Chapter 12

Gracie had been left at Francie's flat under the charge of Charlie - a big bruiser that Francie sometimes employed, the way he did so many people, to do odd jobs for him.

They sat in the lounge. Charlie never took his eyes from her while he twiddled with the automatic in his hand.

Gracie's chest was so constricted that she felt it must burst. Her fingernails were digging deep weals into her hands. She was fighting not to break down.

They had been gone only a few minutes. There was still time if only she could get away. And she knew just what she was going to do. Even prison for Roger would mean eventual release. She was going to telephone the police and tell them of the dock raid. But first she had to get away and every second was so vital.

She stood up and walked to the mantelpiece. She took a cigarette from the package there and lit it, trying desperately to know what to do.

Charlie followed her with his eyes. She was wearing her tight-fitting woolen dress and she looked good in it. He wondered what relationship she was to Francie. Whether he could afford to take liberties, He wasn't very bright.

Gracie turned towards him. She was beautiful. It looked as if she'd been crying and that accentuated the hollows of her eyes, giving a slightly lost look. Her breasts were not large, but they rose nicely against the dress in a sharp outline. Charlie's tongue came out and passed over his lips.

"You Francie's girl?" he asked.

She shook her head from side to side.

"What's he want to keep you here for?".,,...

Gracie thought quickly. Anything to keep him talking, search for an opening.

"He wants me to earn money for him - with men."

Charlie grinned. "Maybe 'e'd let me have first go for this afternoon's work," he said.

Gracie looked at the clock. They'd been gone ten minutes now.

"Lift up yer skirt and let's see yer legs," Charlie said.

She felt herself grow hot. She was about to tell him what Francie would do to him if he interfered with her when it snapped in at her that if she could get him to make a pass it might provide some opportunity to do something.

Fighting against her disgust, she reached down to the hem of the dress and eased it up to mid thigh.

Charlie whistled.

"Very nice," he said. "But not 'igh enough."

She raised the skirt which clung to her hips up to the triangle of briefs which covered her genitals. Charlie's eyes were popping. I wonder, he was thinking. I might even lay her while 'e's away.

Gracie let the skirt drop and turned away from him, as if disinterested. She leaned on the mantelpiece, knowing that the position clamped the dress around her bottom, outlining the buttocks. She kept telling herself that Roger's life depended on this. Her glance took in the earthenware lampstead on the mantelpiece amongst the ornaments. If only . . .

Charlie stared at her behind. His eyes traced the oval contours of each buttock. He imagined his hand smoothing round those tight lines, imagined pulling up her dress, smoothing his hand over the bare flesh. His penis had grown heavy. He imagined opening her legs, imagined her vagina. It would be clean and soft. He tried to feel himself plunging up it. Could he take the chance? Francie had said a few hours. Maybe if the girl didn't object ...

He stood up and Gracie turned again. She noticed the bulge of his trousers and smoothed the dress over her hips with her hands.

Charlie saw her touch the dress. It tautened across her and he could see the light bulges of the thighs. He stared at the outlined triangle between them, long and obvious. Then he raised his bright, little eyes and looked at her.

"You're not bad, at all," he said. "In fact you got what it takes."

"You think so?"

She tried to make her voice sound encouraging.

"Sit on that chair," he ordered, indicating an armchair beside the mantelpiece.

"Pull that skirt up and open your legs," he said, when she'd obeyed.

Overcoming her intense reluctance she did as he ordered, pulling her legs up on the chair, opening them, pulling up the dress so that he had a bird's-eye view of the spot between her legs, covered, as it was, with the thin, frilling strip of her briefs.

Charlie's mouth was dry. He was fond of a little exhibitionism before the event.

"Take those pants off," he commanded.

Gracie hesitated. This was Francie all over again. Suppose she didn't succeed in doing anything. Suppose he just had intercourse with her. She shivered. And then she slipped her hands under her bottom, grasped the flimsy material and edged the garment off her hips, down her thighs, over her high-heeled shoes and let it drop to the floor.

