by Mark Hayden
‘Call 101 and ask them to confirm my identity,’ said Morton with a reassuring, professional tone. ‘I’d rather you did that than worry.’
‘Who sent you?’ said one of the girls. No they didn’t. It was Kirk. Clearly some surgery isn’t visible.
I’d been leaning on the door jamb, trying to look non-threatening. I stood up straight and coughed. Morton looked at me and then gave a small nod.
‘No one’s sent us,’ I said. ‘I’ve spoken to the Management and whatever happened to the Count, I’ll make sure they leave you alone.’ I looked at Karina and nudged my head up. She let go of Kirk and stood back to block the conservatory exit.
Kirk’s rounded shoulders slumped further. ‘I’ll be fine, Amy. You get off to work. I knew this would happen one day. I’d rather get it over with.’
If I’d closed my eyes, I’d have thought a teenage girl was speaking. Weird isn’t in it. Morton and Fraser were equally shocked, and only Karina didn’t seem surprised. Either that or she should take up poker for a living.
‘Are you sure?’ said Amy. Kirk nodded, and she moved to the little round dining table. She picked up a red nurses belt and clipped it round her waist, then started tying and fastening her hair.
‘Can I have a cigarette before we start?’ said Kirk, pointing to the garden.
Morton nodded. ‘Of course. PC Clarke will keep an eye on you, and no doubt join you in ruining your health. Shall we wait here?’
Kirk pointed to a door that led to the living room. ‘We’ll go in there.’ He moved to Amy and gave her a hug. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry.’
‘Take care,’ she said. ‘And text me the minute they’ve gone.’
‘I will.’ An impish grin flashed across his face. ‘Show them where the kettle is, yeah?’
She pushed her brother away, and I followed him outside. He picked up a pair of supermarket trainers from the square of grass and shoved his feet into them. ‘I dropped these when your pet ninja jumped me. I haven’t got that close to a woman in a long time.’ There was a bigger smile this time, enough to show that he was hanging in there. Just.
In the corner where the conservatory joined the house, there was a small patio set, with an overflowing ashtray on the table. He patted his pockets, and I offered him one of mine.
‘You don’t look like a regular policeman,’ he said. She said. That voice was playing tricks with my head.
‘I’m not. This is a joint operation, and DCI Morton is in charge today. I have just one question for you: did the Count say why he gave you that name? Fae Klass?’
‘Who’s a clever boy, then? You must know something.’ He crossed his legs in a totally feminine way and opened his big eyes in my direction.
I kept my face straight. ‘Did he?’
Kirk shrugged. ‘Something to do with winding up his family. The People, he called them. Big Wayne and Auntie Iris always called me Miss Klass. It didn’t make any difference to me. I quite liked being Fae Klass. Shame she’s gone. How did you find me?’
‘Ask DCI Morton. Better still, ask DC Fraser. She’ll enjoy telling you.’
‘Is she the tall one?’ I nodded. ‘Does the ninja even have a name?’
He clearly loved romance, in all its forms. ‘Lieutenant Kent. She’s part of a new all-female special forces unit. It’s a good job you didn’t put up a fight.’
He shivered. Not a scared shiver. A shiver of anticipation. ‘Ooh. I’ll remember that.’
I stood up. ‘Where did you have the surgery? They did a good job.’
‘The voice, sweetie? That wasn’t surgery. If you go under the knife, they shorten the vocal chords with scar tissue. Not good for a singer. The Count sent me to a woman he knows. Therapy and drugs. It’s already starting to wear off.’ A shiver of pain, real pain this time, passed over his face. ‘The withdrawal was terrible.’ Kirk stood up and followed me back inside. ‘I don’t even know what it was they gave me, so I couldn’t try to score some of my own.’
‘Oh? What did they call it?’
‘Fairy dust, he called it. Said it was our secret.’
Elaine was in the kitchen zone and didn’t hear us. Karina had been keeping an eye on me and heard every word. She’d certainly heard the last part and looked visibly distressed. The only problem was that she didn’t look at Kirk with sympathy, she looked at me. Either she had real difficulty with empathy or she was re-living a trauma all of her own.
