November Rain

The chapters unfold in a sequence of true events from 1966-2005.

(Chapter 8)

"November Rain" (circa-1972)

Cursing at the workmen digging up the street below his bedroom window with a pneumatic drill for most of the day did little to ease the thunderous hangover banging inside his head.

He didn't hear the knock at the door.

Without waiting for an invitation Charles Henderson bust into the room.

Gasping and wheezing, a rush of blood colouring his face and a thin sheen of sweat glowing on his forehead, a heart banging like a drum inside his chest, his hands making persuasive gestures, a wordless mouth betraying all the signs of a man who had taken the stairs a little too quickly for someone of his age and condition.

A deep intake of breath and a reassuring smile, wiping a layer of perspiration from his brow, his composure almost restored, a breathless voice taking on a begging tone.

"Mark, my good friend....I need a massive favour from you...." he smiled, fiddling nervously with his shirt collar and lowering his voice to a furtive whisper, the hesitancy of a question hanging on his lips.

Although he was pleased to hear Charles refer to him as his good friend and even though he had given him permission to sleep with Beverley there was always an uncomfortable atmosphere whenever they met. He was also aware that she had told him about some of the affairs but there were other shadier undertakings, like the 'golden fountain,' that she thought prudent not mention, so under the circumstances he had no reason not to grant this man anything he asked for.

"I've got a little problem and I need your help," Charles said, glancing nervously over his shoulder, scanning the room like a spy being pursued by the KGB.

"You know I've arranged this surprise retirement party for one of my golfing friends, Alan Purvis....," he said, narrowing his eyes as if deep in thought, searching his pockets for an invitation that wasn't there. He forced a smile and spoke in a melodramatic stammer.

"I did....I did give you an invitation for tonight. It's....It's going to be held in the dining room. Any time after seven will be fine. Make sure you avoid Alan when he arrives. Alan thinks he's just coming here to have a drink with a couple of friends."

There was a long pause before he prompted Charles.

"You said you wanted a favour from me?"

"Yes," Charles replied, shuffling his feet on the carpet, his words hurried and delivered in an almost theatrical voice. "I've booked three strippers for Alan's retirement party," he casually announced. "I'm fully booked, so I was wondering if you would let them to use your room to get dressed," he smiled, running his hand along the back of his neck, his questioning eyes waiting anxiously for an answer.

Charles took his vague expression as a yes, forced a smile and headed for the door. It was clear by the enthusiasm in his voice that his confidence was growing.

"The strippers said that if I give them more cash they would perform extras," he said, a thin smile tugging the corners of his mouth, exaggerating a wink and rubbing his thumb and index finger together in that universal sign for money.

"Oh, there's one more thing I should mention," he whispered, as he opened the door. "They prefer to be known as exotic dancers rather than....Strippers."

After a shower he slipped into his new mohair suit and glanced into the mirror, an impeccably groomed and handsome man looked back with a conceited nod of approval.

He wanted to look his best tonight. He wanted to impress a certain female. After a couple of drinks to celebrate Alan Purvis's retirement he was heading to the Poco-a-Poco Club in pursuit of a beautiful woman called Kath Evans.

The heavy hand of Charles Henderson banging on his bedroom door interrupted his fingers fumbling with a silk tie. "Come in the doors open," he invited, splashing a generous amount of after shave over his face.

Three scantily dressed women wearing mini-skirts that could have easily been mistaken for belts stumbled over the threshold on towering heels, almost losing their balance, Charles Henderson following quickly behind them, stammering nervously with introductions, their names unimportant their virtue less.

Without waiting for an invitation the exotic dancers skipped across the floor, kicked their shoes off and claimed the bed.

In a fit of light-hearted giggles they handed out cigarettes and searched inside bags.

An older woman in her late-thirties, presumably the matriarch of the act, removed an arsenal of vibrators and rubber dildos from one of the bags while the other two women in their mid-twenties pulled two bottles of red wine and sexy underwear from another.

The unexpected sound of the bedroom door closing behind him made him turn on his heels. Without saying a word Charles had slipped out of the room. Frowning at his cowardly departure, a chorus of flirtatious laughter and the sound of wine being poured into glasses broke the brief distraction.

