The Flaming Girls Ch. 01

Chapter One - Better off Dead

Charlie Ringwald put a Consulate menthol cigarette between her lipsticked lips and lit up, drawing the smoke deep into her lungs. The smoke gave a false illusion of warmth on the bitter foggy night. She put her cigarettes back into the cheap handbag hanging from her shoulder by the thin vinyl strap and wrapped her arms around herself in a vain attempt to warm herself.

She was wearing a black vinyl miniskirt, mauve satin blouse, a short faux leopardskin jacket, sheer black tights and high heels. The way she was dressed and her stiff, perfectly coiffed red hair, which she'd copied from David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust heyday, heavy makeup and general countenance as she leaned against the rough redbrick of the railway underpass proclaimed in no uncertain terms that she was a Tom.

There were half a dozen other Toms or Brasses, pick your favourite British euphemism for prostitute, working the long dark tunnel in the early morning hours that Saturday. They were dressed similarly to Charlie, although some favoured boots, most wore stockings rather than tights, or pantyhose as they are referred to outside of the UK, and one adventurous young lady was wearing hotpants.

The Old Bill mostly left them alone, there were far more nefarious crimes afoot than prostitution to keep them busy. The women plied their trade along the slippery pavement, suddenly coming to life and strutting their stuff whenever a kerb crawler turned into the tunnel or a prospective punter walked along the underpass looking for a blowjob or a knee-trembler in one of the recessed archways let into the walls.

Charlie decided to finish her cigarette and call it quits for the night. She had made ten quid so it had been a good night, she'd make her rent and have some spending money for the weekend. Then a man entered the underpass from the southern end which meant he would pass her first, if he was a punter she could make one last score for the night.

The man walked briskly down the pavement and Charlie stubbed out her cigarette and struck a provocative pose, head held high to show off her pretty face. There was a single sodium vapour streetlight near both the entrances to the underpass and a couple of yellowing carriage lights mounted in the curved ceiling. She could see that he was dressed in coveralls and boots and wore a heavy duffle coat and as he approached Charlie she got a good look at him. He was dark haired and handsome and his face lit up when he saw her.

"You're one my Flaming Girls," he smiled at her.

"I'm what now?" Charlie had no idea what he was talking about.

"Never mind; what will this get me?" the man produced a five pound note from his pocket.

"Anything you want darling," Charlie gave him her sweetest smiled and eyed the money hungrily.

For five pounds a punter usually wanted a girl to get into a car and go to the punter's flat or a seedy hotel and spend the evening. Five pounds for turning a trick on the street in 1975 was almost unheard of.

"Come on then," the man took her elbow and led Charlie into the closest recess between the brick and mortar abutments that supported the tunnel.

The recesses were perfect places for street prostitutes to ply their trade. They were dark, quiet, and provided an element of privacy and shelter from the elements.

The man stuffed the fiver into Charlie's hand and she slipped it into her purse. He pressed her against the wall and kissed her. Charlie usually didn't let punters kiss her but for a fiver the man could pretty well do as he pleased. Unlike most of her customers who smelled of cigarettes, stale beer, fish and chips or doner-kebab, this man smelt of aftershave and his breath was fresh. When he put his tongue into her mouth she let him and she reciprocated, returning the kiss and opening her legs slightly as he pawed at her thighs. He spent some time kissing her, which she actually quite enjoyed, he was a good kisser and the hands stroking her nylon-sheathed thighs felt soft rather than the rough navvy's hands she was used to.

She squeezed his erect penis through his overalls and he grunted with satisfaction. He was well endowed and eager to use it. He put his hands on her shoulders and she took the hint and squatted down on her heels before him; kneeling on the filthy ground was out of the question and would certainly ruin her tights. She fumbled around trying to free the man's cock from his overalls and he brusquely pushed her hands away and popped the press-studs open and a rather handy erection plopped out of his coveralls which Charlie stroked to full tumescence and then put into her mouth.

Some of the cocks she sucked tasted rancid but this one was quite clean and circumcised. She used her lips and her tongue on the engorged phallus hoping she could bring him off in her mouth and save herself the chore of actually having to fuck, but although the man sighed contentedly as she fellated him, he was not going to allow her to satisfy him orally.

