The Pornographer's Wife Page 2

  “Pornography?” Mary asked after a moment, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

  “Erotic photography,” Andy replied, “or... well, yeah, porn. I heard about it from a mate. You hire the girl, take some photos, and then you sell 'em through ads in the backs of magazines. There's people out there who're absolutely gagging for this stuff, and they'll pay serious money for pictures that are more extreme than the rags you get in the newsagent. I'm also thinking of branching out into videos.”

  “Videos of things like this?” Mary asked, taking the photos from Donald and looking through them.

  “You can get a video camera for less than a grand,” Andy replied, “and in this economy, there's no shortage of girls willing to drop their knickers for some cash in hand. It's a buyer's market. Or rather, a wanker's market.”

  “And this got you a Rolex?” Donald asked. “Seriously?”

  “The money comes pouring in,” he continued. “Granted, there was a bit of luck involved, but I invested heavily in the adverts and now I've got a bit of a name for myself. I'm actually thinking of hiring someone just to open the envelopes and cash the cheques. Seriously, that's how -”

  Before he could finish, the three of them heard a groan from the drunk girl at the table, and they stepped back just in time to avoid the splatter as she turned and vomited against the wall. She let out a demonic moan in the process, and it was clear that she was out of her mind on alcohol. Still leaning over the side of the table, she seemed to be falling asleep again as more vomit dribbled from her mouth.

  “Nice,” Andy muttered.

  “Poor thing,” Mary replied, stepping over the puddle and helping the girl to lean back in her chair. “Who allows themselves to get into such a state?”

  “Some cheap little slapper by the looks of her,” Andy suggested with a dirty smile.

  “There's no way you're making all this money from a bunch of dirty photos,” Donald said, taking the pictures again and looking through them. “The whole thing's insane.”

  “It's a growth industry,” Andy replied. “I was even talking to this guy who was telling me about something called the internet. He reckons in ten years' time, you'll be able to get porn straight to your computer.”

  “What,” Donald asked, “like... actual photos on discs?”

  “Not on discs. It's better than that, you'd get them down your phone-line, the same way you get a phone call..”

  “Huh?”

  “I know. Magic, eh?”

  “Porn down your phone line? What kind of a bloody paradise would that be, eh?”

  “Don't ask me to explain,” Andy continued with a shrug, “because when it comes to the technical side of things, I'm totally -”

  “Incoming!” Mary shouted, holding the drunk girl's hair back as she vomited against, this time spraying the floor as far as the door.

  “These are new shoes!” Andy replied, stepping back to the other side of the kitchen. “Jesus Christ, they're crocodile skin!”

  “It's okay,” Mary told the girl as she grabbed some tissues and wiped her chin clean. “Maybe we should think about getting you home. What's your name?”

  “Uther-flub...” the girl muttered, not even opening her eyes.

  “Who is she?” Mary asked, turning to the others. “Anyone know?”

  Andy shrugged.

  “Uther-flub,” the girl groaned. “So... So... Spangle...”

  “We should find out where she lives and take her home,” Mary continued, turning to Donald. “It's not right for her to be alone like this, she might... Well, you hear stories, don't you? Girls get into all sorts of trouble when they're drunk, it's not safe.” Slipping the girl's purse out of her pocket, she opened it and found a slip of paper. “A giro,” she said, holding it up for the others. “It's got her name and address on it, see? Sarah Cole, Southfields.”

  “You wanna shove her in a taxi?” Donald asked. “Lot of effort for someone we don't know.”

  “We can't do that, it's not safe. We should get her to her door.”

  “Wouldn't that mean leaving the party?”

  “Look at her!”

  “Fine.” Checking his watch, Donald sighed before turning to Andy. “It's late, we'll probably just head home after this. Just...” He looked down at the photos for a moment. “Are these really legal?”

  “As long as you stick to a few rules, there's nothing wrong with 'em at all. Any mug could do it.”

