Mission London

by Alek Popov

  “Do they have connections with the palace?” Varadin’s face tensed.

  “Undoubtedly!” nodded Dean Carver, M.P. “After they arranged a dinner for me with Prince Charles, my ratings instantly shot up a mile! Ha-ha! I may have republican ideas, as you know, but who cares? You seem intrigued. I think I still have their card.”

  He started looking in his wallet.

  “It must be this one…I forgot my specs, can you, please, read what it says here.”

  Varadin lifted the card: Famous Connections. PR Agency. “Thank you,” he nodded.

  “You don’t have to thank me! I am friend of Bulgaria. Take my card as well… You can always count on me.”

  As he was saying this, Carver moved his eyes to his plate and raised his finger in approval. Where the starter had been, now lay a serious piece of meat, covered with cranberry sauce. He poured himself some more wine and started devouring it with deliberate concentration. Not wanting to be left behind Varadin also took to his cutlery, but his brain was elsewhere: the chewy undercooked meat slipped across the plate and splashed him with sauce. Bloody Hell!

  “It doesn’t give in easily, eh?” giggled Carver. “You have to get used to the character of the roast here.”

  10

  When Katya popped out of the bathroom with her hair so wet that she shot off volleys of little drops, she immediately provoked the envious gaze of Doroteya Totomanova. Her eyes were like two dull brooches. The two girls were sharing a room, 9ft by 12ft and all possible love between the two had been lost. Doroteya, also known as Dotty, had a spotty face and fat ankles. Katya possessed everything else which was of any value in the eyes of the opposite sex. Pure pornography thought Dotty, whose eyes were devouring several particulars of her roommate’s body. She had the feeling sometimes that those parts had been stolen from her, and it seemed only fair that she should at least have the right to touch them. Such a small consolation, yet even that was constantly denied her.

  Katya was not very keen on the idea of being stared at in that particular fashion, and on top of everything, completely for free; but the mere thought that this was doing irreparable damage to the self-esteem of the voyeuse, left her feeling it was entirely worth it. She quickly dried her hair, dragged on a pair of old jeans, a T-shirt and a jacket and threw her bag across her shoulder.

  “I’m off,” she announced.

  “Bye,” mumbled Dotty, without moving.

  You bitch thought Katya. Doroteya Totomanova did not have to work because she received an allowance from her parents, and she was not at university; so she was lying in bed with fat, inappropriate books.

  “You know, you should get out more,” said Katya with some superficial concern.

  “Mind your own business.”

  “Okay, then you can at least open the windows,” spat Katya.

  The door slammed and Doroteya was left alone. She stuck out her tongue and showed her middle finger at the now absent Katya. Then she took out a breeze-block of a book, entitled Directions in Radical Feminism by someone called Stone John Stone and hungrily started devouring the pages. Meanwhile Katya was half way to Soho.

  As usual, Samantha Brick was at the entrance in her creamcoloured basque, bare legs and stiletto-slippers, and was calling out to the johns with lascivious gestures, “Come on, darling! Pop right in!”

  Katya thought that this probably repelled rather than enticed the clients, but the business had its traditions and, at the end of the day, she really didn’t give a damn. The entrance, decorated in tinted mirror tiles, was surmounted by a neon sign which read Bailey’s Place. There were thousands of such places, dispersed across every continent, little incubators of little sins, where men took their frozen, wilted eggs in the hope that some feeble erection might hatch out of them.

  “Cheers!” Samantha touched her hand.

  Katya smiled as their fingers briefly interlaced. Samantha was a kindly blonde, past her forties, with almost no tattoos. She had done her time on the pole, and now life was fairly determinedly pushing her to the periphery. There were many tales that Samantha could tell but nobody wanted to listen.