He lifted Charlie to her feet and she obligingly leaned against the wall, pulled down her knickers and tights and bent over. She rummaged in her bag and produced a rubber which she offered to the man.

"I don't think so luv; not for a fiver," he grunted.

This was six years before AIDS was even heard of and most working girls would go bare for the right price.

Charlie tossed the unopened prophylactic back in her purse and took out a tube of KY jelly and smeared a healthy dollop on the man's penis.

"Turn around, I want to look at you while we fuck," he demanded.

Charlie turned to face the man and took in his handsome features. He lifted her legs and put his hands under her buttocks to support her as he jabbed at her entrance. He found his target and slid inside her up to the hilt.

He fucked her slowly, kissing her and caressing her as she locked her legs around his waist and put her arms around his neck so that with her back against the wall she was fully supported. Charlie seldom enjoyed copulating with customers but this man knew how to fuck and his cock was doing some amazing things as he slid it in and out of her tight channel.

She sensed the man was about to orgasm and she kissed him passionately and wriggled and writhed to stimulate him to climax. She was close herself and because she was going home after this she allowed herself to come. As her orgasm spread from the pleasure centres in her groin throughout her body she closed her eyes and she didn't see the man reach into the pocket of his duffle coat.

When he slashed her throat the knife was so sharp that at first she didn't register what had happened. She just felt a sharp sting then the flesh of her upper body felt warm as her lifeblood saturated her blouse.

The man stepped back, quickly putting his cock away. He held her against the wall letting her bleed. Her legs gave way and she tried to scream but her mouth was filled with coppery blood and all she could do was gurgle.

"Good girl, now just lie there while I get your knickers before they get bloody," the man whispered.

He let Charlie fall to the ground and then he tugged at her panties until he had them free and put them in his pocket.

"One more souvenir and this will soon be over pet," his voice was almost soothing.

He ripped the earring out of her right earlobe and pocketed that as well.

"Ok nearly done," he sighed.

The man ripped open Charlie's blouse and began to use the knife on her stomach.

"Oi! What the fuck are you doing!" Charlie heard one of the other brasses call out.

The woman's voice sounded like it was coming from far away, she was losing consciousness and the pain in her belly was unbearable, she welcomed the darkness when it came.

*****

Charlie woke up in a strange bed on a hard mattress under stiff white sheets. She opened her eyes and saw that it was a hospital bed, her heartbeat was being monitored by an ECG and there were tubes attached to her body. Her throat was sore and her mouth tasted stale and metallic, her belly burned and a nurse leaned over her and adjusted something and she fell back into darkness.

The next time she awoke she felt a little better but her throat was itchy and her stomach throbbed with a dull ache. A doctor stood at the base of her bed looking at her chart. He looked up at her but didn't smile.

"You are in Chelmsford public hospital. You have suffered knife wounds to your throat and abdomen; you're lucky to be alive," he said coldly.

"A nurse will give you some ice chips to suck on to partially quench your thirst but you are still nil by mouth," he slammed the chart closed and stared at her.

"What happened?" Charlie said, her voice hoarse and her words no more that whisper.

"That's what the police will be asking you as soon as you're fit enough to talk to them. I'll let them know you're conscious," the doctor turned on his heels and left the room.

A nurse came in and positioned an over-bed table and raised the bed so that Charlie was sitting up.

"Take one chip of ice at a time and suck on it until it dissolves. Don't rush because you'll choke," there was no compassion in her voice.

"Those tubes going into your veins are providing you with fluids and a steady flow of morphine; if the pain becomes worse press the button and I'll up the dose," it was the nurse's turn to leave Charlie alone with her pain.

Charlie tried to recall what had happened to her and her memory started to return. She could recall everything right up to the man slicing open her belly and a rope of her intestine protruding like an unwanted bicycle inner-tube. The other working girl crying out, the man cursing and running away, the brass screaming for someone to dial 999, the cold creeping into her body and then the blackness, the glorious blackness that took away the pain.

*****

"I'm Detective Sargent Robin Sparrow. I'm aware of the irony so no need to make a pun about my name," the man in the rumpled suit said brusquely.

