Strangers

by Paul Finch

  Aware that she was being tested, Lucy again gave the prepared spiel, making sure she changed nothing from last time and trying not to be distracted by the unfamiliar territory they’d now entered. Rows of shops she didn’t recognise interchanged with residential districts she’d never visited before. She wasn’t overly familiar with north-central Manchester anyway, but she could read signposts, and each new one they passed indicated that they were still heading into Crumpsall, the opposite direction from Cheetham Hill.

  She could only assume, or rather hope, that Jayne was taking them to the club by a deliberately circuitous route. But her muscles were already tensing. She wondered if it could ever be as easy to jump out of a speeding car as it was in the movies.

  ‘All very interesting,’ Jayne said, sounding archly sceptical. ‘Seems you were telling the truth about Bradby & Sons at least. I gave them a call. You did leave them rather abruptly. They weren’t terribly forthcoming about why, and I wouldn’t expect them to be. But I got the impression it was under a bit of a cloud. Last August, wasn’t it?’

  Another test.

  ‘June actually,’ Lucy said, trying to memorise the route as they started making unexpected turns through ever more drab and depressed-looking neighbourhoods.

  ‘That’s right,’ Jayne said. ‘June. Funny thing though, eh? One minute you’re a secretary in a central Manchester firm, presumably pretty well paid. The next you’re a coat-check girl.’

  ‘We take what we can get, Miss McIvar.’

  ‘Very philosophical. If that was the height of your ambition, Hayley, I’d be surprised. But I don’t think it is … is it?’ Jayne made another sharp turn; the streets with shops and housing fell behind as they progressed into a completely run-down district of empty lots and boarded flats.

  Lucy could feel her blood rushing. Her breathing slowly tightened. On all sides of them now lay acres of sordid dereliction; broken windows, the hulks of abandoned cars. There was nobody around. She made an almighty effort to at least look calm.

  ‘It’s not my, erm … my long-term plan,’ she agreed.

  ‘Give it a rest, Hayley. You’re not a coat-check girl.’ Jayne swung them sharp left again, this time onto a narrow, litter-strewn backstreet, the terraced housing on either side of which stood in rows of gutted shells. They drove along it at what felt like reckless speed. ‘I know what you’re really coming to us for.’

  Lucy kept her mouth firmly shut.

  ‘You’re coming to us to lie on your back and make some real money.’

  ‘Miss McIvar … I told you I don’t want to do that anymore.’

  ‘Pull the other one, love. No one applies to work in a brothel as a barmaid or a coat-check girl.’

  ‘I’ve already said, I need to keep my head down …’

  ‘So you’ve got a badass ex-boyfriend. Big deal. Haven’t we all.’ Jayne spoke with an air of world-weary street smarts. ‘Jesus, Hayley, I can tell by the way you look, by the way you dress, by the way you carry yourself … you’re not dumb. So I surely don’t need to lay it on the line. You come to work inside an illegal operation, it’s got to be worth your while. And yet you’re happy to take a pittance?’

  ‘It’s my comfort-zone, Miss McIvar. It’s the life I’m already inside, and it seemed like an obvious step. And Tammy couldn’t speak highly enough of the way you treat your staff.’

  Jayne snorted. ‘Was she sober at the time?’

  ‘Erm, well …’

  ‘And you think I should give you a job on the basis of a drunken slut’s recommendation?’

  ‘I thought you had done.’

  Jayne focused on the road. ‘I’ll be honest, Hayley … I’ve taken you on because I’ve got ambitions to put you on the Talent Team.’

  Lucy stiffened, feigning discomfort, though in truth feeling slightly happier than one minute ago, when she’d thought they might have worked out who she really was.

  ‘Look, Miss McIvar, if that’s the plan, you’d better stop the car now …’

  ‘Relax … no one’s going to force you.’ They sped through a pair of rusty iron gates hanging from rotted hinges. ‘But think about it. Our Talent Team’s the best-earning in the north of England. We’ve got the hottest girls and the richest clients. The tips alone are phenomenal. You’re seriously saying you don’t want to be part of that? You can’t have a total aversion to it, love … you used to sell yourself on the street.’