  Katya ran down the stairs and popped through a side door into the dressing room. The familiar chaos swaddled her, soaked in sweat and perfumes. The half-naked girls were fussing around throwing tits and arses in all directions. Through the air various items of lingerie flew together with an assortment of words in a plethora of languages. She liked the informal atmosphere. It reminded her of the prehistoric melting-pot where life came into being. From time to time, a curly head popped out from behind the curtain. Its owner, Kemal Dalali was a Lebanese-born man in charge of the whole menagerie. Several gold chains, long enough to hang him, were swinging around his neck. He was shouting out the names of the girls whose turns were approaching, “Vera, hurry up! Hurry up!…Françoise! Hurry up!…Fen Li! Hurry up!”

  Katya slipped into an absurd costume, constructed of black leather straps and high boots, sat in front of the mirror and started layering coats of make-up onto her face. The boots were cool, they could hold lots of tips. Connie Delano tried to push her some powdery stuff, but drew a blank once again. On her other side, the Slovakian Beata, a student at the prestigious LSE, was swearing in her mother tongue; her inner thighs were covered with a rash and that would reduce her takings. Katya advised her to put some foundation on them. Kemal Dalali’s head popped out again, “Kate! Hurry up! Hurry up!”

  To grind around the pole and discard bits of her outfit was not a big deal. It was easier than hanging around behind the counter of some shop for hours or washing dishes, and most importantly, it was more profitable. Lots of students were doing it. Katya had expenses to cover: she had to pay the huge university tuition fees and to send her parents some money from time to time. She owed it to them. They had mortgaged their apartment in Sofia to pay her first set of fees. And even with those expenses Katya could lead a reasonable life, but she wanted to save up some pounds. You never know what lies round the corner as the English say. On the other hand, she found her double life rather attractive; some strange gloating sensation kept her playing the role of a poor, hard-working student, ready to do anything to keep her little hole in the Embassy.

  Every time she found herself totally naked on the dance-floor, Katya felt the urge to carry on: to pull her whole body apart and throw it, bit by bit, to the public, until she got rid of her last carnal accessory, and to leave only dust in the stage lights. This self-destructive urge arose at the end of every performance, maybe it was her body’s reaction against her shameless soul, but it never lasted long. Last swing around the pole. It was good for the body. Her freshly shaven armpits were sticky with sweat. The only thing remaining now was to crawl the catwalk between the male muzzles, and to gather the tips – the most important part of the performance.

  And the most pleasant one! The catwalk was warm from the lights, which were glowing underneath it in green, orange and white. She slid her body forward like a big colourful cat, lasciviously bending her back while the male hands were stuffing her boots with notes. Some jerk put some paper note in her crack – very original, indeed! She hissed as a warning. Some other paper note touched her nipple, slid down and landed in her boot. ‘Oh, fuck you!’ she thought. She continued to crawl forwards, gathering banknotes like flies on flypaper. At the far end of the path she noticed a glassy face. This one is going to throw the whole content of his wallet in my little boot! she decided. The carpet was warm; the pieces of paper tickled her body. The glassy face became even glassier. Come on, take out your tenner, you arse-hole! she thought nastily to herself, impatiently swinging her attributes in front of his nose. No reaction followed.

  “I’ll stick it up your backside!” she hissed in her native Bulgarian in his face and sharply turned her back.

  She did not turn around again. The walk back seemed considerably shorter. She stood up, waved playfully at the public and disappeared behind the curtains.

  The first thing she did was to c
ount her money – ₤55. Not bad! She went back into the dressing room and started cleaning her face. Beata was still whingeing about her rash.

  “Don’t you really want to try some of this stuff?” Connie said to her whimsically “It’s lethal!”

  “No,” Katya shook her head.

  She avoided staying long in Bailey’s. The dressing room was full to bursting anyway. One after the other, the girls would get on stage, do their act and then make way for the next. Every act was different. Kemal Dalali was particularly proud of this variety. In one night, more than thirty girls would turn up. If any girl wanted something on top, she could stay performing lap-dances in the twilight of the corner tables. Katya had done that as well without unnecessary scruples, but tonight she didn’t feel greedy enough.

  A pound coin fell out of her boot. This is not a piggy-bank! she thought angrily, but still bent down to look for it.

