by Anne Brooke
At a table wet with spilled drink, I squeeze myself next to two young blokes dressed in high campery and make-up and necking as if they’re joined at the mouth. I wonder if it’s exclusive. It isn’t. I buy each a Bloody Mary and find out the shorter darker one has a tongue stud, and the tall blond a nipple ring. It never gets serious. They’re more into each other than me, but it’s a break from the heat and sweat and muscle of the dance floor, and I’m not complaining.
When the music changes to seventies’ disco, I’m up and working the room like a pro. Thank God for hospital drugs strong enough to keep a dying horse on its feet. The evening goes on into morning. By the early hours, I’m drunk, exhausted, aching, and happy. The end of the night finds me back in the toilets with the blond, black-leathered bloke I first made out with. And I’m thinking I might have been premature in saying earlier that there’d be no more sex, just touching.
Because the leathered bloke is half-sitting, half leaning against one of the basins. We’ve filled it with cool water, and I’m busy splashing him and kissing him. So far, so good my assumption. But at the same time, our cocks are ramrod free, though I can’t remember that happening. We’re both rubbing each other up and down, up and down, faster and faster, not caring about the blokes around us pissing or necking or doing whatever it is they want to. Tonight is magical and nothing can stop it.
I come first, and a second later he does, too. Collapsing against him, both of us gasping and laughing and wet, I see our spunk oozing together over his leathers, my shirt, our fingers. I can’t help but laugh again.
‘Sorry,’ I say, wincing as the pills finally begin to wear off, and my burns grow painful once more. ‘Your trousers. Didn’t mean to mess them up. But, God, you’re so cute.’
‘It’s okay, don’t stress it,’ he laughs, eyes glowing in the strip-light. ‘It’s fine. Craig, my name’s Craig. And you’re cute too. More than cute.’
‘Craig.’ I test out the word and like the way it feels on my tongue. ‘Hello, Craig.’
‘Hello...?’
‘Paul.’
‘Hello, Paul. Nice to meet you.’
Again we kiss, and I help him down from the basin. Taking the sparse remains of the hand tissues, we clean each other up, tidy our clothing, and head back to the bar, now almost deserted.
At the door to the street, he reaches into his pocket and brings out something I can’t see. ‘Do you...?’
‘What?’
‘Do you want my number? Maybe you could ring me sometime, and we could go out for a drink or...?’
‘Or have sex?’
‘Yeah. Or have sex.’
Reaching out, I run one hand through his dyed blond hair. Early twenties, I think, maybe on the look-out for something serious for the first time. He’s unlikely to find it here. I’d better explain how things are and quickly.
‘Look, I was just out for some fun tonight,’ I say. ‘I’ve had a bad few days, and I wanted to forget it for a while. I’m not in the market for anything more than that, not right now.’
‘Shame,’ he shrugs and looks down. ‘I fancy you like crazy. Shame to waste it.’
I smile, stroke the back of his neck, and allow myself one long, rich goodbye kiss. As we disentangle ourselves, he slips whatever it is he’s been holding into my back pocket.
‘What’s that?’
He steps away, and his blush rises. ‘Just my card. I’m not dumb enough to ask for your details now, but you never know, you might change your mind.’
‘Thanks, Craig,’ I say. ‘Now I can see it’s time to get going. I make no promises, but, whatever, I’ve enjoyed myself. You’re a superb kisser.’
He smiles, and I find myself admiring the crinkle around his hazel eyes. ‘Thanks, yourself. You give a bloody good hand-job, Paul.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
It’s already after 6.45. I grab the morning paper from a news-agent just opening on the corner of Old Compton Street and wander down on my own to Leicester Square. I read the news. And read it again.
Dominic’s arrest for questioning is on Page Three. Or rather, not arrest. There’s no mention of any charges yet. He’s just helping them with their enquiries. The police have moved fast. My tape and statement must have been more successful than I’d hoped. No, it’s not just me. They must have been working things to a point of action way before this, and what my contribution has done is speed up the inevitable. My tape was good. I heard it. I know. My statement, too. They’ve added it to the sum of their findings, and they’ve sprung the trap.