  “Help me with her,” Mary muttered as she tried to haul the drunk girl to her feet. “Come on, Sarah. Everything's going to be okay. We're just going to get you home. We'll look after you, I promise.”

  ***

  “Whole bloody flat stinks like chips,” Donald muttered an hour later as he stood in the cramped front room, surrounded by dirty plates and cushions. The lights were off and remained that way, even though he flicked the light switch a few times. “Who the hell lives in a tip like this?”

  From the bathroom, there was the sound of the girl vomiting again.

  “You sure we can't just leave her?” he called through to Mary. “She's not our responsibility!”

  “Of course we can't leave her,” she shouted back, “she could choke!”

  “And that would be such a tragedy because...” Picking his way across the front room, he lit a cigarette and looked out the window. They were on the top floor of one of South London's most notorious tower-blocks, a rundown cathedral of concrete and metal that had been home to a couple of high-profile murders over the previous few months. As he stood and stared out at the panoramic view of the city, Donald could hear police sirens in the distance and he paused for a moment as he took a drag on the cigarette, lost in thought as he contemplated the vast sky that wouldn't see the Tellarus comet again for another three decades. “There's people out there making tons of money,” he muttered, “while the rest of us mugs are getting left behind. There comes a point in a man's life where he either has to make something of himself or accept that he's just another non-entity.”

  In the bathroom, the girl threw up yet again.

  “Jesus,” Donald said, turning to look over at the door, “is she puking or exorcising a bloody demon in there?”

  Spotting a bra hanging on the edge of a chair, he wandered over and picked it up.

  “Poverty,” he muttered to himself, giving the bra a sniff. “People living like animals, and it's getting worse. It doesn't matter how hard you work, you can still end up down in the pits, and then how do you get out?” He glanced across the room. “There's no hope for people like this. They either die young or they just sorta rot in the head. After the terminal decline sets in, anyway, and then they're gone. Totally bloody useless to society.”

  “Are you talking to yourself?” Mary called through to him.

  “Just giving a soliloquy, darling,” he replied. “You know my rabid interest in social issues.”

  “I think she's finished,” Mary continued. “There can't be anything left in her, can you help me get her into bed? And try to find a clean glass, she needs water!”

  A few minutes later, as they carried the unconscious girl into the bedroom and laid her on the dirty, unmade bed, Donald couldn't help looking around at the discarded clothes all over the floor. Taking another drag on his cigarette, he wandered over to the wardrobe and looked inside, only to see more clothes stuffed into overflowing boxes.

  “Have you ever noticed,” he said, turning to Mary, “how sometimes the poorest people are the ones with the most stuff? It's just, all of it's cheap crap.”

  “She's going to feel awful in the morning,” Mary replied, carefully moving the girl's hair from across her face. “Do you think we should leave a note for her?”

  “Saying what? Don't get wasted, you dumb slapper?”

  “Don't be like that,” Mary replied, stepping over to him. “You don't know what this girl might have been through, people don't just decline like this without a reason.”

  “You know your problem?” he said, putting an ar
m around her waist. “You care too much. I know what you're like, Mary. You'll be thinking about this girl for days, worrying if she's okay, when the truth is there's nothing anyone can do. Some people are built to succeed, and others...” He offered her the cigarette, but she shook her head. “If I ever do get into politics,” he continued, “I won't be one of those bleeding heart liberals. We need to sort this country out again, make people work. No-one benefits from having people like this slopping about.”

  “Leave her be,” Mary replied, taking his hand and leading him out of the bedroom before grabbing the door handle and looking back at the bed. “Sweet dreams,” she said finally, before pulling the door shut on the darkened room.

  TODAY

  “That's him,” Sophie said excitedly as she pointed at the portrait in the study. “That's Dad. Can't you kind of tell what a brilliant man he was?”

  “Yeah,” Tom replied non-committally, making a poor job of trying to seem interested.