  “Kate, darling!” the voice of Gunter Chas was echoing. “I have something for you!”

  Gunter Chas was a pleasant young gay guy who was in charge of the strippers’ wardrobe and also did other little orders on the side. She raised her head and narrowed her eyes. Chas gambolled, swinging his arse like a peg-top.

  “Some gentleman wants you to dance exclusively for him,” he waved a ten-pound note in front of her nose. “He is waiting for you in his box. Apparently, darling, you stole his heart.”

  This was not something new: the punters often invited the girls that they liked to do individual performances at their tables. A profitable business, despite the fact that the contact was too close. The clients seldom smelled nice at that moment.

  She shook her head, “I am not in the mood. Sorry. He can choose someone else.” She was not obliged to do it when all was said and done.

  Chas grimaced, “He’ll be really upset, you know, He wanted you especially!”

  “I can’t help him!”

  She gathered her things and stuffed them into her bag.

  “You’re the loser, you know! He’s not like the other wankers! He looks cool!” Chas was still nagging, still clinging to the disappearing mirage of his tip.

  “Then you go and dance for him. Bye!” and she waved at him.

  She was really not in the mood. Strictly speaking she was in too good a mood to let it be destroyed by rubbing her bum on the crotch of some wanker. They were all wankers!

  It was close to midnight when she walked out of Bailey’s. Sweet Samantha was still in front of entrance, enticing the rare passers-by with her looks of a siren on drugs. Katya looked for a taxi but had no luck. So she started to walk towards Shaftsbury Avenue. Actually, she did not mind walking now. She found London streets secure even at this time of night.

  Until that moment, at least.

  “Miss Kate!” She heard voice very near her shoulder. “Wait please!”

  She turned around sharply. It was an unknown man. “What do you want?” she asked, imperceptibly speeding up.

  “Didn’t they tell you that I was waiting for you?” There was a resentful note in the question. He had a long face, framed by sharp, low cut ginger sideburns, and he was wearing a black leather jacket and a silver-striped waistcoat. His tone really annoyed her. “I’ve got….”

  “Listen!” she interrupted “I don’t do that unless I want to do it! Now, clear off!”

  “No problem, I didn’t come for some lap-dance,” he grinned. “Although, I wouldn’t say no. I just wanted to see you and that seemed the easiest way.”

  “I don’t want to talk,”

  “My name is Barry Longfellow,” he ignored her brush off. “And my intentions are entirely decent. If you care to just listen….”

  “I am not interested!”

  “Well you ought to be, because I have an attractive proposition for you.”

  “Aha, I see,” she nodded. “And I don’t do that at all.’

  “You don’t understand! I know what you are thinking,” he spoke quickly. “But you’ve got it wrong. You’re thinking like some ignorant girl just arrived from the countryside.”

  She stopped and stared at him. His last words had offended her.

  “Finally!” he exclaimed then added, “I want to offer you a part.”

  “A part?” she narrowed her eyes.

  “That is right, a part…in a small but very promising play.”

  “Are you a director?”

  “Mmm, something like that...Executive producer, to be exact. Doesn’t matter. At the minute we are looking for the right person to take the lead. I’ve taken the liberty of observing you for some time. I think you’re a real find!”

  This business seemed very fishy to her. “What kind of a play is this?”

  “We put on chamber plays. But with a good budget,” he said with a special emphasis. “There are not many words.”

  “And what about the content?”

  “There is some erotic element,” he said carefully. “But that doesn’t bother you, I guess?”

  “Hmm, depends on the story.”

  “Innocent! Totally innocent!”

  “Hmm.” She held back any further comment.

  It felt strange, having a conversation like this on the street. Finally she said, “But I am not an actress.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” murmured Barry.

  “And I have an accent,” she added.

  “Accent,” he waved his hand complacently. “Are you Russian?”

  “No, Bulgarian.”

  “Doesn’t matter. There aren’t many words!”

  What a leech! she thought.

  Barry, profiting from her instant’s hesitation, hurried to provide her with his card.

