Ch 1. Steamy Windows.

September 1973  East London.

Monica looked over as Anne walked into Benito's Italian restaurant and stood posing at the door. 

        "Go on then," Anne said.  "Get off and get ready for your karate."

        Monica gave a smile.  "You didn't have to come so early.  It don't start till seven." 

        Anne grinned back and walked across towards the staff room with Monica following.  "No, you done me a right good turn yesterday, so I'm returning the favour."

        "You've already done me a favour getting me this job.  That factory job was the worst job I've ever had, and it's great coming to work dressed up and wearing make-up."

        Anne took off her cardigan and stood in an immaculate black waitress outfit.  "Yeah, but can you cope with the drop in wages?"

        "I can manage and anyway, the tips nearly make it up."

        "I don't think so.  You'd have to serve in the nude to earn that much."

        Monica laughed.  "Now there's a thought."

        Anne looked round the room pretending concern.  "Don't give that Tony any ideas.  My Eddie would go mad if he walked in and saw us strutting about starkers."  Both girls laughed before Anne continued on a more serious note.  "Still haven't heard from the nutter then?"

        Monica's expression changed as she was thrust back into reality.  "No.  It's been over a week now and I've had no phone calls.  Hopefully he's given up on me."

        "Probably found out that your boyfriend's a karate instructor."

        "Maybe."  Monica kicked off her flat shoes and started putting on her platforms, preferring to walk out in them because the little extra height made her taller like most other people, most other people without platforms.  "I'll get off then.  I'll have a good soak in the bath.  It's been so hot in here this afternoon.  They say it's been the hottest summer for twenty years."

        "Yeah, been great, hasn't it?"  Anne gave a laugh and stood in thought for a moment before continuing.  "I love hot sweaty sex, don't you?  With the moisture matting your hair and trickling down behind your ears.  Just think of it, me and Eddie's hot moist bodies slipping against each other."

        "Anne!  Someone might hear you."

        "Sod em."

        "I'm off.  I don't want to listen to the intimate details of your sex-life again."

        "Bloody spoilsport," Anne said, and returned a grin as she walked out to check on the customers.

        Monica looked towards the mirror. The white painted letters at the top read: "Do you look as good as you should?" She smiled into the mirror like she often did, because she liked the smile that was returned by her reflection. Her short mousey hair needed no work on it. It was always tidy, even when training at the karate club. She saw it as her best feature, not fully realising the attractive look of her innocent child-like face.  She tried to stick her chest out. Disappointed that the breast enhancement exercises had not worked. The course she had purchased from an advertisement in the newspaper, had been just a scam. She considered her breasts to be small, and always felt envious of girls with a fuller figure.  She treated herself to another smile before setting off home, knowing she had plenty of time to relax before her session at the karate club. 

        She arrived home in obvious high spirits and was making some tea as her mother went into the passage to retrieve the washing basket from the cupboard under the stairs.  "Son of a gun," she whispered, and began singing along to a Carly Simon song that was playing on the radio.  The trouble that she was having was far from her mind, but then the telephone began ringing in the living room.  A normal occurrence in many households, but it sent a chill through her; her pulse rate increased and she felt a churning sickly feeling in her stomach as she looked towards the kitchen door.  The ringing stopped and she could hear her mother talking in the living room.  She was pleased that the conversation was obviously not hostile.  A few minutes later her mother walked in with the washing basket. 

        "That was your father on the phone."

        "Yeah, I know, but I still get nervous when the phone rings in case it's him again."

        "It's a while since we've heard from that pest, for the want of a better word.  He's probably given up and pestering somebody else.  We may have heard the last of him."

        "I hope so.  He's ruining my life, Mum.  It doesn't matter how happy I am, as soon as the phone rings he's in my mind and it scares me that he's out there somewhere."

        "I know, darling, but after tomorrow no one will be able to get our new number.  We'll soon forget about him."  Her mother started taking some clean washing from the washing machine when the telephone began ringing again.  "It's all right, it's your father.  He said he'd phone back to say what time he'll be home."

        Monica walked to the living room and looked at the ringing telephone.  "Are you sure?  Are you sure it's Dad?"

        "Yes, but leave it.  I'll dry my hands and get it."

        "No, no I'll get it," she called, and then she muttered to herself.  "Just being daft, paranoid."  She gave a sigh, took a deep breath, and then blew the air from her lungs as if miming a whistle.  She picked up the receiver, but because of all the nuisance calls she wanted to let the caller speak first.  She stood holding the receiver for a while, but she knew by the silence that it was not her father and then she heard a voice that she dreaded.

        "Hello, Monica.  I know it's you.  Have you missed me?"

        Monica's heart sank, realising that her tormentor had not given up on her after all.  She wanted to hang up, but knew he would call straight back.  "Why?  Why are you doing this?"

