Killer Tease Read online

  © Danny Hogan 2009

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain by Pulp Press

  All paper used in the printing of this book has been made from wood grown in managed, sustainable forests.

  ISBN13: 978-1-906710-41-5

  Printed and bound in the UK

  Pulp Press is an imprint of Indepenpress Publishing Limited

  25 Eastern Place

  Brighton

  BN2 1GJ

  A catalogue record of this book is available from

  the British Library

  Cover design by Alex Young www.brainofalexyoung.com

  Acknowledgments

  I wouldn’t have got this far had it not been for the support of my mum, dad and family; the O’Neills, the Burkes, the Deutroms, the Pulmans and the Big Modge.

  Thanks to Umi Singh who taught me the ropes of creative writing at the University of Sussex.

  Thanks also to my mates who helped out when I had nothing: Nicola, Rebecca, Alex, Nathalie, Wayne, Katie, Emily Jane, Amy and Crazy Chris Clarkson.

  A special shout out goes to the old school boys, Tarik, Brian, Jimmy Ovens, Steve Gundog, Herve and all of Deadline, The Business, The Last Resort, Agnostic Front, Madball, Knuckledust and Ninebar for maintaining a little of the good old past in the present.

  Especially, thanks to the good folks at Indepenpress for giving me a chance.

  For Kim

  1

  Most men were useless, that was Eloise Murphy’s thinking. So when the square-faced, blond, short-back-and-sides sporting bloke tried to pull her after her set, she felt nothing but revulsion.

  The guy said a whole lot of nothing for a full ten minutes, waving a roll-up around to punctuate his sentences and smirking constantly.

  In her eyes it was one of the clumsiest displays of misdirection Eloise had ever seen. As he was waving his right hand around with the roll-up in, she watched him drop something into a tumbler of booze with his left and pass it to her.

  She took the glass graciously and then smashed it into his face, grinding until she could feel bone and hear him squeal like the bitch he was.

  Looking down at him as he writhed around the floor clutching his face, blood seeping between his fingers, she raised a stiletto above his face and readied herself to finish him off.

  The other Burlesque dancers who were not on stage at the time laughed or shook their heads.

  The customers who witnessed the scene reeled with horror, some vomited. She was vaguely aware of the confusion behind her but didn’t see a man come up from behind. He grabbed her arm and dragged her to a darkened corner, away from prying eyes.

  ‘Christ sake, Eloise,’ he said. ‘That’s the last time.’

  ‘That pillock was trying to get fresh or something, Charlie,’ said Eloise, ‘he dumped a pill in my drink. You would have done the same thing; if you had any balls.’

  ‘Listen…’

  Eloise did not like the serious tone Charlie took.

  ‘…I’m going to have to let you go.’

  ‘What the hell you talking about? I’ve been doing gigs here for four years.’

  ‘We’ve had a good go with you, we really have, but let’s face it; Burlesque these days is a young wo-man’s game. I have a crew of eighteen-year-olds fresh out of Roedean who are chomping at the bit for their turn. You’re pushing thirty now; you’re close to being washed-up. It’s time to call it a day now while you still have some dignity.’

  Her hands formed fists and rage soaked through her like meeting an old friend who was a bad influence. ‘You bastard.’

  Charlie signalled over to a couple of hefty bouncers who walked over and flanked him.

  ‘Eloise, what you want me to say? That’s the second customer you’ve battered this month.’

  ‘You should be more bloody careful who you let in then. Besides, the rule is I dance, the punters watch, they don’t touch. None of these dicks have the right to touch me and if these fat bastards,’ she gestured at the bouncers, ‘did their jobs I wouldn’t have to defend myself.’

  ‘All right, I’ll put it plain for you,’ began Charlie. ‘I’ve found an investor who wants to make some changes around here. You’re getting old and you’re too earthy for the kind of punters we want to start bringing in. The new girls share the same social background as the clients, they feel more comfortable, disadvantage gives them the creeps. Above all, the new girls show way more. These days people want to see what they pay for; the whole shebang, not a hint of tit.’