  As Mary followed them into the room, she couldn't help but note the rabbit-in-the-headlights look on the poor boy's face, and it was clear that he was surprised by the depths of Sophie's love for her late father. The house tour was already in full swing but every stop so far had been centred on the legacy of the great Donald Heaton. Mary would have felt rather ignored if it wasn't for the fact that she'd long ago accepted her daughter's tendency to hero-worship the man. Sophie had always been her Daddy's little girl.

  Tom, on the other hand, was clearly struggling to keep up.

  “Dad was pretty big in Whitehall,” Sophie continued, heading over to the desk – undisturbed since Donald's death, at her request – and grabbing the gold fountain pen from its holder. “They gave him this when he left, as a sign of their appreciation. They don't do that for just anyone, you know. This thing is real gold.”

  “Cool,” Tom replied as Sophie approached him with the pen. He reached out to take it, but she pulled back for a moment before relenting and allowing him to hold the pen himself.

  “Be careful,” she told him.

  “It's... heavy.”

  “It's worth thousands of pounds,” she explained with wide-eyed enthusiasm. “They usually only give those things to cabinet members, but my Dad was considered to be one of the best civil servants in the whole country ever! Can you imagine that? The British government actually valued my Dad so highly, they gave him a gift when he left! That says something about him, doesn't it? He also got to go to Buckingham Palace and meet the queen!” She paused for a moment, as if she was lost in memories of her father. “He wasn't just a civil servant, though,” she said suddenly. “Before all that, he made his money as an entrepreneur, he was a real self-made man. He started a company selling suits.”

  “Suits?” Tom replied.

  “Suits. That's right, Mum, isn't it?”

  “Absolutely,” Mary said quickly. “Suits, suits and more suits. But let's not bore Tom with all this talk about the past.” She forced a smile, even though she was struggling to think about anything apart from the letter she'd received earlier. She'd always been so good at staying calm in a crisis, but this time she felt as if she had no control whatsoever.

  “Apparently he was really good at it,” Sophie continued obliviously. “It was selling suits that gave him enough money to start his life in politics. Smart, huh? I've always meant to do some proper research into exactly how Dad's business worked, he was always kind of vague about the details when I asked him -”

  “Maybe we should end the tour here,” Mary cut in, figuring that she should perhaps rescue Tom from the situation and avoid any awkward follow-up questions. “I'm sure there'll be time to tell Tom all about your father at a later date.”

  “Oh, I've already told him,” Sophie continued, taking the pen back and carefully returning it to its holder. “He knows all the stories.”

  “I know all the stories,” Tom replied, turning to Mary with a hint of fear in his eyes. “Actually, do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Down the hall and to the left,” she told him, and then she watched as he hurried out of the room with noticeable haste. “Sophie,” she continued, turning to her daughter, “I know you loved your father very much, but at this rate you're going to scare poor Tom away. Let the poor boy breathe, for God's sake.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked with a nervous smile. “I just want him to get to know my life, that's all, and Dad's still an important part of that. I wish he could have met him face to face, I'm sure they'd have got on really well. Do you think Tom has some of Dad's qualities, by the way? I don't mean physically, more... he has the same kind of attitude, like a kind of quiet confidence. Confidence is so important in a man, don't you think?”

  “I do,” Mary replied, although she hadn't really spotted any hint of Donald's personality in Tom.

  “Do you like him, though?” Sophie asked. “I mean, don't just fob me off 'cause I'll totally be able to tell. Do you really think he's okay?”

  “Yes,” Mary lied, even though she felt there was something a little 'off' about the boy, something she couldn't quite isolate yet. “He seems lovely, as far as modern young men go. I must confess, though, that I haven't really got the species quite worked out yet. So much has changed since my day.”

  “We've only been going out for three months,” Sophie continued, “but I really think he's something special. He's got this reliable, dependable quality about him that's lacking in so many guys. He's the same age as me, but sometimes I feel like his soul is older, like I can trust him completely.”