        "I love you.  I want you.  I can satisfy your needs more than any of those silly boys can.  A girl like you needs a man, a big man and I'm a big man where it counts."

        "You're sick."

        He gave a laugh, a deep rasping laugh that she had heard many times.  "I can picture you here in my bedroom, gasping in pleasure as I slip your panties off and..."

        Monica slammed down the receiver and her mother rushed into the room.  No sooner had Monica put the handset down when, true to form, the telephone began ringing again.  "Let me get it," her mother said, upset by her error, but Monica picked up the receiver and shouted down the telephone.  "Why don't you piss off and leave me alone?" 

        "What on earth's going on?" her shocked father replied.

        Monica was more started than if it had been the previous caller and she looked at her mother with the expression of a naughty child.  "I'm sorry, Dad.  I didn't mean to swear…"

        "Don't worry yourself about that.  Has he started again?  Has that bloody pervert been on again?"  Monica didn't answer.  "I'll kill him," her father said.  "I'll bloody kill him if I ever get my hands on him."  Monica passed the receiver to her mother and walked off to the kitchen.  She sat at the kitchen table and leant forward resting her elbows on the table with her hands to her face. 

        Monica's mother hurried the conversation and rushed to the kitchen.  "Are you all right, Monica?" 

        Monica gave a large sigh as she looked up.  "Yes, I'm okay, but I don't understand, Mum.  Why me?  Why is he doing this to me?"

        "Who knows?  Just picked a number from the phone book and you happened to answer.  They'll get him.  The police will get him.  It's just a matter of time before he makes a mistake with someone and they'll have him.  They always do."

        Monica smiled, trying to show that she was not too distressed over the matter.  She knew that the calls were upsetting her mother as much as they were upsetting her, but her mother always tried to put on a brave face so she felt she should do the same.  "I'd best pour out the tea before it gets cold."

        "You sit there," her mother said.  "I'll do it.  You've been at work all day."

        They sat talking about Monica's new job and trying to dismiss the telephone call from their minds, but Monica kept glancing over to the living room door.

        "It's all right.  I've left the phone off the hook until your father gets home."

        Monica smiled at her mother, relieved that the man couldn't harass her any further.  "What time will Dad be home then?"

        "Not till after six."

        "Good, that means I can relax in the bathroom without him banging on the door telling me to hurry up."  Monica went upstairs leaving her mother feeding the washing machine again.  She closed the curtains of her bedroom window and got undressed before going to the bathroom.  She was soon relaxing in the bath daydreaming about her boyfriend Alan. 

        "Have you got any washing?" her mother called from the landing.

        "Only what I've just taken off," Monica called back.

        "Might as well get it," her mother said, and she walked into Monica's bedroom to clear her washing basket.  Out of habit she tidied the room and opened the curtains before making her way back down the stairs. 

        When Monica got out of the bath she could hear her mother working in the kitchen so she hurried to her bedroom wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around her hair.  She was filled with horror as she opened the bedroom door and dashed in, looking straight through her bedroom window to the flats opposite.  "Oh, Mum!" she called and hurried back to the bathroom.  She re-appeared in her bedroom wrapped in towels and walked across to close the curtains.  "I wish she wouldn't keep doing that," she muttered to herself, but she saw the funny side and showed a huge grin as she pulled the curtains together.

* * * * *

Later that evening, Monica walked out from a church hall that was used by the karate club.  She was feeling annoyed because Alan was stopping behind to help with the full-contact group again.  It was only supposed to be the occasional Tuesday, but it seemed as if it were every Tuesday.

        She walked past a telephone box towards a bit of the road that ran between an old Victorian school and a cemetery.  It was the only bit that made her nervous, even though she had never heard of anybody who had trouble there.  The high yellow brick wall of the school yard and the trees on the outside of the pavement made it a bleak place and it always seemed that at least one of the two street lights were not working.

        She saw someone ahead looking round from a side gate recess in the school wall.  He moved back out of sight as she slowed her pace.  It worried her and she was wondering if she should go back to the club, or should she just cross the road and ignore him.  She had never liked walking on the cemetery side, fearful of a hand reaching out through the ivy covered railing, but she thought it a better option than passing by the man in the recess.

        A car turned into the road behind her and two high powered spotlights and a fan of light from the headlights suddenly began cutting into the darkness.  The car slowed and pulled along side of her.  She looked at the familiar Hillman Hunter and smiled as the driver pushed open the passenger door.  "Want a lift, Monica?" the lad called.

        "Hello, Demo Dave," she said.  "What are you doing round here?"

        "Just passing, but I was going to ask you the same."

        "I've just come from the karate club."  She glanced back down the road as if to give an indication.

        "Oh, I didn't know you were in that one," he said unconvincingly.  "Don't they do all that kick-boxing in there?"