Good luck to them.
I hope Dominic survives.
No. No, I don’t. Not after what he’s done and the way he’s walked away from it. And not after Jade.
I read the item again. The main thrust is suspected people trafficking, which is no surprise. Dominic’s family is mentioned, his company, too, but then I expect that. It’s part of the story. As is Bluesky and what happened to her. What does make my mouth go dry and my muscles tighten is the mention of Delta Egypt that comes in the penultimate paragraph. It’s just a throwaway comment, focusing on Dominic’s business dealings with Blake Kenzie, but the fact that this is part of the first tranche of reporting is enough for me to drop the paper onto the bench, sit back, and think.
The police are further along in their investigations than Jade and I ever supposed. If Blake is mentioned here, then they already know, or suspect, that the two companies are involved in the trafficking together. And have proof beyond what I might have been able to add to the mix. Because if Dominic has been brought in for questioning, then Blake also must be facing the police in an interview room. Whether here in London or back in Cairo.
All this means the shit has hit the top of the wall and is even now glooping down, muddying everyone who comes into contact with it. I might well be in more danger than I thought. Until now, I’ve assumed I’ll go down when Dominic plays his final cards and makes his counter-accusations. Now, it looks as if the fall-out from Delta might catch me instead. In a much more deadly fashion.
Today, the thought of Blake’s henchmen acting out their bloody fantasies with me once more gives me more trouble than it did yesterday. The encounter with the hooker, and then with Craig, while not lasting in any sense, has changed things.
I want to be here. Alive, sitting on a bench in the middle of London, feeling the beat of my heart in my chest and the flow of blood through my veins. I want to enjoy the warmth of the air on this mild October morning. I want to hear the sounds of the city moving from sleep into the vibrancy of day: the tramps on the far side of the square from me drinking and squabbling; the early morning workers hurrying along on their way to their offices; the stray clubbers creeping home. All of it, the noise, the shit, the colour, the smell, is worth hanging onto, no matter what the cost. I don’t want to be on the other side. Not even if Jade is there. Not yet.
I want to live.
Because of that and that alone, I’ll take my chances with Dominic.
This decision made, the next realisation is it’ll be safer not to go home. Being at the office is beyond my courage now. I have to think what to do, where to go to wait for the inevitable explosive statement from my ex-lover. I’ve not been followed from the hospital or the club. I could run.
I could, but I won’t. Somewhere it has to end. I need to be where there’s a television or radio tuned to breaking news. Some place where I’ll know when the death-blow has landed.
Launching myself upright from the bench, I start to walk and keep on walking. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know it has to be deeper into London, to be amongst people as the morning broadens out into day. Not too many people, though, not so as danger might come unseen, unannounced.
All I can sense is my sweat and the sound of my breathing. Though I look behind and around myself once, twice, there’s nobody I see to distrust. Nobody is there. Nobody cares.
Keep on walking. Keep focused. That’s important. I can’t lose my purpose now. I’m
looking for one thing and one thing only. Somewhere to step aside for a moment, somewhere with a television and a chance to drink in the news. The news about me maybe. And then a chance to think.
I find the perfect place, a small café in The Strand. It’s empty except for one old bloke, dark-skinned and muscular, behind the counter and a couple of young women who look like they’ve been out all night and plan to spend all morning discussing it. Through the smeared window, it looks bleak, metallic, but clean enough, and it’s got what I want. A working television. The colours and lines of it flicker across my eye, and I blink.
When I push open the door and walk in, the rich scent of coffee and warm bread makes my stomach twist and groan. It seems like I haven’t eaten in years, and now I’m starving. As I enter, the two women stop talking and turn ’round to stare at me. They look me up and down once in experienced assessment, find me wanting, and turn back to their conversation, whispering behind manicured hands. Can’t say I blame them. I must look like crap, though I’ve not yet studied myself in a mirror to confirm this diagnosis. Must smell, too, if I only knew it, of smoke and sweat and sex.