  “You didn't tell me you've been dating someone for three months.”

  “I wanted to give it time. You know, let it bed in before I start making a fuss.”

  “That's probably wise. I still wish you'd warned me you were bringing him home with you, though. It's thrown out all my plans for dinner, I had a casserole prepared and now there might not be enough, which means bulking it up with something, but I don't think I have anything to hand.”

  “You worry too much,” Sophie replied, making her way across the room and putting her arms around her mother. “Dad always kept you from going into overdrive when he was around.”

  “He did?” Mary asked, somewhat surprised by the idea.

  “How are you doing?” Sophie continued, taking a step back. “Are you managing okay by yourself?”

  “I'm getting by.”

  “Getting by isn't enough, Mum. Are you actually enjoying life? I know it must be hard, what with Dad suddenly gone like that, but I hope you're filling your days with something. I'm just sorry I can't be around more, but uni's getting really intense and soon I've got my final exams coming up, then there's the dissertation and then I have to think about what to do next.”

  “You've got your own life,” Mary told her, putting an arm around her shoulder and leading her out of the room, making sure to pull the door shut behind them. “Don't worry about me. It's been almost six months since your father's death and honestly, I'm getting along perfectly adequately. I'm more worried about you.”

  “Me? What's wrong with me?”

  “The same thing that's always been wrong with you: hero worship. Except now your hero is dead.”

  “Dad wasn't my hero.”

  “Oh, yes he was. He still is. Just remember that nobody's perfect, not even your father.”

  “So why don't you tell me what's really wrong?” Sophie asked as they reached the kitchen.

  “There's nothing wrong.”

  “When I arrived earlier,” Sophie continued, “you were absolutely fine, but then when you came back into the house something had changed. I know you, Mum, and I can tell when there's something on your mind.”

  “There's nothing,” Mary replied, self-consciously reaching into her pocket to double-check that the threatening letter was still safe. She knew she had to deal with it at some point, perhaps even take it to the police, but for now she was determined to make sure that Sophie didn't get a whiff of trouble.
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  “There, Mum. I can see it right now, in your eyes. You look almost guilty about something.”

  “Absolute rot,” Mary replied. “I'm just thinking about dinner, that's all, and how to accommodate this extra guest at the table. I suppose I'll have to go to the shop and get some more supplies. Will you two be okay here along for an hour or so?”

  “Totally. I was thinking I'd get out the old videos and show Tom one of Dad's big speeches.”

  “Are you sure that's a good idea? You don't want to bore the poor boy to tears.”

  “Bore him? How could he be bored? Dad's speeches were brilliant!”

  “I suppose so,” Mary muttered. She made her way to the fridge and pulled the door open, before taking a moment to work out what she'd need to buy for dinner. In the other part of the house, the toilet could be heard flushing.

  “I'm proud of you,” Sophie said suddenly.

  “For what, dear?”

  “For keeping going.”

  “Whatever else should I have done?” she asked, turning to her daughter. “Should I have been sealed into your father's tomb with him, so I could serve as his handmaiden in the next life?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I'm not sure I do.”

  “It just must be so hard,” Sophie continued, “what with Dad having been the steady rock in your life.”

  “The steady what?”

  “I could tell,” she added. “Everyone knows how you two were, there's no need to be embarrassed. Dad was just that kind of person. Stoic, strong, dependable... You always knew you could rely on him, and now suddenly he's gone.”

  “Absolutely,” Mary replied, reaching into her pocket and feeling the carefully-folded note that she'd received in the mail a few hours ago. “Yes, your father was certainly... dependable.”

  Reaching into her pocket yet again, she felt the letter still folded neatly. She'd been too scared all day to look at it again, but also too scared to throw it away. She knew she could only really react one way, the same way as ever: she would simply roll with the punches and adapt to whatever was thrown at her.