Butchers and Other Stories of Crime

Belly Dance

This all happened through the keep-fit class. I had been going for two years and by that time I was the mainstay of the class. I attended mainly for the company. After my divorce from Mike, I lived alone in Kingston, feeling sorry for myself. On Wednesday evenings I slipped into my black leotard and joined the human race again. There is definitely something therapeutic about exercise. I can recommend it to any woman living alone.

I had better confess to you that I enjoyed the classes for another reason too. I have a better than average figure. It used to boost my confidence no end to get envious glances from the other girls. We were all ‘girls’ to each other, by the way — and ‘students’ to the teacher — although not one of us was under twenty-six. Some of the shapes that wobbled out of the changing room at half-past six on Wednesdays had to be seen to be believed, but we all got on together like a bunch of kids. Some of the heavier girls would tell me that they felt encouraged to do the exercises beside a trimmer figure. I’m not the owner of an especially pretty face, but my body is a winner. My legs are long enough to look lovely in the leotard. I have full, firm breasts, a smallish waist and Mike, my ‘ex’, used to say I had the perkiest bottom in the whole of Surrey. From what I later learned, he was qualified to judge.

I was coming to the belly dancing. At seven-thirty, when the class was over, just to have a giggle, our teacher Angela would put on a record of Arabian music and we would all gyrate our hips like harem girls. It happens that I have excellent hip mobility, and the session would regularly end with everyone but me abandoning the attempt. They would form a ring around me and clap hands while I wiggled sensuously to the music. Fabulous. But I had no idea where it would lead.

One evening after I had done my party piece, Angela had a quiet word with me. She was a fine teacher, dignified, not matey, and we all respected her.

‘Have you ever danced in public?’

‘Like this, you mean?’ I laughed. ‘Not likely.’

‘You’re very good. You have the figure and the flexibility. With your dark hair and dreamy eyes, if you were dressed for the part, you could convince anyone you were a proper belly dancer. I’ll tell you why I mentioned it. My fellow Duncan is chairman of the summer fair this year. You know the keep-fit students always give a demonstration. Well, Duncan sometimes meets me after class, and the other week he happened to be outside the window when you did your belly dance.’

‘Oh, how embarrassing!’ I felt myself go crimson.

‘No, he adored it, really. He was so impressed that he came up with this idea of asking you to do a solo dance at the fair. We could dress you up in beads and chiffon and call you Yasmin the Belly Dancer and I guarantee you’d be the sensation of the fair. It’s for charity, of course — the old folk. Would you do it?’

Naturally I made protesting sounds, but in short I allowed myself to be persuaded. I admit it: I was secretly delighted.

I had five weeks to prepare. Angela let me take the Arabian record home, and each night after work, my flat became the Kasbah. At the weekend, I made my costume. By good fortune, I had a peach-coloured bikini that I had worn one holiday with Mike in the Canaries. The pants became the basis of the costume. With a few yards of matching chiffon, I made diaphanous harem trousers fitting from the hips. I bought some satin in a similar shade and ran up the sweetest little bodice with short sleeves and a reckless plunge. Angela had given me a box of hundreds of tiny glass and gold beads, and I strung them together to make a head-dress with a fringe. The rest I used to decorate the pants and bodice. With my black hair combed out and my eyes heavily made up to gaze mysteriously above the yashmak, I was almost ready. All it wanted was a pot of that stuff that gives you an overnight tan. Dusky Bronze.

Two weeks before the fair, Angela invited me to dinner. It was a chance to let her see the costume. Duncan was also there; I got the impression that he lived there, although it wasn’t mentioned. He was some kind of foreman in a wholesale business, I gathered, an animated, vocal, not bad-looking guy, splendid for the chairman of the fair committee and probably just as capable in bed, but far too similar to Mike to interest me. He had the same irritating way of totally ignoring things you said.

While they cleared the table, I went into Angela’s room and changed. They adored the costume. Angela put on a record that was more Spanish than Arabian, and I went through my dance, into which I had introduced some extra and voluptuous movements, and they played besotted sheiks, cooing and shouting encouragement. We all finished helpless with amusement.

‘Sensational! You’re going to be the biggest attraction in the fair,’ said Duncan as he took my hand in his.

‘Prettiest sounds better,’ said Angela. ‘I love the colours. How did you get this marvellous tan? I’ve got a few gold bangles I must give you. Wear them on your wrists and ankles and they’ll show up beautifully against your skin.’

‘Do you know, I’ve had an idea?’ said Duncan.

‘I bet you have,’ said Angela. ‘What man wouldn’t, watching a dance like that?’

‘Seriously, Ange, it’s a way of netting extra profit. After the belly dance, we announce an auction. Yasmin the Belly Dancer will perform in private at the place of the winner’s choice.’

