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An exclusive extract from Ruth Jacobs' debut novel.
Ruth Jacobs Bio
Ruth Jacobs Bio
Ruth
Jacobs writes a series of novels entitled Soul Destruction, which expose the
dark world and the harsh reality of life as a call girl. Her debut novel, Soul Destruction: Unforgivable,
will be released on 29 April 2013 by Caffeine Nights. Ruth studied prostitution in the
late 1990s, which sparked her interest in the subject. She draws on her research
and the women she interviewed for inspiration. She also has firsthand
experience of many of the topics she writes about such as posttraumatic stress
disorder, rape, and drug and alcohol addiction. In addition to her fiction
writing, Ruth is also involved in non-fiction for her charity and human rights
campaigning work in the areas of anti-sexual exploitation and anti-human
trafficking.
Soul Destruction: Unforgivable
Enter
the bleak existence of a call girl haunted by the atrocities of her childhood.
In the spring of 1997, Shelley Hansard is a drug addict with a heroin habit and
crack psychosis. Her desirability as a top London call girl is waning.
When
her client dies in a suite at The Lanesborough Hotel, Shelley’s complex
double-life is blasted deeper into chaos. In her psychotic state, the
skills required to keep up her multiple personas are weakening. Amidst her few
friends, and what remains of her broken family, she struggles to maintain her
wall of lies.
During
this tumultuous time, she is presented with an opportunity to take revenge on a
client who raped her and her friends. But in her unbalanced state of mind, can
she stop a serial rapist?
Extract from Soul
Destruction: Unforgivable by Ruth Jacobs
Chapter One - The
Dead John
“There’s only one kind of dead, the not moving and the not breathing
kind, and that’s the kind of dead he is.” Despite her hysteria, Shelley Hansard
tried to whisper on the phone from The Lanesborough.
“Not necessarily.” Marianne’s voice squeaked down the line. “Just
because things seem a certain way, it doesn’t mean they are.”
“Sometimes it does. Sometimes things are exactly as they seem – and
right now, this is one of those fucking times.” Shelley sat rocking on the edge
of the bed in the Regency-styled suite. “I’m telling you, he fucking died on
me.”
“You’re not a doctor. You can’t go around pronouncing people dead.”
“If you don’t believe me, get off the line and I’ll call someone else.”
“Don’t you dare. You don’t tell anyone. Do you understand? You come
straight here.” Marianne grunted. “Have you got the money?”
“What the fuck does that matter now?” A hot tear landed on Shelley’s
thigh.
“Get a grip, Kiki. Start acting like a professional.”
Fighting the urge to look at the motionless body spread-eagled next to
her, Shelley pushed herself up from the bed. Her neatly folded suit lay by her
feet. She stood, staring down, burrowing her toes into the plush carpet. She
knew she should get dressed, but clean clothes didn’t belong on skin that felt
unclean.
Taking a step towards the bathroom, she felt unbalanced. Her legs
shuddered and her backside hit the floor. Reunited with her brown, pinstripe
suit, she reached for her skirt. With trembling hands, she dragged it towards
her. Shuffling on her back, she shimmied into it. Her fingers grappled with the
hook and eye. Making a hasty exit was important, but making an exception to her
rule was impossible. She couldn’t do it.
She managed to stand but, stepping out of her skirt, she collapsed
again. Pressing down on the carpet with her palms, she tried to lever herself
back up. Her jolting arms gave way. The last limbs to surrender to the
convulsionary rhythm that had overtaken the rest of her.
She didn’t have control over her body. Instead, she had a helpless
feeling of being completely powerless. The rush to leave the hotel and the
corpse was over. As a periodic convulsionist, she knew the beat could
monopolise her for hours. She just had to wait. She knew what to expect. Soon
she’d be gone.
***
On regaining consciousness, her shaking had reduced. She staggered to
the walnut bureau where earlier she’d left her handbag, took out her mobile and
checked the time: nearly midnight. Two hours lost to another world.
Slipping the mobile back inside her cream handbag, she shut her eyes,
realising what she’d done. She’d called Marianne from the phone in the hotel
suite. Under the circumstances, that wasn’t the phone she should have used.
After a shower, with hair wet, she dripped a track back to the bed. She
dressed, trying not to look to her right but as she buttoned her jacket, she
couldn’t help it. She breathed in deeply, as if inhalation through her nose
would draw the tears back through her ducts from whence they’d sprung.
