23 January 1960
The moment they stepped through the door into Jean's suite the odious Major Alderton reached for her, his hands intent on her hip, but Jean danced away from him, forcing herself to smile and praying that he could not discern the shudder of disgust that lanced through her at the very idea of his hands on her body. She could imagine nothing so intolerable, for though she had spent hours with strangers, with men she could not love and never hoped to, she had always been allowed the privilege of saying no whenever she wished, and so had never actually gone to bed with anyone she despised, and she had no intention of doing so now. This terrible man had once been a dear friend of Lucien's, but now he was the sort of man who could threaten innocents, who could condone murder and theft in an effort to conceal his own failures, who could take her at gunpoint if need be, and she saw nothing friendly or good in him, nothing at all.
The plan was simply to keep him occupied, far away from the crowd downstairs, just long enough for Maureen and Paul to clear the dining room, just long enough for Lucien to reach her. It had been perhaps five minutes since Maureen had rung him, and as Jean reckoned it would be another ten at the least before Lucien could come to her aid. No one knows better than a whore just how long a minute can be, Jean thought grimly. Ten minutes was an eternity, but she had to try.
"Not just yet, Major," she told him, still smiling. "There are rules."
Alderton frowned. "I thought we agreed, Mrs. Beazley," he said in a soft, terrible voice, "those rules do not apply to me."
"I made an exception as regards the timing of our appointment. I'm afraid I simply will not budge on the other matters. If you won't agree to my terms you can leave now."
It was a gamble, and Jean knew it. The Major carried a gun, and she was standing alone with him in her parlor with no one to call for aid, and the Major knew where her son lived, where her granddaughter slept, knew all sorts of secrets and had more power than all of the upjumped businessmen she'd entertained in the past combined. If she pushed him he might leave, and that would put Jean and Christopher both in danger; if she pushed him he might push back, draw his gun and force the issue. But something told her that having come this far the Major might be willing to play along just to get what he wanted without fuss or bloodshed. He might think her weak, and indulge her. She prayed he would, at any rate.
"Let's hear your terms," he said. "And then I'll decide if I intend to honor them."
Jean wanted to be relieved, but they had such a very long way to go.
"First," she said slowly. "No kissing. Agreed?"
The Major laughed. "How quaint," he sneered. "As if I wanted to, anyway. Yes, agreed."
Jean tried not to bristle at his cruel derision; better to keep a level head, she knew.
"Second, you wear a condom. Agreed?"
"For my protection or for yours, Mrs. Beazley?"
He was a very tall man, and the way he loomed over her now left Jean feeling small, and more frightened by the second, but she tried to swallow her fear, and hide it behind her smile. Lucien is coming, she reminded herself. All you have to do is keep him talking until Lucien gets here.
"Both," she answered. "I'm not questioning your character, Major Alderton. But I'm not too old to take certain things into account."
"No, I don't suppose you are," he said, leering at her, letting his gaze travel up and down her body in a way that made her stomach heave with disgust. "Agreed, then."
"Third. You've purchased a night. That means you leave at sunrise. Agreed?"
"Yes, yes, all right. Bloody hell, how many rules do you have, woman?" he grumbled, clearly growing impatient with the volley of questions and answers between them.
"Two more," she told him. "You pay first, and if you want something more...exotic I reserve the right to decline. Agreed?"
How many times, Jean wondered, had she endured such a conversation, down through the years? The questions and the answers, the rules had not changed once since the moment she first set foot inside the Lock and Key. Even now, with this terrible man in front of her, facing a calamity she did not even want to contemplate, the game unfolded in the same way it always had. Or perhaps not always; though she had taken the time to inform Lucien of the rules and insure that he would follow them before she ever led him back to her bed everything had been different, with him. She had wanted him, even that first time, could recall so clearly the electricity that seemed to crackle between them, could recall how close he'd stood to her, and how she had not backed away. With Lucien, she had been excited, eager; with Lucien, she had felt desire. Now, however, she felt only the cold sting of fear, felt with each passing second as if she were falling deeper and deeper into filth and depravity. If this loathsome man touched her, she feared no soap on earth would be strong enough to wash the dirt from her soul.
"Yes, all right," he said with a shrug. "Agreed."
And with that final agreement in place he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a wad of bills, handing them over to her with a flourish.
"Thank you very much, Major," Jean said as she took his money. "Now. Why don't you have a seat on the sofa there and make yourself at home while I slip into something a little more comfortable?"
Another gamble, another risk; if only she could get to her bedroom she could tuck his money away out of sight, and she could take a deep breath, and maybe, maybe if she were brave enough, bold enough, reckless as Lucien and twice as wild, she could reach into the drawer of her bedside table and pull out the pistol that had languished there for nearly two decades now. It was one of the only pieces of Christopher that still remained to her, and she kept it in fine working order, though she had never dreamed, even for a moment, that she might consider pointing it at another person.
She was considering it now.
"I want what I paid for," the Major growled, stepping closer to her. Though every nerve in her body screamed out against it Jean stood her ground, and did not back down as he drew near.