I said at once, ‘I’m not sure if I like that.’

‘There’s nothing to worry about. As the organiser, I’ll see that it’s all right. It’s all for charity. Once I get the bidding going, I reckon I can get it up to fifty, with some of the stockbroker types round here.’

‘Fifty pounds would help the old folk quite a lot,’ said Angela. ‘Darling, it’s just a dance. You like old people, don’t you?’

As a matter of fact, I do. Older men, in my experience, have far more genuine charm than thrusting, self-assertive blokes like Mike or Duncan. ‘If you promise to come with me,’ I reluctantly agreed. I didn’t fancy doing a private dance for some character with fantasies that he was King Farouk.

‘You’re on,’ said Duncan. ‘I’ll see it gets top billing in the programme. This will guarantee we get a record-breaking profit. The old people are going to be grateful to this year’s fair committee, I can tell you.’

‘I can tell you how to earn some gratitude round here,’ said Angela with an unadmiring smile. ‘Wash the dishes while I help the lovely Yasmin out of her costume — and no, I won’t switch jobs.’ When the bedroom door was closed, she told me, ‘I’ll be glad when the damned thing is over. He talks of nothing else, even in bed. It’s the first time he’s been chairman of anything, and he desperately wants a huge success.’

‘That’s rather sweet,’ I said.

‘It might help matters if he put some energy into his career. I’ve told him marriage is out of the question while he’s still earning less than I do shouting at schoolgirls all day and flabby housewives in the evening. Sorry — nothing personal.’

‘You’re right about marriage if that’s the way you feel, Angela. You want to be sure before you take it on.’

‘I love him really, but it’s no good making it too easy for them, is it? Let’s find those bangles for you.’

The programme for the summer fair was dropped through my letterbox two weeks before the date. Duncan had kept his promise: I was top of the bill. The wording was a bit excessive, I thought, but I suppose that’s how you sell things.

It certainly aroused some interest. The same afternoon, I had a call from Duncan. The local paper wanted to photograph me in my costume. Duncan was elated. It was marvellous publicity for the fair. I agreed provided that my name did not appear.

I took my costume to the keep fit and they took my picture there. The girls were very excited about it. I felt terribly self-conscious. Angela made them all work forty minutes over to rehearse the music and movement programme for the fair. Because of the time it took me to get ready, I was not in the team this year.

Well, the fair was all that Duncan could have wished. A brilliant day, every programme sold and no problems with the sideshows. I’ll be brief about my dancing, because it is secondary to the story. Let’s say only that the large marquee was so packed with people that my space for dancing had to be reduced to a ten-foot square. They clapped and cheered and called out things I would be mortified to put in print. But not unflattering things. I gave them both sides of the 45 called An Arabian Night. I swayed and swivelled and jigged my stomach until it ached. There was tumultuous applause.

Then a table was brought in. They stood me on it, still panting with the effort. Duncan stood on a chair to conduct the auction.

It was a revelation to me. The bidding started at ten pounds and rapidly got up to fifty. Then Duncan murmured to me to wriggle my hips again. That put the figure up to seventy. A rivalry developed between my local butcher and some lads in leather who seemed to have formed a syndicate. I didn’t altogether like the idea of that, but at eighty pounds they reached their limit. The butcher bid eighty-five. Then Duncan held up a piece of paper.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, a secret bidder has entered the auction. I have a bid of one hundred pounds. Do I hear one hundred and five?’

The butcher bleakly shook his head.

I was sold for a hundred pounds.

‘Who is it?’ I asked Duncan as soon as I got near him.

‘It isn’t clear, but here’s the money in an envelope. The minute I find out I’ll let you know.’

I heard nothing for four days. I couldn’t sleep for thinking of it. I was in quite a state: frightened, yes, a little, but excited, too. Someone had paid a hundred pounds to have me dance for him. I considered all the affluent gentlemen of the district, from the scrap merchant to the Mayor. Who had I left out?

On Wednesday morning came a call from Duncan. The mysterious bidder had named a time and place. Saturday afternoon at an address in Esher. I asked Duncan who it was. He still didn’t know. The message had been left for him. However, he would collect me in his car on Saturday and make sure everything was proper. He suggested that I put on the costume first and wore my raincoat over it.

That evening at the keep fit I asked Angela if she knew any more, but she was in the dark as well. She said the whole thing bored her now. I had a suspicion she was slightly peeved at Duncan sacrificing a Saturday afternoon he should have spent with her. She also made what I thought was a rather bitchy joke in the presence of the others, suggesting my new shoes were a present from the butcher.

