by Angela Dyson
“One does? Does one?” smiled Steph. “Off you go then… do your stuff.”
She had a point. It was time to get serious. I had spotted a door in the far corner by the stage that I hoped might lead to the back rooms or offices and that seemed a good a place as any to give my ill-thought-out plan a try.
Hey Mallory…” called Steph in an undertone as I started away from the bar. I looked back at her.
“I hope you know what you’re doing?”
I squared my shoulders. So the bloody hell did I.
As I neared the stage, the girl in the thong now grimly welded on to the pole with only her thighs, met my gaze. I smiled trying to fight down my sense of distaste. Sure I knew places like this could only ever, under the sequins and cheap costumes, be seedy, but there was something so curiously sexless in the girl’s mechanical gyrations that the effect was utterly dehumanising. Perhaps that ultimately is the attraction for men? The girl didn’t smile back.
I half expected someone to stop me as I turned the handle of the door. One of the Brothers Grim perhaps – coming after me with a guttural “Not Go.”
But I passed through into a dank corridor unmolested. Although the building was two storeys, I had no idea if the club occupied the upper level as well as the ground floor. I made my way past stacks of spare chairs, crates of beer, and an old slot machine and came to a staircase where I hovered doubtfully for a moment. Nobody was about. All was quiet but for the dim thudding of music from the other side of the wall. I felt hot suddenly. Sweat was breaking out along my hairline under the heavy tresses of the wig.
What if Chris was up there… or indeed what if anyone was up there? And someone was bound to be. What could I say? That I thought the loos were up here? That I was looking for a job and wanted to speak to the manager? I swallowed and then started slowly up the frayed carpet of the stairs. As I neared the top I could hear a faint muttering sound coming from a half-open door on the left of a gloomy passageway. I stopped and listened intently. A sound of heavy breathing and then a woman’s voice drawn out in muffled exasperation, “Come on!”
Oh God I begged, my thoughts turning instantly to the idea of a private lap dance with extras, please don’t let it be someone having sex. I waited. Nothing. The top stair creaked as it took my weight and I inched my way towards the door. More murmuring and then a thump as if someone had fallen over something followed by a cry of “Fuck!”
I was outside the room now and as stealthily as I could, I edged my head around the door and peered in. Mercifully there was only one person in there. A woman wearing thigh-high black boots was bent over with her back to me and struggling to get out of a tight pink latex dress. I coughed politely to announce my presence and then asked, “Would you like a hand?”
She shot around. “Who the fuck are you?” There was a trace of the Midlands in her accent. Her body still askew and her face partly concealed by the dress, she looked me up and down but didn’t give me a chance to reply. “Well now you’re here. Don’t just stand there. Pull.”
I approached her warily. The room was narrow in dimension, brightly lit, and very untidy. Clothes on plastic hangers were draped across the window. They dangled from hooks upon the wall and fanned out over the back of two of the chairs from the bar. More spilled out from a zip-up sports bag on the floor. A table where a red suspender belt drooped over the corner of a super-sized plastic mirror, doubled as a make-up station and a food counter. Bottles of foundation, lipsticks with their lids off, and mascara wands were scattered amongst empty coke cans, crumpled fast-food wrappers, and cigarette packets. Discarded shoes littered the floor. Huge white platforms, six-inch strappy black sandals, and a pair of gold lace up boots that I thought looked interesting. In the corner, a bin overflowed with wadded up tissues and beside it was a half-full bottle of vodka.
The girl raised a pair of skinny arms and bent her head as I took a tentative hold of the dress’s pink striped collar and then yanked hard. With a squelching noise the rubber made one last show of resistance and then came slithering off with a snap. Once freed from its constraints it was obvious that not only the girl’s improbable breasts but the small hard protruding swell of her stomach were the cause of the obstruction. She reached for a grubby white towelling bathrobe which she wrapped around herself and glared at me.
“You’re two days early,” she said sullenly and picking up a cigarette packet from amongst the debris on the table, pulled out a fag, drew it to her mouth unlit, and took a long deep pretend drag. She was in her early twenties and small framed. Her long dark hair which had magenta streaks at the front was sticking up in a frizz from the static of the latex. Under thick pancake make-up her skin looked spotty around the mouth and under the nose.
“I’m giving up,” she explained returning the cigarette to the pack. “It helps.” And then shoving a pile of clothes onto the floor, she sat down, crossed her legs, and examined me. “That real?” she asked.
For a moment, I didn’t know what she meant. I’d forgotten all about The Kim Kardashian. “Doesn’t it look it?”
“No. But I’ll say this for you. You’re not the usual type. Posh accent. And you’re too big.”
I couldn’t resist a glance at her stomach.
“Sod you!” she snarled and rose in one angry movement from her chair to the collection of outfits hanging from the wall. I could see that her hand was trembling as she raked through the clothes, selecting and then rejecting first a black lace corset with a frilly apron and then a sheer bodysuit in dayglo yellow. I didn’t know what to say and had just decided to retreat when she spun back to face me.