  ‘That experience wasn’t good.’

  ‘Well, put it behind you. This is a different ball game. But like I said, no one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to. You can issue cloakroom tickets for us all night, if you’d prefer. But I don’t think you’ll prefer it for long. A bod like yours needs putting to some real work.’ She applied the handbrake and they screeched to a halt.

  They were on a cobbled cul-de-sac with a large building on their immediate left, a monstrous, shapeless heap of sooty red-brick. Its roof was steeply sloped and covered in heavy, moss-eaten slate, its piping and ironwork exclusively old and corroded. If it had ever possessed any windows, all were now solidly bricked over. It was impossible to tell what its original use might have been: something utilitarian, a factory or workshop perhaps, though for all Lucy knew it might even have been a legitimate nightclub or a bar. Even the non-industrial buildings in Manchester’s inner suburbs tended to have an industrial air. Glancing further afield, Lucy saw that it was only one of several such structures ranged in a horseshoe around the end of the cul-de-sac, warrens of dingy yards and alleys connecting them.

  She was then distracted by something touching her bare thigh.

  She glanced down. Jayne McIvar’s coffee-brown hand, complete with gold-polished nails, a chunky gold bracelet and at least two diamond rings, had settled there. It squeezed the exposed flesh with a warm, firm grip.

  ‘Just for the record … you ever done it with a woman?’ Jayne asked, now eyeing Lucy with a different kind of interest.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘It’s not such a big deal these days. You should give it a try.’

  ‘Maybe I will, if …’

  ‘If it helps your position.’ Jayne smiled. ‘That’s the way it usually goes. But like I say, it’ll be your choice.’ She moved her hand away. ‘I’m sure you’ll make the right one when the time comes. For now –’ she opened her driver’s door ‘– let’s get you suited and booted.’

  The sleaziness of the brothel-keeper’s approach wasn’t exactly matched by the brothel itself, where everything appeared to be brisk and business-like.

  The first thing that happened on their climbing from the Audi was that a youngish blond guy, very tanned and muscular, wearing tight jeans and a black sleeveless T-shirt, which hugged his gym-toned torso like a second skin, came outside. He took Jayne McIvar’s keys from her and, without a word, drove the car away. Lucy was then led along a narrow entry with a vaulted, glass-covered roof, the panes of which were cracked and thick with greenish grime. The door at the end was a faceless slab of riveted steel, with a retractable slat in the middle, but at present it stood open. Another guy waited there for them. Lucy recognised him from the Audi on her first visit to the coffee shop. He was about fifty years old, and though not especially tall, of bear-like breadth. He at least seemed to be dressed for duty in a shirt, tie and well-pressed, dark-blue suit. But this didn’t detract from his menace. His neck was so thick it melded seamlessly into the base of his broad, bullock-like skull, the silver hair on top of which had been shaved to flat bristles. His unsmiling face looked as if it had been hammered out of Russian steel.

  ‘This is Gregor, part of our in-house security team,’ Jayne explained as he stood aside and admitted them. ‘His assistant, Vladimir, you just met … or “Vlad the Impaler”, as he’s known to some of our girls who he gets a session with in lieu of pay. She patted Gregor’s leathery cheek. ‘Gregor here never participates. Even we’ve no idea what floats Gregor’s boat, do we, love?’

  Gregor said nothin
g, and still didn’t smile.

  ‘Never mind,’ Jayne added. ‘You won’t see much of either of them while you’re working … they’re not intrusive, but anyone gets fresh with you and they’ll be there in a flash.’

  The club’s ‘vestibule’, as Jayne referred to it, in stark contrast to its grimly functional exterior, was like a grand Victorian entrance hall, complete with black and white tiled flooring, rubber plants, wood-panelled walls adorned with erotic paintings, and, as its centrepiece, a sweeping plantation-house style stairway descending from the upper floor.

  Here, another staff member approached them.

  ‘Marissa,’ Jayne said. ‘This is Hayley, our new coat-check girl. Hayley, this is Marissa, our staff-manager.