Saturday was hot again. People were mowing lawns and cleaning cars along my suburban street. I looked at my glittering, semi-naked image in the mirror and thought how bizarre this episode was. A car horn sounded. I draped the raincoat round my shoulders, picked up my disc and hurried out to Duncan’s unexotic old Cortina.

‘All set, my precious?’

I gave him a terse, ‘Yes.’ He would never have called me his precious when Angela was about, and I wasn’t certain that I liked it. Perhaps it was my state of nerves.

As we drove out of Kingston along the Portsmouth Road, his conversation made me increasingly uneasy.

‘Super write-up in the local, wasn’t it? I didn’t think the picture did you justice. They should have had a full-length shot, in my opinion. Criminal not to show a gorgeous pair of legs like yours. Are you getting warm? You could slip the coat off now.’

I kept it on. ‘Has this man been in touch again?’ I asked him. ‘Do you know any more about him?’

‘Nothing of importance. I think he must be some kind of rich recluse. It’s a smart address.’

We had gone through the town of Esher, and past the race course. We took the road to Oxshott for about a mile, and then turned left, along a shadowy, wooded lane.

‘A little off the beaten track,’ said Duncan. ‘Barely a mile to go now.’

I kept the raincoat tightly across my legs. I had a strong suspicion that Duncan had not been frank with me. He seemed to know exactly where he was taking me. Suppose there was no secret bidder other than himself? Suppose he had set me up for something? Like some frightened schoolgirl, I considered what to do if he stopped the car.

‘Nervous?’ he enquired. ‘I keep a flask of brandy in the glove compartment. Have a nip if you want.’

‘No thanks.’

‘I could easily stop a minute.’

‘I’d rather get there and get it over.’

A short way on, we came to an entrance with wrought iron gates about ten feet high.

‘This is it. Better get your yashmak on, my darling, while I open up.’

I had a girlish impulse to get out and run, but I wouldn’t have got far in the satin mules I had put on for the journey, and the gravel would have cut my feet to shreds. I dutifully fixed on the yashmak.

‘I’ll leave the gates open in case we want to exit quickly,’ said Duncan with a laugh. He drove us through more trees to a mansion constructed in Bath stone almost covered in some kind of creeper. I was shivering.

‘Better leave the coat behind,’ suggested Duncan as I got out.

I also took off the mules.

There was a bell, but Duncan didn’t use it. He tried the handle. The door opened. He knew it would. At that moment I was certain he had tricked me. There was nobody inside.

I said, ‘We can’t walk in like this.’

‘Why not? He knows we’re coming.’ He pressed his hand against my back and firmly guided me inside. I felt it linger and I must have tensed, for he withdrew it.

The interior was dazzling, decorated like a Moorish palace: a carved wooden screen, illuminated windows, carpets of deepest red and gold, bejewelled scimitars and daggers ranged along one wall and tapestries along another.

But nobody came out to us.

‘Duncan, what is this about?’

He winked. ‘Come upstairs. You’ll see.’

‘No.’

‘All right. Wait here. Give me the record.’

I passed it to him, still wondering whether to turn and run, but how, and where to, dressed like this? I comforted myself with the thought that if this was an elaborate plot to get me into bed, it was shaping up as more of a seduction than a rape. I still didn’t fancy Duncan.

From upstairs came the strains of An Arabian Night.

‘It’s all right,’ called Duncan’s voice. ‘He’s here and waiting for you.’ He was looking over the banisters.

‘Upstairs?’

‘Come on up.’

‘No. You come down.’

‘Very well.’ He joined me in the hall. ‘I don’t believe you trust me. I’ll tell you what. You go up and do your dance. I’ll stay downstairs. There’s a swimming pool round the back — you can see it from the window. I’ll be there. Call down if you want me.’

For the first time since I had entered the house, I considered the possibility that the secret bidder might actually be there. ‘Why does it have to be upstairs?’

‘That’s where the hi-fi is. He’s bedridden, poor fellow. Go and give him his treat. He’s really looking forward to it.’

I suppose it was the familiarity of the music that finally drew me up those stairs. I was quivering inside. Out of the corner of an eye I watched Duncan cross the hall and go outside. He was not the seducer I had taken him for.

Halfway up the stairs was a niche containing an open box. Laid across it was a necklace of lapis lazuli. I was sure it was from ancient Egypt. I moved on.

The music was coming from behind the first door on the landing. It was ajar. I considered whether to knock. It seemed inappropriate. I sidled to the door, paused, took a breath and moved inside, gyrating gently to the music.

It was a large, panelled room, dominated by a single bed with the headboard outlined in the tulip shape so beloved of Eastern craftsmen. There was a small figure sitting in its centre like a bee, an old man in a gold quilted smoking jacket, white-haired, bright-eyed and smiling. He was waving his hands, keeping the music’s beat.

I warmed to him. I danced.