As if Charlie was in any condition to crack jokes. She had lain in the hospital bed for another day after she gained consciousness being tended to by the surly nurse and sporadic visits by the equally sullen doctor. Charlie felt like she was the offender rather than the victim.

"Charles Huxtable Ringwald, of flat 7 Crown Road Chelmsford, born April twelve nineteen fifty two, expelled from Thomas Street College at eighteen and changed name by deed poll to Charlie, arrested three times for soliciting in a public place and released with a formal warning on each occasion," the Detective said dourly.

"That's right but my name is now Charlie Ringwald and I identify as a woman," Charlie replied.

"Be that as it may mister Ringwald you are not legally a woman," Robin grunted.

Charlie was used to being treated this way. The term gender dysphoria had not yet been coined and although there were many men living as women in England, they generally did so in secrecy.

"You've summed up my life in one sentence, do you have any actual questions for me?" it still hurt to talk and Charlie took frequent sips of water.

"This is a preliminary interview. I understand you are still in pain but I would like to record your recollections of the evening you were assaulted," Robin looked down at his notes, not meeting her gaze.

"I personally believe it was a case of mistaken identity; your punter paid for sex with a woman and when he realised that you weren't what you professed to be, he stabbed you in retaliation," the detective sniffed.

"But there are some in the Serious Crime Division that believe your case could be tied to the Essex Slasher."

Charlie was already pale but she went deathly white at the mention of the Essex Slasher; a madman who had mutilated and killed five women and was still on the loose.

"Tell me everything you can remember about the evening," the detective raised his eyes and looked at Charlie expectantly.

*****

Don't let Ruffe Ingersoll's Scandinavian heritage fool you, he is a third generation Londoner working for the scandal-sheet known as The Daily Sun. He calls himself an investigative journalist but he is better known in journalistic circles as a muckraker.

It was he who had famously snuck into the Fleur de Lis Gentlemen's Club and taken a picture of Lord Mycroft Huntington chained to the wall dressed in stockings and suspenders being paddled by a voluptuous lady wearing fetish leathers and high heels. After the story broke the MP resigned his seat in the House of Lords and retired to his manor house and drank himself to death. He couldn't stand the shame.

Ruffe got a ten pound bonus for the story and the accompanying photograph.

But Ruffe was not some thug; he was intelligent and articulate and was also a bit of a charmer. When he arrived at Chelmsford public hospital he saw his brethren journalists clamouring at the entrance to the women's section of the hospital. Ruffe had visited the underpass where the crime had taken place and taken some photos and chatted up a couple of working girls who were still plying their trade despite what had happened to Charlie.

"Well she was always different if you know what I mean," a middle-aged strumpet wearing a miniskirt, laddered stockings and too much makeup sniffed.

"She kept to herself mostly; she was special, she attracted that type of punter," the woman patted the side of her nose with her finger.

Ruffe fished a one pound note out of his pocket and the prostitute eyed it greedily.

"She's a tranny luv. Good looking though and very feminine, you'd never know to look at her. I'm sure some of the tossers that went with her never suspected," the woman reached for the note and Ruffe let her snatch it.

"Thanks for the information missus; you've been very helpful," Ruffe gave her a brilliant smile.

"For another oner you can shag me up the back of the viaduct," the woman's bright-red lipsticked lips parted to reveal a row of ill-fitting dentures

Ruffe smiled at the pun that the uneducated tart didn't realise she had made.

"Thank you madam, maybe next time," he took her hand and kissed it gallantly.

So Ruffe had a vital piece of information that would make a great headline for The Daily Sun: Sixth Slasher Victim Survives! Transvestite Prostitute Lives To Tell Tale.

Ruffe was getting hard thinking about it. This could be his best story yet. He scoffed at the crowd of reporters waiting uselessly near the women's wing of the hospital and made his way to the men's wing. He was wearing his best suit and he stopped to purchase a large bouquet of flowers and box of Milk Tray at the gift shop.

He found a pretty nurse and chatted her up and soon found out the information he needed. Ruffe was surprised to see the door to Charlie's room was unattended. He'd expected to have to lie to a uniformed policeman about being Charlie's uncle but it proved unnecessary. He slid past the nurses station at the end of the ward where the on duty nurses were drinking tea and gossiping and made his way to Charlie's room. He slipped inside and closed the door.