Tom emerged from the living room and said, ‘It’s a bit cosy in there, Conrad. Would you mind if Karina sat this one out?’
‘We’ll leave the door ajar.’
Morton wasn’t wrong. The living room had a big TV on a stand, a comfy couch and a mismatched old armchair. And that was it, seating-wise. I grabbed a dining chair and plonked it in front of the TV. Elaine and Morton took the couch, and Kirk settled in the armchair. Karina deposited matching mugs of tea and slipped out.
‘I was asking Kirk about his surgery when we were outside,’ I said, just to clear the air. ‘The Count paid for it all.’
‘Thanks, Conrad. I’ll make a note,’ said Morton. He didn’t; he looked at his notebook and smiled at Kirk. ‘Just to be clear, Mr Liddington, this is a completely informal interview. You are a witness. That doesn’t mean it’s not official, just that nothing you say will be used against you, because I’m not going to give you the Caution. You know the one, You have the right to remain silent. None of that. Just tell us what you know and we’ll produce a statement for you to sign later. Is that clear.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then I’ll cut to the chase. Is Kenneth Williams, also known as the Count of Canal Street dead?’
Tears were already forming. ‘Yes, he’s gone, and yes, I saw it happen.’
‘Then you tell us, in your own words, what happened that night.’
Kirk shook his head. ‘It feels like it happened to someone else. To Fae, not to me.’
‘So tell it like that.’
13 — Mayfly
‘Thank you. Thank you all. I’ve felt so much love from you tonight. I’m blessed. Goodnight.’
Fae Bowed one last time and retreated off the stage, waving and not turning her back on the audience until the lights had dimmed. She grabbed the handrail and hitched up her dress to get down the steep concrete steps that marked the boundary between the intimate spotlights of the club and the bland wash of LEDs backstage. She paused at the bottom and closed her eyes, taking a moment to let the tingles subside and the adrenaline to stop pumping.
On the stage, JC took the mic and whipped up the audience again, ready for the next act: Girls Alewd. Fae kept her eyes closed as five sets of heels clattered up the stairs. They weren’t a real tribute act, just a handful of the house troupe who would mime a couple of songs with the lights up while the audience went to the bar and the toilets. It was midnight, and the Count never put the best acts on after midnight. Fae opened her eyes and headed down the corridor before the music started.
The smell of discount perfume and chemical punch from the club faded and was replaced by sweat and hairspray when she opened the door to the dressing room. Lamé, sequins and nylon hung from every hanger and boy clothes were piled on top of boxes and bags. Fae checked that her own outfits were still where they should be, and then she felt the tingle down her spine that told her he was there, behind her. She stood up and composed herself before turning round.
‘You were brilliant,’ said the Count. ‘As always. I’m not paying you enough, clearly.’
She glided across the dressing room and put her satin gloved hands on his shoulders. ‘You’re not paying me at all. Was I that good?’
He gathered her in, and the aroma of earth and musk filled her nostrils. He smelled so good she could drink him in all night. He ran his hands down her back and his mouth dropped to her neck. She felt his teeth rub along her skin, teasing her. ‘Oh yes,’ he whispered. ‘You were very good. And you’re going to be even better at the Well. I’ve heard that the judge is coming. She asked f
or you especially.’
Better and better. Fae couldn’t wait to get to the Well of Desire and change into something less comfortable. It was going to be a night to remember.
The Count pulled back and turned to the corridor. The black shape of Big Wayne loomed behind him. Wayne’s coarser jacket fitted his enormous shoulders as closely as the Count’s silk one did. They even had the same tailor. Fae had been sharing the Count’s bed, his bathroom and his many adventures for six months, and yet the people the Count was closest to in the world were Big Wayne and his live-in PA / housekeeper, “Auntie Iris”. He was even close to the mysterious Scouse bitch he called The Management. He’d once joked that the voice belonged to Tara Doyle. No way.
Big Wayne cleared his throat before speaking. ‘Sorry, my lord. We’ve got a bit of a problem with the Rolls – it’s been clamped. Someone must have forgotten to put the protection on it.’
