E.’

  Simon stood up, cleared his throat and sauntered his way to the bar, a foxy glint in his eye. Molly watched her friend, drunk and reckless, as he stalked his prey. The rugby player was sitting on a bar stool, his chunky thighs spread wide. Simon slipped in beside him, waving his five-pound note at the barman while the boy, oblivious, carried on laughing and joking with his friends. Molly watched as Simon placed his order, then tapped his quarry’s shoulder. He half turned to Simon, then swivelled round to face him and they shook hands. A friendly, animated conversation took place. The barman then delivered Simon’s cider and Simon clearly offered his new friend a drink, which was accepted and a further order placed. Then Simon turned and nodded towards Molly. The rugby player looked over. She gave a we
ak wave. Simon must then have said something very funny indeed as the boy let out a loud, hard laugh, before giving Simon a slap on the shoulder. She saw him blink slowly at this, savouring the touch as if he were a lame man touched by the Messiah.

  Molly smiled to herself. Despite her reservations, which were not moral in any way — rather, old-fashioned concern for Simon’s physical well-being — it was hard not to get involved in the excitement. There was never a dull moment with Simon, and she had a ringside seat. To anyone else watching, they were just two lads having a drink at the bar, but she had privileged information. She knew of Simon’s carnal desires, his determination to seduce and devour the poor broken-nosed innocent. Her friend was completely focused, she could see. It wasn’t a whim or a bet, this slow, calculated entrapment. It was clearly of great importance to Simon. The longer the build-up, the greater the prize.

  Her own emotional needs were quite different. Endless one-night stands had no appeal for her. She craved the tenderness of real lovemaking, with the emphasis on ‘love’. She wanted a partnership: the knowledge that he would be there tomorrow, that he cared for her and would look out for her. The fireworks of sex and lust were just part of the package.

  Simon was now talking earnestly to the boy and holding up one finger. His companion nodded in agreement and called to the barman, as Simon tore himself away and hurried over to Molly. He spoke quietly and urgently in her ear, like a double agent imparting vital information: ‘Nick King. Second year geography. Hooker. We’re going back to his to smoke a spliff.’

  ‘Oh. Are we?’

  ‘Me and him. You’ve got an essay to write.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Why can’t I come too?’

  ‘Because I told him you have herpes.’

  ‘You what?’ Molly said, outraged.

  ‘Only joking. But, darling, you do understand, don’t you? I sense fire in his loins. The gods are smiling on me.’

  ‘I feel as if I’m watching some poor lamb go to the slaughter.’

  ‘He smells of soap, chewing-gum and lager. A potent combination, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  ‘How do you think he’s going to feel in the morning?’

  ‘Sore, hopefully.’

  With that, Simon kissed her goodnight, pulled her to her feet and propelled her in the direction of the door.

  ‘Bye-bye, baby!’ she sang, as she left the bar.

  Simon didn’t turn up for the morning lecture. He was waiting for her in the refectory afterwards, though, and looked disgustingly hung-over.

  ‘I hope it was worth it,’ said Molly, tutting, as she looked him up and down.

  ‘Let’s go to the pub,’ was Simon’s reply.

  ‘You’ve got the same clothes on as yesterday.’

  ‘I may never wash again. The Rosemary Branch is calling me.’

  Molly laughed and stood up. ‘Come on, then, you old lush. Let’s go and get tanked up once again.’

  But a few drinks later, although Simon was drunk and his mood euphoric, he still wouldn’t spill any beans about the presumed success of the previous night with Nick.

  ‘So. How was he?’ Molly asked.

  ‘I never kiss and tell,’ said Simon.

  ‘Ah! So you kissed him!’ declared Molly.

  ‘Darling, I didn’t go back to a hail of residence in Catford to look at his etchings. My lips are sealed, though.’

  Try as she might, Molly could get no more details from him.

  ‘All too sordid for your unaccustomed ears, I’m afraid,’ Simon would say.

  Occasionally Molly would be out with Simon and, if the mood took him, he would fixate on a random man in a crowd. It could happen in a nightclub, a crowded train or even a supermarket queue. A predatory look came into his eyes and she only had to follow his gaze to see a handsome off-duty soldier, unmistakeable with his regulation army haircut and well-ironed civvies, or a gum-chewing East End hoodie. Anything might happen in the next few moments. It was not unknown for Simon to abandon her altogether. More often than not he would go off for a few minutes and return sniffing indifferently, as if he was a market shopper and the produce well below expectations. ‘Now, where were we?’ he’d ask.

  Simon’s view of Molly’s more conventional approach to romance was decidedly dismissive. Her first boyfriend, Jezza, had also been an inmate at the care home in Liverpool. They had been inseparable and moved into a flat together when she was sixteen, she had told him, but Simon stifled a yawn. ‘How nice for you, ‘he said. ‘Did you curl up together on the sofa to watch TV and eat food covered with breadcrumbs?’

