The Secrets We Keep

by Jonathan Harvey

  I knew the bouncers at the Café by sight so I asked one of them, an Irish guy, what was going on. He answered with a grin, ‘Kinky Gelinky.’

  And that’s when the door opened, and that’s when I saw her.

  The girl doing the door, the sort they called in those days the ‘door bitch’, was a sight for sore eyes. And I knew in a heartbeat that she was significant – not just because she was the most mesmerizing creature I’d never laid eyes on, but because the thump of my heart told me she was. Instinct, again, was speaking to me.

  And this was no ordinary door bitch. She was completely done up as the Green Lady. Her face was coated in green make-up, her eyes painted to look Chinese. She had a black wig on. The brown dress, the yellow bit at the top. And, this actually made me laugh out loud, she had a picture frame attached to her which went all the way around her upper body and face. She ignored my laugh and clasped a clipboard to her chest and shouted, ‘Guest list!’

  I recognized the accent as Mancunian.

  I asked the Irish guy what her name was.

  He said, ‘Natalie.’

  I took one last look at her, then cycled on.

  I wanted to see her again, of course, so I was a bit lax with the old pimping duties at the Rack that night and kept swanning away to go past the Café and glimpse the Green Lady. She never noticed me; she was too busy working for that, but each sighting of her made me want her more. I’d never felt like this before. I’d never been in the company of girls my own age before. And I wanted to know more.

  The last time I went to look, there was another woman on the door. Bit boringly dressed, truth be told, in a sort of ballet outfit and bald head. I asked when the club was on again, and the bouncer told me it was a monthly thing. I hoped and prayed that the Green Lady would make a comeback next month.

  Another plan

  Instinct told me Natalie was going to be part of my life. Up until then I’d sometimes worried I was asexual. I fancied so few people. Maybe it was a result of being so self-reliant all this time, but the idea of copping off, or having a girlfriend, or settling down and having kids – it was anathema to me. Maybe it was this that made me so at ease amongst the fellas I worked with. Maybe it was because I didn’t need anyone else by my side dragging me down like Guinness, sorry, Sam, had. Look after number one. With someone else at your side, that’s harder to do. Eventually you’ll be caught out. But those glimpses of Natalie changed all that. I planned that next time, I’d speak to her. It was going to be so straightforward. I’d charm the birds from the trees. I’d be sweetness itself. She’d recognize my St Helens accent. She’d feel like I was a piece of home. And she’d be drawn to me. Simple.

  But then what?

  I was fifteen, with no sexual experience at all beyond the odd solitary wank. What did I have to offer a woman who was so worldly wise as to be working the door at that freakishly bang-on-trend place?

  So I took myself to a prostitute in a side street in Soho – not my Framboise, no point shitting on your own doorstep – and basically told her to teach me everything.

  And on a musty single bed with a framed Beverly Hills Cop poster looking down on me – ‘I just love Eddie,’ the hooker told me – she did.

  I was now officially a man of the world. I was ready to meet the Green Lady again in a month’s time. Bring it on, baby!

  A surprise on Framboise’s couch

  I went in to get my bike one morning as usual. Well, a bit unusually, I was running late, as I’d seen a woman being knocked down by a car. I’d stopped to give a witness statement to the police, upstanding citizen that I was. I’d given a false name and date of birth, but they’d not radioed in to check I was the real deal. Anyway, that made me late, and when Framboise opened the door she was looking a bit flustered.

  ‘Can you come upstairs?’

  As I followed her up the rickety staircase, she added, ‘There’s someone to see you.’

  She was sounding apologetic. I felt a surge of excitement as I wondered if it’d be Sam. But when she pushed open the door to her living room, there, sat on the couch, was Him.

  The man in the fun-fur coat. The shades were off now, and his eyes were like pinpricks. He was on something. And he was chewing gum like it was going out of fashion.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. And I turned to run back down the stairs.

  ‘What you so fucking scared of?’ he called after me.

  His voice didn’t sound so posh this time. And the ‘u’ of fucking sounded definitely Northern. Was the posh bit just an act?

  I looked back. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Don’t you remember me, Danny?’

  Framboise pushed past me. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ And she went onto the landing and closed the door, shutting us in.

  ‘I just wanted to see you, Danny.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Declan. Declan Wolfe.’

  Declan Wolfe. The name rang a bell.

  Declan WOLFE? The lad from the street behind us whose mam had died and whose dad had come round to sort the broken toilet out (amongst other things)?

  I looked at him again. Could it be? Could it really?

  ‘What d’you want?’

  It was like he’d forgotten. He just sat there chewing, staring at me.

  ‘I’m not rent,’ I said.