"You paid to be entertained, Major," she told him. "And I can promise you, there are a good many things far more entertaining than stockings and a girdle. Take your jacket off, make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a moment."
And then, before he could protest again, she turned and walked towards her bedroom, holding her breath, straining hard to listen for his footfall behind her, but it never came. As she stepped into her room she turned to close the door, and watched the Major fling his jacket over the back of the sofa before sinking down on it, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Lucien was coming, and she prayed he would come fast, but Jean had learned long before that sometimes the only person who could save her was Jean herself. She hadn't needed a man before; perhaps she didn't need one now.
Maureen went upstairs the moment the dining room was clear. She wanted Paul to come with her, to storm through Mrs. Beazley's door and bring the Major down between the two of them, but Paul had reminded her - rightly - that that wasn't the plan. The plan required them to wait for the Doc - and Danny and the Superintendent, now - to arrive, to find strength in numbers, and not to tackle an armed Army Major with nothing but their wits and their own two hands. Paul was waiting downstairs, to let the Doc in as soon as he arrived, but Maureen couldn't bear to be so far away from Mrs. Beazley when so much danger hung in the air.
It was a strange and terrible feeling, loitering helplessly in the corridor outside Mrs. Beazley's suite. To Maureen's mind Mrs. Beazley had always been so strong, and so brave, almost invincible, utterly unassailable. Even the most difficult customers always treated her with respect, and everyone followed her rules without question. No one had ever said a bad word about her in Maureen's hearing, and before the Doc turned up no man had ever laid a finger as far as Maureen had seen. Mrs. Beazley was somehow above all that, so far removed from the seedy acts that kept her ledgers in balance. Now, though, now Mrs. Beazley had been revealed at last to be no more than a woman, alone with a terrible man, and Maureen's heart cried out in protest at their unbearable circumstances. She deserved so much better, Maureen thought, and Maureen knew she could never live with herself if something awful happened to Mrs. Beazley while Maureen stood by and did nothing to stop it.
Danny had asked for twenty minutes, but only ten had passed. Ten more minutes was an eternity, as far as Maureen was concerned.
Unable to bear it a moment longer she approached the door to Mrs. Beazley's suite and pressed her ear against it, listening hard, her hands trembling with adrenaline and terror, holding her breath, desperately searching for some sign of what was happening inside.
The moment Danny's voice called out from the front door Sergeant Hannam was off like a shot. He disappeared into the night as smoothly, as silently as he had arrived, no trace of him left behind, and though that troubled Lucien a great deal, Danny's arrival troubled him more. It took no more than a moment for Danny to explain the situation - that Alderton was already at the pub, that someone had cut the line to Lucien's phone, that Jean was in danger - and he was still talking when Lucien grabbed his jacket and ran for the door, Danny and Matthew hot on his heels. They piled into Matthew's police car together, and raced off into the night. Not fast enough, not nearly fast enough, Lucien thought as Matthew sped through the deserted Ballarat streets. His hands were shaking, his heart was pounding, his every thought focused on Jean. He would never forgive himself, if she were hurt for the sake of her connection to him, if Alderton wrought some horror there in her home, and Lucien arrived too late to stop it. He could have wept, so great was his distress, but he only steeled himself, and tried to prepare for what was to come.
Maureen's ear was still pressed to the door, and so it was that the sudden sound of a gunshot nearly sent her careening back against the wall; it was a hideous sound, so loud and so close, and Maureen could not help but scream, a thousand terrible thoughts running through her mind. One second she was recoiling, and in the next she had launched herself at the door; there had come shouts from some of the other rooms still occupied, and Paul's footsteps were heavy on the stairs, but Maureen paid them no mind. All that mattered to her, in that moment, was Mrs. Beazley. Mrs. Beazley who was good as a mother to her, Mrs. Beazley who was the only person in the whole world Maureen loved, Mrs. Beazley, who did not deserve to die at the hands of such a loathsome creature.
What she found when she barreled into the parlor, however, was a very different scene from the one she had expected.
The Major was writhing on the floor, swearing and clutching his bloody hand to his chest, and Jean stood above him, beautiful and vulnerable and wild-eyed in her best black silk negligee, the lace that covered her breasts heaving with each ragged breath she took, a gun clutched in her trembling hands and pointed squarely at the Major.
"Get his gun, Maureen," Mrs. Beazley barked at her, and Maureen looked around her, shocked to find another pistol on the floor halfway between herself and the Major.
At the sound of Mrs. Beazley's command the Major lunged for his weapon, but his bulk and his injury made him slow, and Maureen beat him to it. Without a moment's hesitation she kicked him hard right where she knew it'd hurt him most, and he let forth a howl like a wounded animal and rolled away from her. Maureen stooped and picked up his gun, and then she went to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Mrs. Beazley, both of them pointing their weapons at the Major now.
"All right?" Maureen asked her softly. There was a red mark across one of Mrs. Beazley's pale cheeks that Maureen liked not at all, but otherwise she seemed unhurt, and Maureen's admiration of her was growing by the second, for she never would have imagined, before now, that Mrs. Beazley even owned a gun, let alone that she would have the presence of mind to pick it up, and the fortitude to use it.