The Count laughed. ‘Someone? You mean me, don’t you. I must have been in a rush. What’s the weather like? I fancy a walk.’
‘It’s not raining. Still cold, though.’
‘Here,’ said the Count. He hooked his silk-lined cape off the coat rack and wrapped it round Fae’s shoulders.
‘Expenses,’ said Wayne, offering the Count a brown envelope. ‘Four thousand.’
The Count took it and weighed it. ‘I’ve still got five in the safe.’ He handed the envelope to Fae. ‘Yours. Whatever you do, don’t spend it wisely.’
Fae took the money and rooted through the pile of clothes for her knock-off Chanel bag; she had the real thing in her dressing room at the Count’s flat, along with a Di Sanuto. He’d promised her a Di Sanuto Exclusive for Christmas, but only if she was a bad girl. She checked that her phone and lipstick were in there and shoved the envelope to the bottom. ‘Shall we?’
The Count swept her out into the cold and held her arm until they got to the canal path. It was a thin, sharp wind tonight, giving them a real Lancashire welcome after the overheated stage. Fae wrapped the cloak more tightly around her, loving the feel of the silk on her arms above the gloves.
The path next to the canal was pretty wide normally. Just ahead, yet another old building was being dragged into the twenty-first century as part of Manchester’s never-ending property boom, and the scaffolding encroached well over half way to the railings that protected drunks from a late night dip in the freezing waters. In the narrow gap, Fae saw two of tonight’s audience.
The Gardens hosted a lot of hen parties, especially on a Friday, and these two were part of a group of eight, seven dressed in bright red fancy-dress cabin crew costumes and one in a fancy-dress bridal gown. All of them had white sashes across their shoulders, emblazoned with the words Trolley Dollies on Tour: Leah’s Hen. Fae had spoken to them after her first set and the chief bridesmaid, a tall woman with a German accent, said that they really were cabin crew. The costumes were supposed to be ironic. They certainly got a lot of attention.
As they got closer to the hens by the canal railings, Fae could see shadows under the scaffolding, behind the builder’s barrier. The bride-to-be was on her knees, throwing up in the gutter while the chief bridesmaid held back her hair. Par for the course on a hen night.
The two in the open air were struggling to light cigarettes. They were struggling because they had false nails and they simply weren’t used to them in the everyday world of boarding passes, safety demos and drinks carts. When one of them saw Fae and the Count, she looked up and said, ‘’Ere, you haven’t got a light, have you?’ And then she nudged her companion. ‘Suze, look who it is! Fae Klass and the Count.’
‘Ladies,’ said the Count. ‘Allow me.’ He produced a lighter from nowhere, like a magician, and lit their cigarettes.
Another two hens drifted out from the darkness when they heard the voices. ‘Wow, you were great tonight! Can I have a selfie with you?’ she said, reaching into her bag for a phone.
‘I want one with the Count,’ said one of the smokers.
‘And me,’ said another.
There was a bit of jostling as they got into position, and Fae nearly stuck her stiletto through one of the hen’s flip-flops.
Flip-flops?
She looked down at their feet. Not one of them was wearing the heels they’d had on in the club. They’d all got changed into flip-flops, ripping the ends of their tights to get the rubber thongs between their toes. But where were the shoes?
‘Now!’ screamed the German bridesmaid, and the hens under the scaffolding parted. Behind them, black shapes appeared, charging forwards. Fae froze.
The two hens who’d been taking a selfie with her didn’t freeze: they dragged her away from the Count, just as the two women with him pinned his arms to his side.
Four shapes shot out of the darkness in two pairs. Each pair was carrying a long pole like a caber. Instead of tossing them, they brought them down with a vicious swipe, deliberately missing the Count and the hens and smashing the poles into the top railing with a ringing crash of steel on steel. It was all happening so quickly that Fae’s brain couldn’t catch up with what she was seeing.
The two hens on the Count let go of his arms and dropped to the floor, mud splashing their outfits and crawling between the legs of the men. They’d rehearsed this. They knew what they were doing.