Quietly, she said aloud, “God bless you.”
What was his name? She tried to remember. She couldn’t. She didn’t know
him, not in a real sense, only biblically. The last few hours they’d spent
fornicating, high on a combination of crack and GHB. In the midst of
proceedings, he’d complained of a chest pain. So, when he asked her to make him
another pipe, she refused. On gently reminding her who was paying for the
evening, and whose desires were to be met, he took the crack pipe from her
hands and on the ash-covered foil, prepared himself a rock. The rock that would
emerge to be the last ever smoked by the late, greying-blond john.
“Come to me, you... you... you nymph,” he said, beckoning to her as he
exhaled his final pipe. “Come over here and pleasure me— my penis. I mean,
pleasure my penis. Would you, with your mouth, please?” The client reclined on
the bed, unaware that his last words had just been spent on a bungled request
for fellation. And from a young woman whose name he didn’t know – at least, not
her real name.
Some time in, Shelley became aware that the penis in her mouth was
lifeless. She stopped to look up and saw the fixed expression on his face. It
wasn’t changing. He wasn’t moving. He looked like a waxwork from Madame
Tussauds.
“What are you doing?” she asked, prodding his chest. “Stop fucking
around,” she shouted through the hairs in his ear.
After a vigorous shaking failed to extract even the slightest reaction,
she put her fingers under his nostrils. He wasn’t breathing. That was when she
called Marianne.
***
From the console table, Shelley removed the remaining rocks. She wrapped
them inside clingfilm then stashed them in her cigarette box. She dismantled
the crack pipe. The smaller parts – elastic band, tin foil, broken biro – she
put in her handbag. The abused mini Evian bottle, she put in her small
suitcase.
Crouched down by the side of the mahogany bed, she methodically repacked
her work paraphernalia. Two vibrators, one black strap-on dildo, handcuffs and
another set of underwear were all she’d taken out her case.
Inside a crystal jar on the bathroom shelf, she found cotton wool. She
wetted half a dozen pieces and, in the absence of eye makeup remover, added
hand lotion. She scrubbed at the black around her eyes and the dark-grey lines
that streaked her face. To stop her bloodshot eyeballs burning, she splashed
them repeatedly with cold water.
Her face clean and dry, she evened the tone with powder foundation. On
the blank canvas, she swirled pink blush on the cheeks, brushed black mascara
through the blonde lashes and drew a line of black on the upper eyelids. To
finish, she painted red on the lips, perfectly matching this week’s manicure.
After drying her hair, she was ready to leave. She scanned the room,
checking she hadn’t left anything behind. Suddenly, she thought of
fingerprints. She ran into the bathroom and grabbed a towel.
Keeping her head turned away from the dead john, she wiped down the
telephone on the bedside table. Next to the phone stood a champagne flute – red
lip prints on the rim – the one from which she’d drunk a Buck’s Fizz. She
picked it up inside the towel and polished it.
Flitting around the suite, she cleaned the bedside tables, the console
table, the bureau, and everything else from the headboard to the ornaments in
case she’d touched something unknowingly. In the bathroom, she wiped down the
marble surfaces and glass shelves. Remembering the cotton wool in the bin, she
fished out the blackened, wet balls and dropped them down the toilet. She
flushed, watching them disappear. Then she flushed again to make certain they
were gone. She wiped the cistern handle before throwing the towel in the
bath.
Turning to leave, she looked in the mirror. The feeling that someone had
put a stitch in her upper lip and was tugging at the thread looked as strange
in her reflection as it felt on her face. This delayed after-effect didn’t
always occur but when it did, it always outlasted the shakes – sometimes by a
day or a few, other times by months. However, on judging the catalytic incident – and considering
the tsunami convulsion was already a weak breaker – there was a chance she’d be
restored to an untwitching state in time for tomorrow night’s dinner.
***
Shelley stood in the hallway, closing the hotel room door behind her.
Waiting for the lift, she brushed her fingers through her thick, blonde hair.
Though freshly washed and dried, that didn’t stop its tendency to knot. Also
knotted was her stomach. She pulled it in with a deep breath and raised her
shoulders, standing straight, and taller than her natural five-foot and
six-inches in her high stilettos.