The three women had a streetwise confidence. Shameless and cool and outspoken at times, every word prefaced with innuendo and obscenities, but they were extremely polite, respectful and humorous, so he made small talk and accepted their hospitality, always aware of the damage red wine can do to a silver grey mohair suit.

The retirement party was in full swing when he walked into the dining room.

Even the thick fog of cigarette smoke choking the room couldn't hide the beaming smile stretching across Alan Purvis's face, his friends and colleagues shaking his hand and raising glasses in a toast, offering their best wishes for a long and happy retirement.

The dining room had been strategically rearranged with tables and chairs joined together in long rows, all facing a small stage assembled at the bottom of the room. At the back of the room there was a long table with a range of hot and cold buffet food for the guests.

A white banner with bold red letters reading 'FUCK THE BUILDING TRADE' hung across the front of the stage. A clear sign that Alan Purvis had worked long enough.

The two younger women arrived on stage first, one of them holding an oversized length of moulded latex between her lips, moving the obscene phallus in and out of her mouth with shameless suggestion, swaying her hips and swinging her tits, unleashing two coloured nipple tassels in a rotary twirl, much to the delight of her captured audience.

The other woman sat on a chair with her legs spread apart, pulling a string from her vagina.

In the crippling silence lecherous men pushed forward anxious to get a better view, forming a straight line like row of Meerkats, watching and waiting, staring with curiosity at the emerging objects attached to the string. When the last object eventually appeared from her body and they discovered it was the ingredients for a full English breakfast, the place erupted into hysterical laughter and repeating chants of 'Bravo.'

The older woman arrived on stage wearing lethal heels and sporting a huge strap-on penis, stroking the gruesome implement suggestively in her hand, flashing her eyes and swaying her hips, walking to the centre of the stage and placing an empty wine bottle on the floor.

No doubt the very same bottle that held his fingerprints, he thought.

The room fell silent as she opened her legs and squatted over the bottle, her face a mask of concentration, adjusting her vulva in line with the phallic target, her fingers parting the fleshy folds, lifting and lowering, easing the rigid column inside her body.

LOWER! LOWER! LOWER, chanted lecherous men oozing testosterone and bad language, breaking into a resounding applause when the bottle disappeared inside her body.

With the confidence and smugness of a prostitute's pimp Charles Henderson opened a bulging wallet and pushed a handful of notes into the matriarch's hand while the other two girls weaved their way through a sea of faceless men, eventually finding Alan Purvis rocking unsteadily on his feet.

Through a fanfare of echoing wolf-whistles and a resounding chorus of, 'OFF! OFF! OFF, from his cowardly audience, the women dragged Alan onto the stage, sat him on a chair, removed his jacket and pulled his trouser down to his ankles.

He had seen enough. He finished his drink and looked at his watch. It was time to go.

It was just after ten-thirty when he stepped from the taxi, the black clouds hanging overhead and the ominous rumbles of thunder suggesting that rain wasn't too far away.

He made a mental note about the damage rain can do to a new mohair suit before glancing at the bill-board by the door. 'The Poco-a-Poco-Club – Tonight's Entertainment Presents - The Black Abbotts Band with supporting comedian and impersonator - Ray Bishop.'

The room was cavernous with a mezzanine level dividing the place into two areas.

A bar and lounge area with casual seating took up most of the upper level and the lower level comprised mainly of a stage and a myriad of tables and chairs, the only light coming from the stage where the resident band sang a range of melodies from 'Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.'

The club was packed and despite the engaging grilled-beef odours coming from the kitchen the food was decent and the entertainment reasonable considering the price of admission. The evening's entertainment always followed the same format. The night would begin at eight o'clock with the band playing at intervals and introducing the various acts.

After midnight the resident DJ took over, playing records until the club closed, the dance floor left to opportunists searching for everlasting love.

The Poco-a-Poco Club attracted a diverse range of people from all over Lancashire. Young and old, single, married and divorcees all populated the club on a regular basis, some looking for long term commitment, most of them just after a good fuck.