  ‘But that’s the nature…’

  ‘Eloise, get your bag, get your coat, you’re gone. Non negotiable.’ With that Charlie, the man who had promoted her for four full years, strode away with his bouncers packed tightly around him.

  She felt empty; trapped in a void. The club was packed but everyone seemed a hundred miles away from her. The fact that she was still in her sequinned pasties and underwear made the situation seem worse.

  Backstage, an area where she had been boss, the atmosphere felt cold and unfamiliar. It would have been a plain galley of a room with harsh strip lights, peeling white wallpaper and a musty smell, had it not been for the furnishings. Dressing tables with large, lightbulb ringed mirrors thronged the walls to the left and the right of the entrance. Piles of garishly coloured boas, large feather fans and bespoke corsets hung from every inch of available space. Tubes, powders, creams, elixirs, potions, wipes and all manner of beautification paraphernalia were scattered or neatly stocked across each dressing table. Discarded clothes and shoes formed canyons around the floor.

  The new girls who had, until last week, been studying maths and English in their privileged public schools, kept their backs to her as they muttered between themselves and applied their garish make-up. Eloise briefly considered laying into them. It’d be easy; she’d go through them like a bad curry. But thought better of it; she didn’t have the energy.

  On the backstage CD player they were playing what Eloise took to be some girl group warbling away for all they were worth. She wrenched the CD out, threw it to the floor and put in her favourite Agnostic Front compilation and pressed play. The other girls turned around to look; Eloise glared back at them and waited. Nothing happened. They just turned back around and muttered more quietly to one-another.

  As Eloise was getting into her day clothes (dark blue vintage jeans, a red and white gingham shirt and a pair of black brothel creepers) Jolene May, a six-footer who had been around for nearly as long as she had, entered the dressing room.

  ‘I just heard,’ Jolene said to Eloise. ‘I can’t believe it, Charlie is such a git. I had a right go.’

  ‘Yeah well, ain’t much I can do about it. He had his goons around him the whole time.’

  ‘Listen, if there’s anything I can do?’

  Eloise turned around as she fixed a red bandanna around her jet-black hair. ‘Can you get me a gig somewhere?’

  ‘You know that’ll be pretty hard to do, what with your reputation.’

  ‘This used to be a decent game,’ Eloise said, fastening the bandanna.

  Jolene leant forward and peered at herself in Eloise’s mirror, rectifying an errant smudge of lipstick.

  Eloise hugged her friend and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Keep in touch yeah,’ she said as she grabbed her bag and bomber jacket and left.

  The street was damp with rain as she found herself alone in the co
ld night air. Walking the short walk down Preston Street to the seafront, she passed another group of the new 18-year olds from Roedean.

  ‘We’re in town now, so you and the rest of those old ladies had better get used to it,’ one of them said as she walked by.

  Eloise stopped, dropped her bag and turned. For this girl who dared speak to her so, her short career was over.

  2

  Waking the next morning, Eloise felt a rough but affectionate tongue being dragged across her face. When she opened her eyes she found herself staring into the sly face of her Devon Rex cat, Sinatra. Then all she felt was agony.

  It could have been the Full Moon or the Mash Tun or even the Great Eastern, wherever it was Eloise had gone to drown her sorrows she couldn’t quite remember. All she knew for sure was that she had one hell of a hangover. Disjointed images filled her mind of drink after drink after drink and a lot of shouting, swearing and singing. She grabbed the hem of her quilt and tugged it over her head.

  Lying there for what felt like an age, her booze-addled brain tried to make sense of it all. A loathsome wave of self-pity bore down upon her and upset her already churning stomach. She struggled to get a grip. A lifetime of taking care of herself was her proud legacy and she wasn’t about to go looking for someone else to share the burden or help her out now.