As I approach the counter, the old bloke picks up a clean white teatowel and steps back, wrinkling his nose, but saying nothing. Behind him, in the optics, I can see a slight figure, hunted, suspicious, with a frown on his pale face. His hair is unbrushed, his eyes are bleak. He looks as if a change in the wind might make him lash out without warning. He looks like me.
‘Sorry,’ I say with a gesture of appeasement to the old bloke. ‘I’ve had a rough night. I’ll have a coffee.’
‘What do you like?’ he says, his accent strong Italian. He waves his teatowel at the hand-written menu on the counter.
‘Espresso. Double, please.’
He deals with the machine and pours out the dark pungent liquid. When the time comes to pay, my skin goes cold for a second or two as I wonder if I’ve even got the cash for this, but the coins I scrape together from the depths of my pockets are just enough.
As I take the cup and head to the nearest seat not next to the window, I point at the television. ‘Do you mind if I watch the news?’
With a shrug, he glances over at the two women. He says something rapidly, in Italian I imagine, and they look up and say something back. It sounds chatty, informal, as if they all know each other. I hadn’t realised the women were Italian, too. Their whispers hadn’t penetrated that far. Whatever, their answer must be in the affirmative, as he picks up the remote and switches through a couple of channels until he reaches a breakfast news programme.
‘Thank you,’ I say, trying to take in all three of them with my smile. I sit down where I have a good view of the screen and also the door. Because you never know.
I swallow down another couple of pills with the coffee and stare at the television as if it’s about to bring me my future. I can’t seem to understand what it is they’re talking about; the images sway back and forth, in and out, and I have to blink and shake myself to bring them back into clarity. News items appear and disappear. The mouths of the people talking make meaningless words that don’t reach me, and I realise the volume is too low. Of course. It doesn’t matter, though, not yet.
Then, suddenly, there’s a picture of Dominic close up, an old one, next to a shot of Scotland Yard. Seeing him there makes my heart beat so loud I’m surprised when the women carry on chatting as if they haven’t heard it. Seeing him in this context makes everything that’s happened real, solid, and not just a nightmare of my own imaginings. God. They’re talking, talking, but I can’t hear. I have to hear.
From my sitting position, I swing ’round in appeal to the proprietor again, not caring if my voice is too high, too harsh. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Si?’ he says, turning to face me.
‘The volume? Please?’ I make a desperate movement of my hand at my ear, and he sighs.
‘Okay.’ He reaches for the remote, a look of boredom on his lined features.
Still he’s too slow, too slow, and I leap up and grab the remote with one hand, still clutching my coffee cup. ‘Sorry, I just...sorry.’
No time for further apologies. In two strides I’m at the screen and have put the sound up four notches. The reporter is still talking. Now he’s standing outside Dominic’s house in Islington. It seems a lifetime since I was there. He nods to camera, apparently in answer to some question the presenter might have asked and continues:
‘...Yes, that’s true. And since this morning’s early encounter with the police, there’ve been no statements from Mr. Allen and no further clarification from Scotland Yard concerning the reasons for Mr. Allen’s apparent arrest. Or indeed any confirmation that any formal arrest has been made. We’ve been advised that it may have something to do with the breaking case of people trafficking the police have been investigating, but the exact nature of Mr. Allen’s involvement remains unclear. A gentleman who described himself as Mr. Allen’s solicitor arrived at the house here in Islington ten minutes ago. He was admitted by a member of his family, presumably his wife, Cassandra Allen, but has not yet left. As I’ve said, no indication of the nature of any charges, if there are in fact to be any charges, has been made.’