After midnight, men with unfashionable taste in everything would swagger about anxiously trying to look cool and attractive to the opposite sex and women wearing skimpy outfits that covered flesh but hid little, flashed their eyes at every man in the room.

But the outcome was always predictable. At about ten minutes to two o'clock in the morning just when the club was about to close, desperate men would circle the dance floor like a pack of hungry lions looking for an antelope with a limp.

He stood for a while watching the band through a claustrophobic fog of cigarette smoke, proudly showing off his new silver grey mohair suit, cursing under his breath when he realised no one was paying him any attention, pulling up a stool at the bar and lighting a cigarette, never once taking his eyes off the attractive girl serving drinks behind the counter.

A figure hugging black skirt stretched over shapely curves as she moved around behind the bar, her come-to-bed eyes dancing behind a flirtatious smile, her breasts bouncing invitingly beneath a white cotton blouse, her nipples permanently erect. Kath Evans oozed sex appeal.

Five testosterone loaded business men all wearing dark suits gathered like a pack of hungry wolves at the opposite end of the bar, flashing bundles of money and bragging about their expensive cars and big houses, laughing and flirting and offering her drinks, trying to gain her affections. If successful, she would be nothing more than a trophy to add to their pretentious egos.

Not more fucking golfers, he thought.

Brushing a whisper of hair that had fallen over her face, catching sight of the handsome young man in the grey mohair suit sitting on a stool at the other end of the bar, a smile and a skip in her step as she approached him, words forming on impossible lips

"What can I get you?" she whispered, a wide smile showing perfect white teeth.

He returned her smile, ordered a drink and asked her if she would join him.

"Thanks for the offer, but I've already got two drinks waiting for me," she said, pointing a finger at the end of the bar.

"Later.... maybe," she said, beaming another smile, a hint of disappointment in her voice as she walked away.

The suits worked hard at their pathetic attempts of seduction. One-by-one they approached the bar and handed Kath a piece of folded paper. After reading the contents she just smiled and nonchalantly returned each one to their respective owner.

The paper chase was all a little infantile, he thought, dusting away an imaginary mark from his new mohair suit, curious to know what they had written on the pieces of paper.

The blood-sucking business men looked to be there for the rest of the night so he lit a cigarette and turned to face the stage. The lights were dimmed to almost darkness with a single spotlight directed at a fat man wearing a white suit and holding a microphone.

"My names Ray Bishop," he announced, his dyed black hair, pale complexion and thin moustache giving him the appearance of a hookers pimp.

"But I don't have to tell you my name because most of you will know me from the television," he smiled, pausing long enough for an applause that never came.

The fat man stretched the boundaries with his cocky and abrasive attitude, although most of his dirty jokes were met with a rapturous applause and a little nervous anticipation of what filth would come next.

When he realised he was beginning to have a negative reaction from a few objectors in the audience he decided to calm the situation with a couple of conventional jokes.

"I went out last night and got really pissed. I woke up next to a fat ugly woman who was snoring and farting....At least I got home alright."

'I was driving home from work the other night and called into the local pub for a quick pint.

I got talking to a stranger at the bar and he told me he was the local window cleaner.'

I didn't take him long before he began to brag about his sexual conquests.

'I've shagged every woman in Belmont Drive apart from one,' he said with pride.

I jumped into my car and drove to the nearest store and bought a beautiful bouquet of flowers and the biggest box of chocolates I could find.

As I pulled into Belmont Drive I could see my wife looking out through the front window.

I burst through the front door and handed her the flowers and the chocolates, telling her that from now on things were going to change."

"What the hell's come over you?" She asked

"Well my love, I was having a drink with our window cleaner and he told me that he had shagged every woman in our street, apart from one."

"Apart from one," she repeated.... "That'll be that stuck-up-cow from number eleven."

A gratuitous standing ovation accompanied by a rapturous applause and echoing chants of 'Ray Bishop' reverberated around the room, the audience shouting and clapping like a bunch of circus seals, demanding nothing less than an encore from their star performer.

A sudden commotion at the end of the bar interrupted the cheers and chants.