Chameleon-like, she was adept at entering and exiting hotels at all
times of the day and night without drawing attention. To blend in, she gave the
impression of a guest, wearing business attire and carrying a case. She
appeared to know the way to the lifts, and when she didn’t, she could feign it.
Indelibly stamped in her memory was the floor plan of her exit, even
though this was only her third visit to The Lanesborough. She hadn’t had to rely
on it as often as The Hilton, The Dorchester or The Four Seasons – the Park
Lane hotels to which she was most often called – but The Lanesborough was
stored with The Ritz, The Savoy, Claridges and numerous other London hotels she
worked in less frequently.
With the air of confidence she’d mastered in faking, she strutted across
the main hall. Tunnel vision for the grand exit. Her heart pounding so hard in
her chest, as if preparing for its own escape, was disregarded.
She’d just made it into the drizzle outside when a low voice called out
from behind her, “Good night, madam.”
The uniformed porter startled her, but her calm exterior remained intact
and she replied, “Good night,” without a backward glance.
***
Approaching her Mercedes on Grosvenor Crescent, Shelley muddled through
her handbag to find the key. She heard a banging noise. In fright, she looked
up and down the street. It was devoid of people.
She opened the driver side door of her vintage 350SL. Keeping both feet
on the pavement, she sat down sideways on the low seat. Then, with knees
together, she lifted her legs, rotated her body ninety degrees and slipped her
feet into the footwell. She believed this was the proper way for a lady to
enter a sports car. Although she didn’t feel like a lady, she maintained an
outward appearance that was contrary to her internal turmoil.
Locked in, with her case and handbag on the passenger seat, she leant
across to open the glove box. She took out a tatty, pink sponge meant for
cleaning the windscreen. From a cavity inside the sponge, she drew out a white
envelope. Sliding her hand underneath her skirt, she reached for her earnings
tucked safely under the elasticated rim of her hold-ups. She counted out
two-hundred pounds and put that in her purse. The remainder, she put in the
white envelope, shoved the envelope back inside the sponge, and returned the
sponge to its home in the glove box.
She looked out of her window. No one was there. She checked her rear
view mirror. There was no one behind. Where were the voices coming from?
Sometimes she heard voices in her head, but not these ones. There was one low
and one higher pitched voice. The conversation was unintelligible, but
something was funny. They were laughing. Now the voices were getting louder,
getting closer. A screech pierced through her. Her head twisted brusquely to
the side. Her neck felt whiplashed.
In the middle of a terrace, a young couple were kissing. The man was
positioning the woman against the white-stuccoed wall of a townhouse. They
didn’t seem to notice Shelley in her car. Their Friday night was happening
somewhere else. Another world. A world that Shelley no longer lived in, nor did
she want to. Her experience of that world had propelled her into the one she
inhabited now, and though she didn’t care for her new world, she’d acclimatised
to it. The emotional shutdown she’d acquired had brought her there and it left
her stranded.
Robotically, she turned the key in the ignition, switched on the headlights,
put the car into drive, checked her mirrors and pulled out of the tight space.
She drove towards Chelsea, where Marianne lived off the King’s Road, not far
from The Lanesborough at Hyde Park Corner.
At the first set of red traffic lights, she dipped her hand into the
side pocket of the door and blindly selected a CD. The Hue and Cry - Bitter Suite album calmed her for a
moment, until she began worrying about her earlier mistake. What would Marianne
say if she found out Shelley called her from the hotel phone and not her
mobile? At twenty-one years of age, and after nearly three years of working,
she should have known better.
Soul
Destruction: Unforgivable is released 29 April 2013. Available worldwide
from all major online retailers in paperback and e-book. Pre-orders are
available direct from Caffeine
Nights.
Further
information and contact details:
Ruth Jacobs’s Amazon author page - US: http://www.amazon.com/Ruth-Jacobs/e/B008OJ0ZMC and UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Ruth-Jacobs/e/B008OJ0ZMC
Soul Destruction website: http://soul-destruction.com
Author Website: http://ruthjacobs.co.uk
Ruth’s Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/rujacobs
The Soul Destruction Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/SoulDestructionSeries
Ruth on Twitter: http://twitter.com/RuthFJacobs
Join Ruth’s mailing list here
Tara!