“They’re my shifts until Sunday. That bastard said I could finish the week and I need the money. After that it’s all yours.” She lifted her hand in an ironic gesture that took in the whole of the shabby meagre room. Daylight dawned. For some reason this girl seemed to think that I was going to be replacing her in the club, on the stage, on the pole! I held up a placating hand.
“I’m not here to take your job. Honestly I simply couldn’t do what you do.”
Her look was serious and assessing. “No. I don’t think you could. You’d never get up the pole.”
That wasn’t what I’d meant at all. And although it wasn’t exactly flattering, I laughed. Suddenly the girl turned very pale and sat back down heavily on the chair. Dipping her head between her knees she gasped, her breath coming in short pants. I crouched besides her and pushed some of the magenta strands of hair back from her face.
“Can I get you some water?”
She nodded and pointed in the direction of the table where I found a plastic litre bottle. I held it to her lips and she took a few small sips.
“Shall I open a window?” I asked.
The air was stale and tainted with a greasy whiff from the empty takeout bags. I scooped them up from the table and jammed them into the wastepaper basket. The girl hadn’t answered and was still concentrating on her breathing and so I lifted down hangers bearing a nurse’s outfit, something floaty in a leopard-skin print, and a collection of nylon teddies from the top of the window frame, and looked vainly for somewhere else to put them.
“Not much room in here is there?” I remarked as finally I laid them on top of the sports bag.
The window casement was old with flaking paint and rotting timbers. I don’t think it could have been opened for a very long time, because it took a certain amount of shoving before I managed to get the bottom sash to open a few inches. I stood inhaling a moment. Even the polluted air of central London was sweeter than the stale odour of that room.
“Better?” I asked taking the bottle from her.
“Yeah. Thanks for that.” Her breathing was more even now and the colour was coming back into her face.
“How far along are you?” I asked gently.
“Three months, and been throwing up for most of it,” she said and the Midlands twa
ng was more pronounced now.
“Is that why you’re leaving? Because you’re feeling so sick?”
“Na. I could dance for another few months yet, with the right outfit obviously. But that fucker Chris wouldn’t have it. He came in here last night and caught me just about to barf. Put two and two together and told me that tomorrow would be my last night. As he said who wants to pay to see a pregnant pole dancer?”
“I’m not sure that’s legal,” I said. “Employers aren’t allowed to just terminate a…”
The girl gave a hollow laugh. “What? You think we’re given a fucking contract? You’re pretty green, aren’t you? It’s cash. All cash.”
“I see. No tax, no records of employment I suppose?”
“No records of any kind,” she said. “Just like all these places.”
“Have you worked in many?” I asked.
“Enough.”
“So Chris owns the club?” I asked. “Is he here now?”
“No he’s not here and yes he does, him and another much older man that I’ve only ever seen a couple of times.”
She must have seen my look of relief and instantly she was suspicious of me again. “Know him do you?”
“I’ve met him,” I offered cautiously, and then said in a rush, “And like you I think he’s a complete fucker. Look… I’m…” I was just about to say Clarry but recovered myself.
“I’m Mallory. Who are you?”
She took her time before answering as if giving her name committed her to something that could come back to bite her. “It’s Paula. So if you’re not a dancer what are you doing here then?”
This girl could help me I thought but I wasn’t going to explain myself. I ignored her question and shot out one of my own. “Does he have an office here?”
She nodded. “Down the hall. Why?”
I improvised. “He’s hurt a friend of mine and I wanted to leave him something that will let him know that I know… that she knows… that…”
I trailed off deliberately keeping it vague, but it must have stirred something as Paula smiled for the first time.
“Like a personal Fuck-You message?”
I laughed, “Just like that!”
“Whatever it is you’re up to I hope it really screws him over.”
I shrugged and was this time at least able to give her an honest response. “Probably be no more than a mild irritation but it makes me feel better… and my friend… of course,” I corrected myself.
She looked at me. She knew perfectly well there was no friend.
“What will you do when you leave?” I asked after a moment.
“Go back to Dudley.” She took a glance in the mirror. “Once she knows about the baby my mum will have me back.”
“And the baby’s father?”
“He wanted me to get rid of it. And I nearly did. I thought that that was what I wanted. I didn’t want to be saddled with a baby but now… I dunno… I figured it would be good to have something of my own, to look after. To love.”
I thought back to the two young mums I’d seen with their babies at the swimming pool and asked, “And to love you back?”
She ignored that and looked at her watch. “I’m on in five minutes and so if you want to get into the office you’ll have to be quick.”
Going to the door and taking a hasty look along the passage she whispered to me, “He keeps it locked but I know where the key is. Sometimes, the Karmanskies – that’s the twins – go in there to make private calls. The key is behind a loose bit of wood. Come on.”
And with that she whisked out of the room moving pretty fast despite her thigh-high boots. I followed at a sprint and watched as she crouched down, wriggled free a section of skirting board, and retrieved a key. She handed it to me and pointed to a door at the far end of the hallway. “That one. Put the key back when you’re done. And you better hurry. One of the twins could come up at any time. I’ve got to get dressed.”