I had hardly started when the rhythm broke. I hesitated. Then I saw the reason. The deck for the hi-fi was beside the old man’s bed. He had lifted the playing arm and set the stylus back towards the beginning of the disc.

I gave him a roguish look. He beckoned with his hand and patted the bed beside him. I glanced out of the window. Duncan was lying by the pool below. He had stripped to a pair of trunks.

I perched myself on the edge of the bed.

‘What’s he doing?’ asked the old man in a surprisingly silky voice.

‘Sunbathing.’

He smiled. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to you. The money was only for the dance.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I like your dancing. I used to watch the Cairo belly dancers years ago, before the war. I was in the Embassy. Had most of my career out there. I often watched the belly dancing.’

‘Better than mine, I’m sure. I’m an impostor.’

‘A very acceptable one, my dear. Lovely to watch. Just a little at a time, though. Blood pressure. Lost my tablets a week ago. Can’t find the pesky things however hard I look.’

‘Can’t you get some more?’

‘I’ve got some coming. As a matter of fact, my housekeeper — she looks after me — is picking up the prescription this afternoon. Duncan promised, but I rather think he must have forgotton it.’

‘I see.’

‘Duncan’s a brick, bringing you here like this. I’m his Uncle Norman, as I expect he told you.’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t he? He’s absent-minded sometimes. Still, he’s the only family I have. He takes a lot of interest. He’ll inherit all this when I go, of course. How’s the needle going?’

I stretched across to move it back. Uncle Norman watched me and went visibly more pink.

He said, ‘What a state I’m in. Wish I could find those wretched tablets.’

‘Shall I look for them?’

‘No use, my dear. Duncan searched the room from top to bottom the afternoon they disappeared. I’ll be all right as long as I don’t get too excited. Doctor’s orders. Tablets keep the pressure down, you see. Duncan says I can take the dancing in my stride, but I know my ticker better than he does.’

I heard all this with mounting horror. I could have killed Uncle Norman with the belly dance. He knew it and I was damned sure Duncan knew it.

I got up.

‘Where are you going, my dear? Don’t go yet.’

‘I’d like to find the bathroom.’

‘Oh. Along the passage. Last door facing you. Come back, won’t you?’

I ran downstairs. Through the open door I glimpsed a second car beside our own. The housekeeper’s, I presumed. It didn’t matter. I was incensed. I was going to have this out with Duncan. I could see it all: the old man forever reminiscing about his Cairo belly dancers; Duncan spying on me at the keep fit; the fair; the auction; the missing tablets. It was tantamount to murder. And Duncan would inherit this enormous house and all its treasures and marry Angela. For all her reservations about men, she’d have him at the altar like a shot.

He was still lying on his stomach.

‘Duncan.’

He turned and sat up. ‘Something wrong?’ He didn’t look too concerned.

I said, ‘Is that what you expected?’

He stood up.

I said, ‘You bastard. You tried to kill him.’

Duncan said, ‘What happened? Is he having an attack? We’re in this together. You’d better tell me.’

‘He’s your uncle. You’re his heir. You didn’t tell me.’

‘So what? I didn’t tell Angela either. It’s my business.’

‘You fixed the auction.’

Duncan grabbed my wrist. ‘I’ve had enough of this. You and I are going upstairs to see what’s happened.’

‘No!’

He started pulling me along.

‘Leave me alone!’

‘If he’s alive, you can damned well do your belly dance until you drop or he does. Move yourself!’ He slapped me hard across the face.

We had reached the house. I screamed. He dragged me across the hall, twisting my arm behind me. Stair by stair he forced me upwards, his bare legs thrusting against mine.

‘Let me go!’ I screamed. ‘Duncan, for God’s sake, let me go!’

At the top of the stairs, I grabbed the rail and tried to kick him.

Suddenly he released me and gave an appalling shriek. What I saw then amazed me. His chest was spurting blood. There was a dagger in it, one of those ornamental daggers from the hall with vicious curved blades.

Angela had stabbed him. She was facing him and screaming in his face, ‘I knew it, knew it, knew it!’

Duncan lurched forward. She pushed him back. Angela’s vocation had made her very strong. Duncan fell backwards down the stairs. He did not move again. The post-mortem showed a broken neck.

Angela reached out and held me. We clung to each other, overcome by what had happened. She said between her sobs, ‘I always knew he fancied you. I followed you in the car. I knew what he was planning, knew it, knew it.’ She was hysterical again.

Of course, she didn’t know it. She killed the man who loved her, would have got rich and married her. She got two years in Holloway to ruminate on that. She’s still there.

And Uncle Norman? He survived the shock. He’s doing well. He takes his tablets and gets a lot of pleasure twice a week watching his wife belly dancing for him to An Arabian Night.