  She grabbed Sinatra, who let out a feline whinge, by the scruff and placed him on the floor. Getting out of bed, she threw some clothes on and left her Kemp Town flat to brave the walk to the Co-Op on the corner to pick up some croissants.

  Back home, Eloise laid her small dining table with fresh coffee, orange juice, the croissants and a cold glass of water with two codeine tablets dissolving in it and sat down for breakfast. As she drank and ate she tapped a pen against a pad and began writing a plan-of-action.

  Listing all the venues that hosted Burlesque nights that she wasn’t barred from, she ended up with three places. For her it was a good effort; she was never one for making lists anyway. She brought the pen up to her lips and closed her eyes. She had to perform again. Sure, she had her day job at the glorified sex shop she worked in during the week but dancing was her reason to be. The truth was she was not really good at anything else. School had been a waste of time. While everyone fought for university places or work experience in accountancy firms she had never really thought of anything she had wanted to do. Until, that was, she saw some old pictures of Gypsy Rose Lee in a retro store one day and that was it. For her it wasn’t the overt sexuality; it was beauty, style and class in its purest form.

  After showering, she got dressed in a pair of capri jeans, a rare Brutus button-down shirt, a blue bandana, a pair of Sambas and huge pair of black sunglasses. She was particularly proud of the Brutus; a lucky find on eBay, not some Top Shop knock-off. She watered her collection of carnivorous plants with carefully collected rain water and left to go into town.

  She loathed Brighton in daylight. It was Saturday and the sun was out. The whole damned town seemed to be heaving with estate agents on their day off. Smackheads, tramps, ne’er-do-wells and morbidly obese women of low-calibre with their armies of grubby offspring formed the other half of the population.

  Trudging around in the heat with a steaming hangover, surrounded by plebeians, painful feet, stomach in agony, getting rejected by the three venues she had listed. The day was turning into a catastrophe.

  There was no point in getting in contact with any of the Burlesque troupes based in Sussex. To them Eloise was an infamous journeyman, a loose cannon. A piece who wouldn’t do what she was told and was quick and savage in discouraging the punters from getting any ideas.

  In the Laines she picked up a flyer advertising The Wrongful playing a gig at the Albert that night. She pulled out her phone and gave Hunter Steadman, the lead singer, a call and they arranged to get together in the Office pub for a drink as he also happened to be somewhere in the Laines towards Trafalgar Street.

  The Office had a few fools hunched over their drinks and chattering to each other but the beer garden was practically empty.

  Eloise watched as the ice cubes bobbed around in her pint of cider. She looked up at her skinny friend, with his shaved head and aviator sunglasses; a strange choice of accessory for him.

  ‘You’re playing at the Albert tonight, right?’ she asked, taking a sip of her beverage.

  ‘Yeah, it’s a shithole I know, but we sell the place out. Agnostic Front played there once.’ Hunter always seemed nervous and fidgeted constantly.

  ‘Yeah I know; I was there. Anyway, I lost Charlie’s gig last night, didn’t I, and I think he’s bloody blacklisted me.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Hunter as he quivered and fidgeted.

  ‘Jesus. Anyway I need a stage, so how about I open the show for you, you know, warm the crowd up a little.’

  ‘For free?’ he said, his eyebrows appearing above the rims of his sunglasses.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Instead of doing one of your lame, run-of-the-mill gigs…’

  ‘Oi!’

  ‘…you could make a real show out of it. Maybe even start playing some proper places.’

  Eloise smiled as she drank some more of her cider and watched a seagull eating a rotting pigeon in the corner of the beer garden as Hunter twitched and gibbered. The sun was beating down on them and the heat was making Eloise feel microwaved.

  ‘Well, we could do with more fit birds in our ranks. Talent’s getting to be a bit low quality these days and some of the lads are complaining,’ Hunter eventually said.

  ‘They,’ said Eloise, pointing at the seagull and pigeon, ‘are birds,’.

  Hunter flinched at the sight. ‘Well you know, sure. How’s ten minutes sound; say eight-thirty?’