The Major was still groaning - Maureen really had kicked him quite hard with the pointy toe of her favorite pumps. I hope he bleeds, she thought grimly.
In the next breath Paul had burst through the open doorway, skidding to a halt with an almost comical look on his face as he took in the sight before him.
"Bloody hell, Mrs. Beazley," he said, looking from Jean's wildly trembling hands to the bleeding, groaning mess of a man on the floor in front of her.
Jean laughed, and only then did Maureen realize she was crying.
Matthew had not even pulled the car to a stop before Lucien was leaping out of it; get to Jean, get to Jean, he repeated the mantra over and over again. Just the thought of Jean alone with Derek, his hands on her skin, the terrible, unthinkable things he might do, might do because of Lucien, because Lucien loved her, because he had been too reckless, because he had not been there for her when she needed him most, left him nearly shaking with rage. If he's hurt her, I'll rip him limb from bloody limb, Lucien thought, but he need not worry; before he even reached the back door it was opening, and then the strangest procession he had ever seen came trooping out of it.
The first face he saw was Derek's, flushed crimson and mad with frustrated rage; that boxer bloke Paul walked behind him, Derek's hands bound with a length of something - ribbon? Rope? The tie from Jean's dressing gown, Lucien realized, somehow both horrified and impressed - and Paul's arms were locked around his, holding him all but immobilized. Behind Paul there came Maureen, wild-eyed, her riot of auburn curls tumbling around her pale face, a gun - a gun? - clutched in her trembling hands. And then, at the rear, came Jean. Jean, barefoot and wearing nothing but a thin satin negligee - one Lucien realized he had once peeled off her himself - carrying a pistol, grim faced and also, inexplicably, carrying a pistol. For the moment Lucien could no more than stare; what the bloody hell happened here? he wondered faintly.
Paul had led Derek to Matthew and Danny, and they were speaking softly, but Lucien paid them no mind, for as Jean stepped into the feeble glow of the streetlamp he saw that her cheek was red, as if she'd been struck, and rage burned through him hot and fast as lightning.
"Are you hurt, my darling?" he asked her urgently, reaching for her at once, his hand finding hers - the one not currently holding a gun - their fingers twining together as she clung to him.
"I'm fine, Lucien. He hit me. But only once." Jean's voice was as unsteady as her hands, but she kept her chin up, her back straight, and Lucien was almost overcome with admiration for her, this brave fierce creature who had stood toe-to-toe with horror, and come out the victor.
"Don't worry, Doc," Maureen said from just beside them; she was standing close to Jean, as if keeping guard over her, as if she would gladly throw herself between Jean and any further danger. "Mrs. Beazley got her own back."
Lucien looked to Jean questioningly, and tears gathered in the corners of her glorious eyes.
"I shot him, Lucien," she said in a trembling voice.
"Only in the hand," Maureen explained, but Lucien barely heard her. Jean was a gentle soul, he knew, compassionate and tender, and she had never experienced a horror like this before; he could only imagine how it must have been tearing her up inside, to have done such a thing - even to a man as dangerous and cruel as Derek - and so he threw caution to the wind. Never mind that people were watching, never mind that she was only half-dressed, never mind that he was the police surgeon and such behavior was beyond inappropriate; Lucien used the hand still holding hers to draw Jean into his arms, and she went with him willingly, tucked her head beneath his chin and began to sob while he held her close.
"It's all right," Lucien whispered against her soft. "It's all right. You're safe now, my darling. You're safe."
For a long moment he simply stood, holding her, relishing the heat of her in his arms, drawing comfort from the knowledge that she was safe, and whole, that Derek had not done the unthinkable, that he had not been able to obtain whatever it was he wanted from her. Jean was safe, now, and he made a silent vow in that moment to watch over her, always, for all the rest of his days, to do whatever was in his power to make sure she never knew horror like this again.
"Doc?" Danny called out softly behind him.
Reluctantly Lucien released his hold on Jean, and turned to face Danny, to take in the scene unfolding in the carpark. Derek was sitting in the back of the police car, Matthew standing in front of the open door, speaking to him, and Lucien realized then this thing was not over; it was only just beginning. There would be interrogations, and witness statements, and all the red tape the army could muster; the fight ahead would be a long one.
"I need to take their guns and their statements," Danny told him, gesturing vaguely towards Jean and Maureen.
"Right." And I need to talk to Derek, Lucien thought grimly. The time had come for his old friend to give an accounting of himself, and Lucien intended to hear every word of it. Jean handed her gun over to Danny, and Lucien saw the way the lad's eyes skittered away from her, and it occurred to Lucien then that it would be cruel to leave Jean standing there in nothing but her thin negligee. She was always so proper, always so well put-together, always so mindful of appearances; she deserved better, he thought, and so he slipped the jacket from his shoulders and wrapped it around Jean at once, and she smiled up at him, though her eyes were terribly sad.
"I'll be right back," he told her, leaning forward to brush a kiss against her forehead. The sight of Jean, beautiful but vulnerable, brave but broken, standing there in her silk and her lace and his jacket, was one that would haunt him for all the rest of his days.