        "Only a few of the older lads do that."  She got into his car relieved that she didn't have to worry about the stranger.  Dave pulled away with a huge grin across his face.  Monica knew that he fancied her, but then Dave fancied anyone in a skirt. 

        As they drove past the side gate, Monica looked at the man as he stood lighting a cigarette.  He stared straight back at her and she felt a sudden chill as if his stare had cut into her.  She looked away wondering what he was up to and thinking that maybe he was planning to break into the school, or maybe not, but she thought that he was certainly up to no good. 

        She glanced at Dave and thought it couldn't just be a coincidence that he happened to be driving along this back street as she left the hall and she was wondering what he really wanted.

        "So," Dave said.  "I hear you're working with Anne at that Italian place?"

        "Yeah," Monica said.  She didn't think the question that important and her thoughts went back to the sinister appearance of the man in the recess.

        "Nice girl Anne."

        "If you fancy her you're out of luck.  She's going steady," she said, speaking as if she had finally dismissed the man from her mind.

        "Oh, yes, I know.  She goes out with a mate of mine.  I was just wondering if you had her phone number.  Joy was asking me for it."

        "Anne's not on the phone.  I'd have thought your friend would have told you that."

        "Yeah he did, but I thought he might be lying."

        "Why would he do that?"

        Dave chose to ignore the question.  "Joy's having a party next Friday and she wanted me to ask Anne to go."

        "We know about the party.  Anne's not going.  I've already told Joy that."

        "Oh, so you're going then, are you?  I'll see you there then and we can have a dance and that."

        "Alan's going as well."

        "Maybe we'd better forget the 'and that' bit then," Dave said and then laughed.

        "Yeah, maybe we'd better," she replied and laughed with him.

        After Dave dropped Monica home, she began thinking of the man in the recess again and wondered if she should call the police, but she thought she may look foolish if she did.  She thought it best to just forget about him, after all, whatever he was up to it was nothing to do with her.

* * * * *

The middle-aged man was tall and broad shouldered, but the other attributes of his youth had long since gone.  He was out of condition and had a beer-belly.  His thinning grey hair was swept across his head and plastered with hair cream and the fingers on his hands were heavily stained with nicotine.  Despite all this, he was under the illusion that young girls were still attracted to him, like they had been back in his younger days.

        He stood at the window of his tower block flat in the East End of London.  He was looking down to the back of the house where Monica lived with her parents.  He thought of all the times that he had been lucky enough to see the shape of her naked body through the frosted glass of her bathroom window.  Next to the bathroom, he could see into her bedroom and the angle from his window down to hers gave him a clear view of her bed.  The view gave him mixed fortunes.  Sometimes she would be lying on her bed reading a magazine or snoozing, sometimes she would be up dancing to a tune on her radio, and there were the frustrating times when she closed the curtains and he knew she was undressing.

        He looked at the grassed area of the back garden where he often watched her practising her karate movements.  She would sometimes be dressed in a dazzling white karate suit with a large green and gold rampant dragon embroidered on the back of the jacket.  It always thrilled him to watch the motion of her body, moving more artistic than an actress or a ballerina; more like an athletic warrior goddess demonstrating her skills and charisma to her subjects.

        Earlier, he was delighted when Monica unexpectedly walked into view in the kitchen.  Only minutes before he had been packing for a visit to his elderly mother in Scarborough, feeling disappointed, thinking he would miss Monica coming in from work.  Now he was pleased because Monica had finished early at the restaurant and shown up before he set off, as if she had done it especially as a treat for him.

        She was laughing about something, as if she were pretending to be happy while talking to her mother.  He wondered how much longer they would both have to wait before he could bring genuine happiness to her by taking her away from the drudgery and boring existence of her life. 

        There was something between them, pulling them together, and despite her hostility, he knew that it was true.  He thought on how she had cut short their telephone call.  He thought she might have been angry because it had been a week since he had last spoken to her on the telephone.  Bloody police, why couldn't they just leave him alone?

        He began to smile, remembering when she walked into her bedroom after taking a bath and he caught a glimpse of her naked body.  When she returned wrapped in the towels, he thought that she looked up to the tower block and smiled at him while closing the curtains.  It was then that he thought she really was interested in him.  All the hostility she had shown against him was just for her parents' benefit.  He thought maybe they would have a chance together and being so young she would show more respect to him.  Not like his wife up in Whitby, who had treated him badly and who had deserved all the beatings and abuse that he had given her.  It was her own fault.

        He thought that seeing Monica naked was a sign, a signal that he was meant to have her, to love her and he had the right to take her anyway because the sign, the signal, had told him so.  He had wanted to speak to her face to face so that they could develop their relationship and had postponed his visit to Scarborough until the following day.  His mother could wait.  He had wanted to meet Monica as she walked home from the karate club and thought on how they had come so close to their first meeting of passion, when the idiot in the car spoiled things for them both.