Two of the suits were arguing with a tall well-dressed gentleman and his attractive wife. It appeared that the tall man was defending his wife from an inappropriate comment made by one of the business men.

The situation appeared to be getting close to a physical confrontation when a well-built doorman with an unshaven face and tattoos on both hands appeared from the shadows. His calming smile lacked a full set of teeth and his steely eyes darted around like a caged rat, carefully registering everyone in the room.

He was clearly not a man to be messed with.

The bouncer spoke in a calm tone with no emotion, trying to defuse the situation.

But it had gone too far.

With lightning reflexes the doorman grabbed one of the suits by the throat and after getting him in a full arm-lock he ushered him to the exit door. The other four men who earlier in the evening were acting like invincible gladiators now looked helpless and defeated as they dutifully followed their friend through the side door and into the street.

Their night had come to an abrupt end.

"I see your friends have decided to call it a night," he said, trying to sound sympathetic.

A nervous sigh and a forced smile confirmed that Kath wasn't too upset to see them go.

"Can I have a refill please and this time will you join me?" he asked, in a hopeful voice.

"I will join you," she replied in a nervous whisper. "I think under the circumstances I need something to calm my nerves."

As the night progressed they talked, laughed and flirted with each other at any opportunity. He gave her his best leg-opener lines, trying to charm his way into her pants. The night looked promising, but he was still consumed with curiosity.

"I was interested to know what the men in suits were writing on the pieces of paper?" he enquired, offering her a cigarette, his questioning eyes waiting for an answer.

"Oh that," she casually replied, taking the cigarette from his outstretched hand. "They were offering me their telephone numbers and asking me for a date," she shrugged her shoulders and smiled. "I think they were all married men, and anyway none of them were my type."

He hesitated briefly before looking into her eyes to see her reaction.

"And what type would that be?" he asked, lighting her cigarette and giving her another heart-stopping smile, discreetly lowering his hand beneath the counter and making a quick adjustment to the untimely growth inside his pants.

The demands of an impatient punter banging his glass at the other end of the bar interrupted their flirtatious interlude.

"I won't be long," she smiled, skipping across the floor to serve the impatient man.

He left the bar and headed into the reception foyer. A few minutes later he returned and handed her a piece of folded paper.

In a small recess at the end of the bar Kath read the note.

'Can I take you home tonight – I'm hung like a donkey.'

The boldness of his inquiry lifted the corners of her mouth, a flirtatious smile dancing behind flashing eyes, scribbling a hurried reply on the note paper and dropping it on the bar in front of him.

'I finish around two o'clock.'

Oblivious to the weather or the mutters from disapproving onlookers they stood in the taxi queue kissing with a suffocating passion, like two reunited lovers after a long separation.

Falling into the back seat of a taxi two hungry mouths crashed together, impatient hands searching in the darkness, touching and fondling, probing and groping, the sexually charged intimacy and heavy breathing steaming the windows and getting the attention of the driver.

Temperatures rising, heads swimming in emotional overload, pulses racing and heart beats gathering speed, breathing urgent and ragged, tongues invading mouths, sweeping over teeth, touch heightening expectation, arousal inviting curiosity, lowering her hand and squeezing the straining lump inside his pants, impatient fingers fumbling nervously with the zip before sliding her hand inside his trousers, a startled gasp, the swollen limb filling her hand and pulsing between her fingers, a smile pulling at her lips and a wetness gathering inside her knickers, an inquisitive hand unfolding the long thick column from the warm confines of his briefs.

Not even the sudden braking of the taxi pulling to a halt at a red light or the driver adjusting his rear-view mirror, grinning to himself as he examined his shameless cargo did little to interrupt their lustful exploration of each other's intimate parts.

By the time the taxi reached her front door the adrenaline rush had kicked into overload.

She was wet and impatient. He was hard and ready. Two strangers, fondling and groping in the darkness of the narrow street, two lovers lost in the heat of passion, kissing and touching, fondling and groping, urgency and expectation increasing with every heartbeat, a primal hunger reaching a point where they had lost control and were almost eating each other.