Freed from the trolley dollies, The Count raised his arms, but the bride and her chief bridesmaid were approaching, and they were carrying fucking flares. Fucking lit flares. The Count backed into the railings, and two more men appeared with a third pole. They put it on the ends of the other two, making a square with the railings, and trapping the Count inside.
Why doesn’t he fight? thought Fae. She knew exactly how strong the Count was, and she’d seen him in the gym, punching and hitting the bag like a pro, so why wasn’t he fighting? The men holding the poles weren’t even men, really, probably boys: they were all short, well shorter than most of the hens, and had ski-masks over their features. And their hands were full of metal pole. Surely a jab to the throat and the Count would be away?
Instead of fighting, the Count screamed and clutched his hands to his head. Nothing was touching him, but the pain in his voice made Fae feel like his face was being peeled off. Two more men emerged from the shadows, and when Fae saw the javelins they were carrying, she knew it was time to get out.
She pushed one of the hens holding her and this time she really did bring her stiletto down on the woman’s foot. When the hen let go, Fae swivelled and jabbed the second woman in the eye. Then she ran.
She got round the corner before the other hens reacted. Hide or run for safety? The thought of waiting behind a dumpster for them to find her was unbearable. Fae ran.
She had one chance, and high-stepped it away from the main streets and into an alley. She couldn’t take her heels off without stopping and stripping her gloves: the shoes were strapped to her feet and going nowhere on their own. Down the alley and turn left.
‘There she is!’
As well as slowing her to a parody of running, the heels clattered out her location to the pack behind her. Right into the next back street.
The slap of flip-flops followed her. A glance over her shoulder. At least those fancy dresses were slowing them down. Not enough. Fae kept running and one of them dived at her in a rugby tackle.
And landed flat on her face with an armful of the Count’s cloak. Fae staggered from the impact and bounced into the wall. She looked back, and the other one was too close. The hen grabbed Fae and tried to pinion her arms while her friend got up. Fae wrestled her left arm free and tried to grab the woman, but her gloves slipped off the nylon. She bent forward and tried to bite her arm as the other hen closed in.
The first one moved her arm out of the way and did what came naturally to her: she grabbed a big handful of Fae’s hair and pulled it down. Hard.
When the wig ripped off her head, putting the hen off balance, Fae pulled her right arm back and smashed the heel of her hand into the woman’s nose
. She felt it crunch and heard the scream.
There were more on the way, and Fae had to get out. The second hen was a bit warier, just enough to give Fae the courage to move towards her. She ran, but she’d be back. Fae pivoted and got out of the alley with a prayer bubbling on her lips: Please, let him be on duty.
She turned right and saw the ugly face she’d been dreaming of standing outside the district’s seediest nightclub. It was a face from Blackpool, a face she’d reconnected with last month, a face that knew who she really was.
‘Fae? What’s wrong?’ said the doorman.
‘Let me through, for pity’s sake, and don’t let in any trolley dollies, OK?’
He pulled the door open and said, ‘Go through the cloakroom and keep going. Back entrance is straight ahead on your right.’
Keep going. That was all she could do. Keep going past the cloakroom boy, through the Staff Only door, down the corridor and, smash, through the exit into an alley with no access from the warren of streets where she’d left the hens. Keep going.
Out of the alley, round the corner, round another and into a tiny square. There. Third on the right.
It was a four storey, grimy Victorian boarding house with no questions asked for those with cash. Even if Jana-from-Estonia wasn’t there, she could hide in the stairwell. No lift, of course, so hitch up the dress and wake everyone as she clumped up the stairs. Second floor, Room 203.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Fae Klass. Acie Decie. Kirk. Please, Jana.’
The woman opened the door and let her in. She looked at the blood, the smeared makeup and the bare head, and fear blossomed in her eyes. Jana knew violence intimately from the receiving end thanks to her father and a lot of men since.
‘Two minutes and I’ll be gone,’ said Fae. ‘Just call me a taxi and give me some trainers. Please. They don’t know where I am, but I can’t be seen on the streets.’
Jana stepped on to the landing and listened. When she heard nothing, she nodded to Fae and closed the door behind her. ‘Take what you want.’