I took it and watched as she disappeared back into her room and shut the door. Forcing myself to stay calm, I ran swiftly down the hall to Chris’s office and put the key in the lock. It turned easily. I was in. Not daring to turn on a light my eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. I couldn’t make out much but that didn’t matter. I wasn’t here for a look around. I pulled off my shoulder bag and removed a folded-up piece of paper upon which I had typed in bold capitals: If you think you’ll be getting the Alwyn Road House… think again. Ask Simon.
Even if Chris hadn’t already paid Simon upfront to secure the property, then I didn’t think he would take Simon’s reneging on the arrangement at all well. It was a small and ultimately impotent gesture, but at least it was payback of a sort. Payback for his arrogance and his complacency; payback for the trouble he had, indirectly, got Laura into and payback for the pain that he caused his wife. Also, it was a way of punishing Simon. And that felt really good.
I crossed to a desk. There was a pile of Greek newspapers and a stack of files. It was frustrating that I would not have the opportunity to search through the folders. Perhaps there would be something here that connected Chris to Gary? Or to other estate agents and maybe even to solicitors? There could be all kinds of deals detailed here, criminal or otherwise. For a moment I toyed with selecting some at random and shoving them in my bag, but rejected the idea. I would do what I came here to do. It was enough. I placed the paper in the centre of the desk where anyone sitting down would be sure to see it and within seconds I was locking the door behind me.
A minute later, having returned the key to its hiding place, I was making my way back along the landing to Paula’s room when from behind a closed door I heard a muffled sob. I stopped and listened. There it was again, but louder this time. Quite distinctly now, I could hear the sound of a woman crying. Now there are many different reasons for tears. Not all of them profound or even intensely felt but this… this was something different. In these tears, there was loss and there was hopelessness and almost like a tangible presence, I could feel it. Behind the door, a woman was weeping in despair.
“Hello,” I said quietly.
The crying abruptly stopped.
“Hello,” I said again. “Are you OK in there?”
No answer.
I glanced up and down the hallway. No one was about. I hesitated and then knocked lightly on the closed door. No response. Oh well I thought, it’s none of my business but, there’d been something so utterly bleak in her cries that I couldn’t just walk on by.
“Are you alright?” I said again more urgently this time.
I was just putting my ear to the door when Paula, poking her head out from her room, called, “All done?” She had changed in to a short denim blue dress that had chevron cuffs and a silver badge on the breast pocket and was something of a cross between a Meter Maid and a Prison Guard.
I nodded. “Yes. Thank you so much. Um Paula… I…” I looked again at the door. “I heard someone crying in there. A woman.”
Paula disappeared back into the room and I followed her.
“Who is she?” I asked as she peered into the grubby mirror and picked up a lipstick.
“No one.”
“It definitely sounded like someone to me.”
She turned and looked at me then. “What you don’t know can’t hurt you. That’s what my mum always said and it was one of the few things that she ever got right so I remember it. I don’t know anything about that girl or any of the others and I sure as hell don’t want to know.”
“Others? What others?” I said. “What do you mean?”
A look I couldn’t decipher flickered across her face.
“Something weird is going on here isn’t it?” I pressed. “Just tell me if whoever it is in there is all right. That she’s not in any… oh I don’t know what I mean really… that she is not hurt… or in any danger I sup
pose?”
This time I could read her expression. It was one of mistrust mixed with uneasiness and, I thought fear. “Paula. You know something don’t you?”
She didn’t reply but carefully placed an American style police cap on her head and then walked out of the room.
It was when we were nearly halfway down the stairs that she caught the heel of her boot in some strands of the frayed carpet. She lurched forward losing her footing and would have fallen if I hadn’t shot out an arm to save her.
“Fuck!” she exclaimed as she steadied herself against the banisters and I could see shock in her face as her hand went instinctively to her stomach. “I’d have gone then if you hadn’t caught me.” She looked up at me still clutching hold of her arm. “Mallory’s not your real name is it?”
I shook my head feeling a little shamefaced and pulled my hand away.
“It doesn’t suit you and neither does the wig by the way. Blonde are you?”
I nodded again.
“I thought so.” She turned and picked her way carefully down the remaining steps. “Like my mum said it’s probably best if I don’t know your real name anyway. Once they’ve found out that someone’s been in the office they’ll be asking questions.”
We were in the passageway now and sidestepping around the slot machine. I hesitated and then blurted out, “Who’s in that room Paula? What’s going on?”
“I told you,” she said. “Not my business.”
I stared at her “Why do you do this awful job Paula? Don’t you hate it?”
Her eyes were quite expressionless as she regarded me steadily. “For a posh bird you’re fucking thick aren’t you?” She made to open the door to the club but I put a hand on her arm.
“Wait. Take my number.” I fumbled in my bag, snagged a pen and a scrap of paper, and scribbled it down. I held it out to her.
“Why would I want that?”
“I don’t know really,” I said and I really didn’t. It just felt the right thing to do. “But, I think you do know more than you’re saying about the woman in the room. And I think perhaps you’re frightened? Look, if you ever want to talk to someone or you need help…” I shrugged.