Charlie licked his lips. This was an unexpected enjoyment.

"Now open wide."

Gracie spread her legs so that her knees touched the arms of the chair on either side. Her gaze wavered before his eyes which stared at her completely exposed vagina.

The pink flesh was there before Charlie's gaze. He'd gone far enough now to make going back too uncomfortable. His prick was atingle and there it was, an open target of soft flesh in a bush of blonde hair, with her thighs opening toward him like a broad tunnel and the rounds of her buttocks showing underneath.

The exhibitionist in him rose. He fumbled with his buttons and pulled out his penis. It was hot in his hand and as hard as the pistol he'd left on the table.

Gracie stared. Her lips moved in revulsion, her stomach turned over. She controlled herself with a great effort.

"It's a good one - eh?" Charlie said, hoarsely. "Go right up, it will. Make you bust at the seams."

As he came towards her she stood up. If he got her in the chair the lamp was out of reach and she'd have no chance. Her stomach was twisted with nervous fear. She put out her hand towards his penis as if she'd stood up because she couldn't wait to get hold of it.

Charlie felt a tremor run through him. She was more willing than he'd hoped. He reached her and felt the cool fingers close over his length of rigidity. He breathed hard and Gracie smelt his unpleasant breath on her face.

She began to rub her fingers gently along the staff and he seized her and kissed her on the lips. Holding her breath, eyes open, she pushed her tongue into his mouth. She felt his big hands pulling up the skirt at the back and then they closed over her bare bottom, pressing her against him. The lamp was beside her right hand. It had a long, narrow neck with a raffia shade on top and the base swelled out into a heavy-looking bowl.

His hands had clasped her buttocks, were feeling them all over as he kissed her neck again. For a second she wondered what would happen if the blow didn't knock him out, foresaw the fury, the rape, the beastliness - and then in one desperate movement she had grabbed the lamp round his shoulder and crashed it with all the force she could muster against the side of his head.

His eyes glazed, his grip relaxed. For a terrible moment he didn't fall and she thought he would be all right. She hit him again as he swayed back from her and this time he sank slowly to his knees and then crashed forward on his face.

She stared at him dumbly for a second or two and then a chill possessed her. Mechanically she seized her bag from the table, saw the gun and slipped it in. She kept her eyes on him all the time, decided against pulling on her briefs and then rushed from the house.

It was only in the street that she remembered there was a telephone in the house. She broke into a run; breath was sobbing and heaving deep inside her. She ran for several blocks, turning corners blindly. A late stroller paused to stare as she rushed past.

Then she saw it: the red telephone booth with its thin rectangle of light outside a little row of shops. Money! Had she change? Oh, of course - not necessary!

She rushed into the booth, seized the receiver and dialed 999.

For some time afterwards she walked quickly through the streets, not knowing what to do, until her mind began to function again.

It was late. There was nothing to do but wait. She didn't know where to go. She had to get off the street. In a renewed fit of fear, she hailed a passing taxi and gave him the only address she could think of - that of her own flat in Earl's Court.

Back in the flat she sank thankfully onto the bed and lay there trembling. She wished it were daylight, comforting daylight when nothing seemed so sinister and she could sit in a restaurant and wait for the newspaper to learn what had happened.

For a little she must have dozed off - perhaps it had been hours. She was awakened by a tapping on the door. She sat bolt upright, trembling and listened. The tapping persisted. "Who is it?" The words forced themselves out at last. "Roger."

The voice was muffled. She heard only the name. Her heart turned over. She sprang from the bed. With fingers that trembled feverishly she pulled open the door. And then she stepped back in terror.

The figure outside was a strange one. It wasn't Roger. A scream rose to her lips and then died out as the man stepped quickly into the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

"Didn't expect to see me again, did you?" She'd never heard such savagery before in Francie's voice.