Even as the reporter is speaking, there’s a flurry of movement behind him, a sense of something about to happen. Dominic’s front door opens and then shuts just as quickly. On the threshold stands a lean, bespectacled man in his late fifties, holding a sheet of paper. He begins to walk towards the gathered reporters. I’ve never seen Dominic’s solicitor, but it’s obvious who it is. Here it comes then, I think, here it comes. Dominic’s counter-attack and then everything I’ve known or worked for will vanish. My business, my life, me.
The reporter glances back and steps to one side, so the camera can zoom in. He keeps on speaking. ‘As you can see, the gentleman understood to be Mr. Allen’s solicitor has just exited the house and is heading in our direction. He may well have a statement to make to us, at which point we might hope to learn more about this mysterious case.’
The solicitor comes to a halt on the pavement as the journalists jostle for position around him. He glances into camera. His eyes are sharp, intelligent. Dominic has chosen his representative well. Dropping the remote, I grip the counter so hard with my free hand that pain shoots through my knuckles. No matter now, as the mouthpiece begins.
‘I have a short statement, which Mr. Allen has asked me to read out to you, but I’m afraid I cannot answer any questions at this stage,’ the solicitor says, unfolding his papers, and I think, go on, go on then, let’s bloody well get it over with. I’m as prepared as I can be. ‘Mr. Allen would like to say this: I very much regret the events of this morning and the distress it has caused and will cause my family and colleagues. I have spent many years building up the expertise and reputation of DG Allen Enterprises, and I trust that those currently in charge of proceedings in my absence will continue to act with integrity and professionalism in every challenge and opportunity they face. As from this moment I am stepping down from my position as Chief Executive Officer, and the Board will as a result take over my duties until such time as a replacement can be appointed. I admit that mistakes have been made, and I’m prepared to pay for them as the law decides. That’s all I’m able to say at this moment. Thank you.’
I am wrong. I’ve not been prepared for this.
I could never have been prepared for this.
Why?
On the screen, the crowd of journalists explodes with questions that will not be answered until much later. In the television studio, the presenter kicks into an improvisation that can tell us nothing that we haven’t already heard. In a small café in London, meanwhile, my cup drops from my fingers and shatters on the tiles in a combination of whiteness and searing heat.
And I think it’s over.
And once again I’m wrong.
Chapter Nineteen
During the next month and four days, the long, cold haul through the end of autumn and the beg
inning of winter, I become a news junkie. As, I imagine, do many around the country. I learn about the sudden but only partial destruction of Blake Kenzie’s sex trafficking empire and something about the long hours of police and welfare agencies’ work that has made this possible. I learn how Blake disappeared just hours before the swoop was due to take place and wonder how he found out and where he is today. I miss the chance of seeing him suffer for Jade’s death and wonder if I’ll ever be able to let that need go.
I wonder, too, about the fate of my attackers and whether they were already dead when Blake or his messengers got to them. And I wonder if Dominic has thoughts to spare for that in the middle of everything else he must be going through. I learn how several of Blake’s closest contacts in Egypt, the UK, and along the smuggling route have been captured and questioned and are now facing imprisonment. For how long, who knows? His empire has suffered a blow, and I’m grateful as, without it, I no doubt would be dead. To them, I’m small-fry now, unimportant in the grander scheme of their difficulties. I’ve been forgotten, and, I think, because of that and that alone I’m alive.
Most of all, though, I learn more about the people whose lives Dominic and Blake have ruined. Not just facts and figures gleaned from a police file I’ve never admitted to seeing, though I wonder that the police have let my incomplete knowledge of it pass. No, I and millions of others hear for the first time the real story: tales of suffering from women forced to work in the sex trade, stories that no-one will ever forget. For a while, Bluesky and what happened to her is the main focus for speculation, but the facts are few, and neither Blake nor Dominic is accused of her murder. Or Jade’s. Any evidence I could bring to the table is nothing but circumstantial.
The police don’t call me. My business isn’t ruined, and life eases itself back into a new path that, step by step, becomes a kind of routine. Even my wounds heal, but I will be scarred for life. Dominic has set me free by a silence I can’t understand. For as long as he sees fit to keep that silence, I will walk in it.