Charlie was asleep and he put the flowers and the chocolates down on the bedside table and studied her. She was not wearing makeup and her dyed red hair was a bird's nest but she still had a pretty face. There were lines on her forehead and bags under her eyes but that was to be expected for a woman who had almost been disembowelled and had her throat cut. There was a large bandage around her neck. He picked up her chart and scanned it quickly, he was a speed reader.

Ruffe was a lot of things but he was not prejudiced. He moved in circles where people came from all sorts of ethnic backgrounds mixed uninhibitedly, sexuality was often blurred and gender was decided by how you presented yourself. Booze and drugs were consumed with relish, sex with any gender and any number of partners was considered cool and people pretentiously thought of themselves as 'arty' and 'with it'. Ruffe didn't mind what they thought just so long as they let him in on the gossip and offered him free booze. Ruffe had no animosity or bias against the transvestite prostitute lying in the hospital bed; she was just another story.

Ruffe fussed with Charlie's hair, giving her a fringe to embellish her pretty face. She was pale and needed makeup and he would certainly like to get some glam shots of her later but for now he wanted her to look vulnerable and victimised. He opened her pyjama top a little so that the wounds on her neck were visible. He wondered if there was any way that she would let him photograph her stomach while the wounds were still fresh.

Ruffe took out his Cannon F1 35mm camera and took a series of stills. He opened the blinds a little to let in more light and then closed them to get a couple of shots of Charlie with shadows on her face.

Charlie stirred and Ruffe quickly put his camera away, although the bulge it made in his suit pocket would be obvious to a trained observer or someone who wasn't groggy with painkilling drugs.

"Hello Charlie, I bought you something," Ruffe held up the flowers and chocolates.

"Who are you?" Charlie roused herself out of troubled slumber.

"I'm Ruffe Ingersoll," Ruffe gave her his best smile.

"You're a vulture. How did you get in here?" Charlie made a vain attempt to find the nurse's call button.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, sweetheart," Ruffe intercepted her hand and held onto it.

"Do you know where you are?" Ruffe asked.

"Chelmsford hospital," Charlie replied.

Her voice was till hoarse from the attack and tubing that had been forced down her throat during surgery.

"Yes that's right Charlie. But you're in the men's wing. Your chart is written up as Charles Huxtable Ringwald and I know that's not your real name is it Charlie? You changed it by deed poll. They're treating you like a man for no good reason aren't they?" Charlie said in a pitying voice.

"I've lived with those prejudices all my life, why should they change now? And how come you know so much about me?" Charlie withdrew her hand.

"I talked to a few of you colleagues at the underpass," Ruffe's smile never left his face.

"Deirdre Edwards I bet. She ask for money? I bet she did. When she was in school she'd show you her knickers for a bite of your toffee apple," Charlie winced in pain when she smiled at her own joke.

"Then I made few enquiries of my own. You've had it rough Charlie, not many could live the life you do, and now you've survived an attack from the worst murderer we've had in England since Jack the Ripper and the Old Bill are treating you like you're the criminal," Ruffe said sympathetically.

"Bollocks! You shouldn't be here. You just want a story," Charlie grimaced again and reached for the water.

Ruffe intercepted her and poured her a glass, carefully handing it to her.

"Am I right in what I said though?" Ruffe took the glass from her when she'd took a few sips.

Charlie sighed.

"I'll give you fifty quid," Ruffe got down to business.

"The tabloids are going to make up a story anyway so why not tell me your story and I'll print the truth."

Charlie went into a coughing fit she laughed so hard. That caused her stomach to remind her of the indignity done to her as sharp pain lanced her innards.

Ruffe wetted a flannel and patted Charlie's forehead with it soothingly and offered her more water.

"I want fifty quid. I want makeup and a hairbrush. I want a nightdress and knickers. I want a packet of fags. And after I tell you what I'm about to tell you, you get nothing more until you come back with all those things and a contract for twenty quid for every follow-up piece I give you," Charlie folded her hands on the bedcovers.

"You've had it hard haven't you? Always having to scheme and battle to make a quid," Ruffe said soothingly.