* * * * *

It was warm and sunny in Scarborough the following day, more like July than September.  The fine weather continued into the evening and the man was walking along the sea front near the harbour.  He was smiling at all the young girls as they made their way out for their evening’s entertainment and although he was taking an interest in them all, he thought that none of them were as pretty or as pleasant as Monica.  He thought of the previous evening.  If that fool in the car had not taken her then perhaps she would be here walking along holding his hand and smiling at him.  Not like these miserable girls.  None of them had returned his smile.  Ignorant.  Ignorant young women.

        He had called at the old people's home earlier to visit his widowed mother.  As usual, he thought of the large amount of money that his father had left her.  It was a waste, a complete waste.  It was all wrong, his mother didn't even know what day of the week it was.  It should have been him.  He should have got the money.  Now he had to wait.  Wait for her to die as well, but although her death had been close a few times, she had always pulled through as if to spite him and denying him his rightful inheritance.  He often thought of helping her on her way, but it was too risky.  He knew that he would be sure to be the main suspect, because the police had made it clear that they didn't like him.  Always taking his wife's side and picking on him for no good reason.

        He stopped at a telephone box and rang Monica's number, but slammed the receiver down when he heard the unobtainable tone.  "What the hell is that bitch playing at?" he muttered to himself.  He decided to go back to the guesthouse and watch the television and then tomorrow he would give his wife an unexpected surprise when he called over to Whitby to visit her.  They were still married, after all, and because they were married in a church they would always be married until death parted them.  Yes, he had a right to visit her whenever he wanted, despite what the court said.

* * * * *

The following afternoon the man's unsuspecting wife opened the door of her flat.  She was smiling, but the smile drained from her face when she saw him and she tried to push the door closed.  She was too slow, too late, and he forced himself in.

        "You're not supposed to be here.  You're not supposed to bloody well be here," she yelled.  "You'll get locked up if you're caught here."

        "I won't get caught.  Who's going to tell them, you?"

        "No, no I wouldn't do that," she said, with a noticeable fear in her manner.  "You know I wouldn't."

        He walked off checking all the rooms.  "Are you living with someone else now then?"

        "Of course not," she said nervously.  "I've got our Tommy that's all."

        He walked into the lounge, took a ten-pound note from his wallet and put it on the sideboard all the time looking about the room for signs of another man in her life.  "It's for the boy.  Where is he?"

        "Tommy, you mean Tommy.  He's at school."

        He looked at his watch.  "I thought he left in the Summer."

        "No, next year.  He's going to…"

        He pushed her out into the passage.

        "Please, can you just go.  Tommy might come home early."

        He ignored her and pushed her towards the bedroom.

        "You're not supposed to be here.  You're not supposed to do this."

        He grabbed her by the throat and his huge right hand crashed across her face in three rapid swipes.  She gave a yell and her right eye began to water.  Blood began to trickle from her lip, split by his signet ring.  She knew not to scream.  It would only make him worse.  The last time he came, she screamed and he almost beat her to death for it.  That was when he was arrested.  That was when she thought that she was safe and she would never see him again.

        "I don't care what they say.  You're still my wife and I've still got my marital rights."  He shoved her into the bedroom and onto the bed. 

        She wouldn't try to stop him.  She knew that if she appeared to co-operate then as soon as he had had his way, he would leave.  The ten pound. She would buy some door bolts and maybe one of those spy-hole things, and a panic alarm.  If she saw him through the spy-hole she could sound the alarm and he would run off.  Yes, he would never get in again; this would never happen again.

* * * * *

After he left the flat, the woman walked back along the passage thinking she would have to leave the alarm and just get some strong bolts.  The electricity board were threatening to cut off her supply, the milkman had stopped her milk and her debt to the tally-man was increasing every week.  She would get some shoes for Tommy with the ten pound note.  The stick-on-soles were beginning to wear through and the stitching at the heel was starting to give up.  She didn't want the other children ridiculing him.  She would buy him some new shoes for school, pay a bit to the electric board and perhaps clear the milk bill. 

        She walked into the lounge and looked on the sideboard, but the ten-pound note had gone.  She cursed him, but thought on how he had threatened to get her and their son Tommy if she reported him to the police.  She knew what he was capable of and she couldn't take that chance.  She couldn't put Tommy at risk.  She went to the kitchen and sat with a cup of coffee.  She didn't drink it, but just sat with a blood stained handkerchief against her lip, staring at the coffee until it had gone cold. 

        She heard the front door open and stood up quickly.  She didn't want Tommy to see her like this, but she was too late to get to her bedroom and Tommy looked into the kitchen at her.  He knew right away from her swollen eye and her busted lip that his father had paid a visit and he dropped his bag and rushed over to comfort and cuddle his mother.


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