  “Call me,” he said. “But don’t put it off for too long!”

  Then he stepped back, turned around and disappeared down the little street.

  11

  The van’s brake-lights glowed eerily in the darkness. Then it reversed, following Kosta’s instructions, and slowly but surely disappeared down the black throat of the garage. Batushka turned off the engine and pointed a powerful torch in Kosta’s face. The cook covered his eyes.

  “Molodets!” the Tartar’s voice echoed.

  Chavdar quickly opened the back door. Both of them set to, unloading a long object, zipped in a yellow nylon bag. Kosta watched them from one side. The air in the garage stank of petrol and he felt he was going to be sick. Batushka thrust the torch into his hands.

  “You lead!” said Chavdar.

  They inched down the stairs and across the basement. From time to time, Kosta turned around and gave a hostile look to his accomplices. He could hear them dragging their load and the nylon rustled unpleasantly. Batushka was swearing quietly in some Altaic language.

  They came out into the central corridor and found themselves directly in front of the kitchen door. Here the cook stopped and started listening nervously.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Chavdar anxiously.

  “I thought I heard something inside,” Kosta whispered and continued to listen.

  “Coward! You’re going to fill your pants!” This was Chavdar’s idea of encouragement.

  The cook curled his lip contemptuously, opened the door and turned on the light. The kitchen was empty.

  He made a sign to follow him and headed towards the rear of the premises. In a niche near the fridge lurked a massive, old, padlocked freezer. A glimmering red light indicated that, in theory at least, it was still working. The cook unlocked the padlock and lifted the top. Fog poured out from its innards as the water vapour in the air started to condense and freeze.

  “Go on!” he mumbled turning his head towards them.

  His face froze. The bag was unzipped, and in the cavity a young woman’s face could be seen. The face was white and still as though made of wax. Dead.

  “Allowing me to be presenting,” Batushka still spoke in his uniquely gloomy style, “Diana, Princess of Wales.”

  Frightened, Kosta averted his face.

  “Easy, man,
don’t be afraid,” said Chavdar. “It’s only a corpse. A corpse that costs lots of money. And that money is ours for sure.”

  “Wait a minute!” shouted Kosta in despair. “This isn’t what we agreed on!”

  “What saying?” Batushka’s brows began to furrow.

  “What the hell you are talking about?” Chavdar burst out.

  “This is a corpse!” cried the horrified Kosta. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Nothing!” shouted Chavdar “They pay, then we give it back to them.”

  “I’m going to be sick!” groaned the cook.

  “Pull yourself together! You’re a cook, aren’t you?!” Chavdar chipped in at his most helpful.

  “I don’t cook people, you imbecile!” Kosta exploded. “Listen, we didn’t agree on anything about corpses. You can’t leave it here!”

  Batushka angrily zipped the bag closed. “Grabbing hold!” he said firmly.

  Both men seized the bag from each side and dumped it into the freezer. Batushka quickly covered it with other bags full of ingredients. Then he slammed the top and patted it with his hand. Kosta looked on, effectively a helpless bystander.

  “OK.” grinned Batushka, “Let’s scram off.”

  Something rang in the brain of the cook and he tried to stop the two men bodily.

  “The money? Where’s the money?”

  “Aaa! Sorry, forgotting it.” Batushka raised his hands.

  “What do you mean – forgotting?!” hissed the cook. “First you bring me a corpse and then you forget the money. I thought we agreed. 100 pounds, cash, up front.”

  “Tomorning, Tomorning,” mumbled Batushka with some annoyance.

  “Not tomorrow, now!” shouted Kosta.

  “Easy, my man,” Chavdar decided to intervene. “The man says tomorning that means tomorrow. We’re doing business for millions here, we’re hardly going to cheat you for small change. Isn’t that right, Batushka?”

  “Right, that’s exact right.”

  “Why don’t you both go to hell and fuck yourselves,” stormed the cook and started opening the freezer. “Now, you can take her with you, come on!”