  Marissa was in her late-thirties, and a willowy, green-eyed blonde, with very pale skin, much of which was on view given that she only wore a filmy nightgown over her skimpy leotard. She had a shapely but sylphlike figure and a wan, near-ethereal beauty.

  ‘Marissa will be your immediate supervisor,’ Jayne said. ‘You have any problems, she’s the one to speak to.’

  It all sounded so normal, almost like a real company. Many times in her police career, Lucy had encountered situations wherein legalities and illegalities appeared to blur, as if there was no dividing line. Police officers couldn’t afford to think in those terms, yet so many others who existed in this twilit world actually did, that at times it was quite disorienting.

  Jayne bustled away leaving her with Marissa, who hadn’t yet spoken but beckoned to Lucy with a long, manicured finger, and traipsed away across the hall to the coat-check area itself, a cubbyhole of a cloakroom underneath the staircase. Alongside this, there was a private changing room, which was currently empty.

  Once in there, Marissa planted her hands firmly on her hips. ‘Okay, babes … strip.’

  Her voice defied her elfin appearance: it was gratingly harsh, as though she smoked a lot, and had an undiluted Black Country accent.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Lucy said.

  ‘Everything. Undies too.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Marissa looked bored that she was having to explain this again. ‘Anyone who works here gets strip-searched when they come in and before they go home. Just to ensure there’s nothing on their person that shouldn’t be. If you’ve got a mobile phone, which you doubtless have, you’ll have to hand that over to me for the duration of your shift. We can’t have anyone here who’s got recording or filming devices with them. House rules, sorry … and don’t bother giving me any lip. I didn’t make them.’

  Uneasily, despite having expected something like this, Lucy commenced undressing.

  ‘Here’s what you’ll be wearing.’ Marissa indicated a scanty uniform hanging from one of the changing room pegs. ‘You’ve already seen where you’ll be working. It’s next door.’

  ‘Will I … I mean …?’ Lucy feigned alarm. ‘Will I not be able to make any phone-calls? Not even use a landline?’

  ‘Only in emergencies, which may happen from time to time, but most of the time won’t. Everything’s regulation here, babes. That means you follow orders to the letter. Understand?’

  Lucy nodded dumbly.

  ‘Jayne doesn’t run this place with a rod of iron, but it’s got to be shipshape,’ Marissa added. ‘Any fucking around and there’ll be a consequence. What did you do before?’

  ‘I was a secretary.’

  Marissa laughed; again it was harsh, unfeeling. ‘How fallen are the mighty, eh? Don’t worry, you’re not alone. I was a professional dancer. A real one. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Don’t see why not.’

  ‘I was performing Latin and Ballroom before I was nine. Since then, I’ve been a three-times British Champion and a two-times European Champion. I also appeared in four West End shows. The entertainment world was my oyster. Then I jumped into bed with the wrong junior cabinet minister. The rags were doing a number on him at the time for his philandering ways. I sell them my story, thinking I’m quids in. Next thing, I get a visit from the West End Drugs Squad. They find heroin in my car, coke in my Notting Hill flat. None of which is mine, by the way, but who’s going to believe me? The next thing, my name’s muck. I can’t even get work in burlesque. I come north to see what’s going on. The rest is history.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said.

  ‘Don’t be. I earn more now than I ever did before, and I don’t even pay tax on it. Anyway, we’ve all got sob stories to tell, and I’m not particularly interested in yours. So stop dallying and get them knickers off. Let’s check there’s nothing hiding where the sun doesn’t shine.’

  Chapter 16

  The overall impression Lucy gained of SugaBabes was that of private gentleman’s club combined with old-fashioned bordello.

  It comprised six or seven ground-floor rooms, all leading off the vestibule, and all plush: richly carpeted, furnished with couches, divans and armchairs, and yet each with its own theme. There was the Egyptian Room, the Oriental Room, the African Room, the Russian Room. In some ways, Lucy supposed that was reminiscent of London’s famously lavish Victorian brothels, but that was the only thing in the entire establishment that leaned towards the tacky. A couple of the rooms had their own bars, but to maintain the classier aura, there were no gaming tables in there, no big TVs screening porn twenty-four/seven.