  ‘Great,’ said Eloise, draining her pint.

  They sat in silence for bit, which suited Eloise fine as her head was doing an Irish lap dance. Closing her eyes, she wished everything in the world would stand still for a few hours so she could go home and bury herself back in bed until the evening.

  ‘Sorry, for being such rubbish company,’ she said, feeling queasy as hell. ‘That was a good thing I had going with Charlie and, you know, losing it has stressed me out. Let me get you another drink, OK?’

  Hunter pushed his sunglasses up along the ridge of his nose. ‘You got anger issues,’ he added, shaking his head and looking down.

  ‘True story,’ she admitted, clutching her purse and getting up.

  Returning from the bar, Eloise placed the drinks on the table, looked Hunter dead in the eye and said: ‘I’m gonna warm that crowd up for you tonight, Hunter. I’m gonna warm them up but good.’

  3

  On the way back through the Laines, Eloise bought herself a few CDs from Punkerbunker, a couple of graphic novels from Dave’s Comics and a pot of violas from a florist in an effort to cheer herself up.

  After a power nap and a cold gin and tonic in a hot bath she began to prepare. Surf rock in the background, black Fifties style underwear, embroidered black pasties with tassels, her six-inch vintage stiletto boots. Most of her show gear was bespoke custom jobs made for her by a French girlfriend of hers in London. She packed a battered antique doctor’s bag with needful things and a change of clothes for afterwards. Hair done, face done, she was good to go.

  Sinatra was enjoying some much needed petting as the phone call came letting her know that the cab she had ordered was waiting downstairs. And she was off, a pure thoroughbred of the old school; not like these check-book strippers who called themselves Burlesque dancers these days. This was her life and it had taken her years of work to pay her dues the old-fashioned way. Her ink was proof. Full sleeves covered her arms, a large rose on the left side of her neck, a pair of dice on the right, Agnostic Front across her throat and a huge winged beast on her sternum. She got these pieces the traditional way, back-in-the-day when you had to earn your tattoos. Not everyone seemed to understand that Eloise had danced professionally in Vegas, L
A and CBGBs in New York in the early nineties when the swing craze was all the rage. She’d followed that up with four years’ dancing in Paris. She had fought tooth and nail for what she had and the metal plates keeping her face together, which got real cold in the winter, served as a reminder.

  The thought of this caused a pang; she was now reduced to warming up for punk bands thanks to some blonde-haired, blue-eyed rich kids who had never done a day’s work that their daddies’ golf-mates hadn’t organised for them. Sitting in the back of the cab, her fists clenched as that old rage built up inside her chest. Gradually she unclenched and relaxed; she had a show to do. This was business.

  It was eight twenty-five when she arrived; she had timed it perfectly. Eloise didn’t like being late. The Albert was heaving, all the low-types of Brighton where there; punks, skins, hardcore kids, rockabillies, psychobillies, thieves, whores, hippies, ruffians, panhandlers and gibbering deviants. Grabbing a drink from the bar, she necked it as she walked up the stairs going from the main pub area to the venue. She pushed through the stinking crowd and handed a CD to the wretched looking man working the PA. She placed one stilettoed foot on the stage as the music began to blast out an old rambunctious number. She vaguely heard Hunter calling something like: ‘Wait a minute, we thought you weren’t gonna show.’

  On stage with her arms held up and apart, allowing her coat to fall to the deck; her full glory was on display covered in a vintage dress with elbow-length gloves. The crowd stopped whatever foul business they had been up to and now all eyes were on her. She couldn’t give a damn what other people thought of her when she wasn’t dancing, but on stage, chest out, chin up and cheesecake smile, she commanded attention.

  As the music progressed she ever so slowly pulled the first glove off with her teeth before flailing it around her head. The second glove was then ravelled down her slender, tatooed arm but not after she had turned skilfully about, hinting at removing a more substantial item of clothing.