  ‘Well, yes, we did, actually,’ replied Molly, rather chagrined that such a significant relationship in her life was clearly failing to hold Simon’s interest.

  ‘I thought as much. And did you sleep under a cheap Paisley duvet cover and acquire a kitten by any chance?’

  ‘You’re awful and I don’t know why I like you. We had a canary.’

  ‘You were nesting. Making the home you never had. Feeling grown-up.’

  ‘I loved Jezza, Simon. Why must you belittle that?’

  ‘I guess convention nauseates me.’

  ‘It’s your love life that’s nauseating to most right-thinking people!’

  ‘Let’s not call it a love life, Molls. A series of unlikely fleeting triumphs, yes, but I have no dealings with love.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I loved that boy. I’d have done anything for him.’

  ‘Aw. I’m filling up. So where is he now?’

  ‘I was at sixth-form college, studying hard for my A levels. He robbed an off-licence with some mates of his. He got five years.’

  ‘So you’d do anything for him except wait?’

  ‘I would have waited, but he told me not to.’

  ‘So much for love. What happened to the canary?’

  ‘It flew out of the window.’

  ‘It all worked out quite well, then.’

  Although they were enjoying themselves hugely at college, Simon and Molly had to face stern reality when it came to their dismal academic performance. Their course work — what little they did of it — was marked with withering scorn by their tutors. Eventually, at the end of the second term, they were called in to see the head of English, who told them that the university was not a holiday camp and unless they concentrated their efforts he saw little point in them continuing. Afterwards they sat in the refectory and tried unsuccessfully to jolly each other along.

  ‘I’m sure Goldsmiths will be very quick to take all the credit once we’re rich and famous. That man’s a nasty, vindictive old fool,’ said Simon.

  ‘They’ll be naming the library after us one day, mark my words,’ said Molly, less vehemently. She was a little more worried about her future. After all, she had come to university to get a degree so that she could make her own way in the world. Without it, what would she do?

  ‘If he thinks we’re wasting our time here maybe he’s right. Let’s take our talent elsewhere.’

  ‘Really?’ Molly was wide-eyed. ‘You mean… leave?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  She considered it. She knew that Simon’s approach to life was much freer than hers. He’d arrived on a whim and perhaps he would leave on one too. The prospect of university without him was too grim to contemplate for a second.

  ‘Come on, Molly.’ Simon’s eyes were sparking. He had sensed adventure, she knew. ‘You’re fabulous and talented and you don’t need an English degree to be a star. And I certainly don’t need one. I have other, rarer qualifications. Let’s chuck this in. It’s been fun, but real life is waiting for us out there. Let’s go and get it.’

  ‘But where shall we go?’

  ‘To Hollywood!’

  ‘Hollywood?’

  ‘All right, then, Cricklewood.’

  ‘To the pub, more like!’ Molly laughed.

  ‘Come on, then. Are you game?’ Simon widened his eyes, daring her to seize the
day.

  ‘Yes,’ she said decisively. ‘I am.’

  ‘Good. Then let us offload. Amen.’

  There and then they emptied their bags of anything to do with course work, leaving books and files and pens on the table, and hooted their way out of college for ever. As a parting gesture, they stood on the steps by the main front door and did a dozen Tiller-Girl high kicks. With each one, Molly gave an operatic note full vent. Then they ran out of the gate, glad to be gone, thrilled to be free.

  As dramatic and exciting as that moment had been, reality kicked in when they had to move out of their halls of residence and hand back their grants. But they did their best to keep their bubble inflated. Simon contacted some pre-university friends of his who told him of a room going in a squat at Elephant and Castle. He and Molly moved into it together, sleeping top to tail on an old mattress in their sleeping-bags. It was cold and squalid but they kept each other laughing, determined as ever to triumph in the end, reminding each other through chattering teeth that they were special, destined for greatness, sure to succeed.

  Nevertheless, the exultation they had felt at abandoning their university education did not last for ever. Life in the Elephant and Castle squat was no fun, and when their fellow squatters got deeply into drugs, it was so boring that they decided to move on. Simon found them another, better place to live, in a large Victorian mansion in Lorrimore Square, Kennington, where they occupied adjoining rooms on the top floor. It was an established squat, run collectively with weekly house meetings. There was even a cleaning rota and a house kitty for toilet rolls and tea-bags. All in all, it was a very friendly and well-organised community. Nine other people lived in the house and the general atmosphere was one of New Age niceness, and respect for each other and the property they were ‘looking after’.

  ‘This is dead nice,’ said Molly when they first went to look at it. ‘Makes a bit of a change from the dog shit and used needles we’re used to.’ She’d been becoming a little depressed in their last place, wondering if she’d made a really serious mistake in leaving university. The improvement in their standard of living restored some of her usual cheerfulness. They moved in as soon as they could.