  Though Lucy found that her duty was relatively straightforward, she shared it with a blonde Polish girl who went by the unlikely name of Delilah. All they had to do was stand behind their counter under the staircase, and take charge of every item of apparel that was handed to them. While their uniforms might consist of black high heels, seamed black nylons, short black tunics trimmed with gold, and black brimless bellhop hats that fastened under the chin with gold straps, this wasn’t especially demeaning garb. She’d seen worse in legit establishments like wine-bars and nightclubs. The girls serving – either the barmaids or the waitresses – were similarly dressed, while the Talent Team, as they were called, descended the staircase from about eight o’clock that first evening, looking elegant and glamorous.

  Their order of play was evening gowns, expensive hairdos, lots of jewellery and intoxicating perfume. No indecently plunging necklines were on view, likewise no stocking tops. Admittedly, on a couple of occasions the impression was only just this side of slutty – several gowns were perhaps a little too sheer, or maybe if they were backless and split to the waist rather than the thigh, exposed a little more flesh than might be permissible in normal society (though film stars and fashion models did that routinely on the red carpet these days, so what the hell!). But one thing was certain, these girls were the most beautiful and chic that Lucy had ever seen who were actually in the flesh trade. There were no tattoos on show, no pierced belly buttons, no stretchmarks, no varicose veins, much less any needle-tracks or inflamed, coke-reddened nostrils.

  Delilah meanwhile, who spoke English well and was pleased to have company, proved immediately to be something of a chatterbox. She named all the girls as they came down from upstairs. Quite a few were Eastern European, but overall they were an ethnic mix. Some were local, from right here in Manchester, but there were girls from much farther afield too – Australia, South Africa, Japan, the Philippines.

  ‘How do they end up here?’ Lucy asked. ‘How does Jayne actually recruit them?’

  To this question, Delilah’s response was cagier. ‘Girls travel, you know. They seek better life. There are many things they … well, they wish to leave behind. At least here they safe, no?’

  Well, Lucy thought, safe-ish.

  She’d already been told that she’d never have reason to go upstairs, and so didn’t know what actually went on up there, but nothing unseemly appeared to be happening downstairs. Apparently, according to Delilah, that was another house-rule. As she furtively watched, the girls sat and talked with the customers on couches or at the bars, laughing at their jokes, courteously accepting drinks, though never anything alcoholic �
�� lime and soda was the usual preference. There was no fondling, no groping, no sitting on knees.

  The clients themselves were initially an unthreatening group; well-to-do men for the most part – Lucy could tell that from their suits and coats and silken scarves, and from the way they bore themselves and spoke. Most were in middle age – they were probably the only ones who could afford this place – and tended to be clean and polite. Invariably, they were in relaxed and jovial mood when they got here. Letting their hair down, she assumed, after a stressful week CEO’ing their companies or managing their local authority departments, or taking care of whatever else it was they did that put them into this gold-plated category.

  Of course such geniality of spirit did not extend right across the board.

  That very first night, from about ten o’clock onwards, villains started arriving at SugaBabes. Not in great numbers, but what they lacked in quantity, they made up for in quality. Lucy sucked in a tight breath when she found herself face-to-face with the disfigured visage of Vinny Scott, who was well-known around Manchester as a professional armed robber. She’d never had personal dealings with Scott, so it was unlikely he’d recognise her, but she couldn’t fail to place the famously broken nose and the weirdly right-angled razor scar on his left cheek. He barely looked at her as he handed over his black leather overcoat. Underneath it, he wore a string vest and neck-chains, while his muscular arms were covered with tattoos and other cheap bling. He snatched his ticket without a word, and sauntered away into the Egyptian Room, where a couple of the girls immediately attended on him.

  Lucy’s accelerated heart rate had no sooner begun to slow again when Curtis Laidlaw approached the counter. His racket was importing heroin, speed and skunk cannabis. He was also known as a pimp, as his dyed-blond curls, alligator jacket and brilliant red silk shirt appeared to attest. At least Laidlaw was inclined to be friendlier, or more of a charmer. He responded to Delilah’s greeting, by taking her face in his large, dark, jewel-bedecked hands and planting a moist kiss on her lips, before accepting his ticket with gratitude.