  ‘I know. Little straight lad like you? I’m not fucking stupid, Danny. How’s your mam?’

  ‘I haven’t got a clue, Declan.’

  He nodded. Like he understood. He stood up and went and looked out of the window, down onto the back of Wardour Street.

  ‘I hardly ever go back now. Dad can’t accept . . .’ and with a flourish of the hand he indicated what he was wearing and his hair and . . . his life, no doubt. He fell back onto the sofa. His energy was all over the place. Probably the drugs.

  My, Declan Wolfe! How you’ve changed!

  He patted the sofa next to him. The sofa I sometimes slept on. I shook my head. I was fine standing.

  ‘I know Soho. You were a new face. And then I placed it.’

  ‘What d’you do with yourself now?’

  ‘Promotion.’

  I had no idea what that meant.

  ‘Club promotion.’

  ‘It’s not Kinky Gerlinky, is it?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘How old are you now, Danny?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Oh, come on. You and I both know you’re too young to be down here. Where are you living?’

  Again, I shrugged.

  ‘What’s the matter, Danny? Cat got your tongue?’

  I shrugged again, just to wind him up. He stood up again and moved closer to me. I backed to the wall.

  ‘You don’t take the piss out of me, Danny Bioletti. I run Soho. If I want you out, I’ll get you out.’

  He owned Soho? What was he on?

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ He sounded threatening.

  ‘I’m not really that arsed, Declan.’

  ‘I’ll prove it.’

  ‘You what? How?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Get yourself into trouble.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. But you will. Create a situation where a policeman stops you. When he asks for your details, give your name. Your proper name. Date of birth, everything. And you’ll see.’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘That it is indeed possible to be bigger than Old Bill.’

  I said nothing. He was off his head, clearly.

  ‘It’s my way of showing you I’m a man of my word.’

  He was losing me. I was confused. I wasn’t sure what he wanted from me, or why he felt the need to prove himself to a fifteen-year-old lad.

  ‘And what if I give my name? And date of birth? And they send me back home? I don’t wanna go home.’

  ‘Well, you can’t go home. Your mam’s inside.’

  Wow. Well, that was news to me. It made sense. But it was still news.

  ‘
Is she?’

  ‘Do you like games?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, you’ll like this one.’

  ‘What’s she inside for?’

  ‘Nothing too serious.’ He looked surprised. ‘You didn’t know?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I can’t remember what she’s inside for, but I’ll know by Monday.’

  Was it me he wanted?

  ‘When I said I’m not rent. I’m not . . . I’m not bent, or gay, or . . .’

  ‘I don’t want sex with you, Danny. Put me to the test. See if I’m trustworthy. And touch wood . . .’ He tapped the doorframe. ‘We can do business together.’

  He took a biro from the pocket of the fun-fur coat. He ripped a piece of wallpaper off the wall (the room wasn’t in the best of states). He wrote a number on it.

  ‘And when I pass the test – call me.’

  I looked at the paper. His long O1 number, and DEC scrawled above it. He opened the door and went out of the room. I stood there for a while, heard the front door slam, then heard Framboise coming up the stairs.

  ‘What did he want?’ she asked, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Well, you tell me. He was sat on your couch, love.’

  ‘He paid me two hundred quid. Then said he’d wait for you. Said he knew you.’

  Under the radar. Not too many questions.

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Disgruntled punter. All sorted.’

  She looked disappointed.

  ‘I’ll get my bike.’

  She nodded.

  Blimey, two hundred quid?

  A crushing disappointment and a kerfuffle on the tube

  Meeting him had unnerved me. I’d wanted to spend the weekend getting ready, mentally and fashionably, to attend the club on Monday, but I found I couldn’t settle. Even though I didn’t see Declan, I felt at all times like I was being watched. Was I? Did he have contacts, watching my every move? I was shit on the Meat Rack. Every bloke who approached me, I was convinced they were a mate of his, and it put me off my stride.

  Saturday night I cycled past the Café and there was a queue of goths waiting to go in. I high-fived the Irish bouncer – quite out of character, but I knew how to play the game – and I said with a laugh, ‘Is it that Kinky Gerlinky this Monday?’

  A nod told me it was.

  ‘Thinking of coming myself,’ I said, like he was going to be blessed by a royal visit.

  ‘Can’t wait to see what you’ll have on.’

  ‘Oh, I think I’ve got a few things up my sleeve.’

  Truth be told I’d not, but I still had a couple of days’ grace to get something suitably ridiculous. The ends would justify the means.

  ‘Is that Natalie gonna be working the door again, is she?’

  ‘Hey, she’s spoken for, mate.’

  Another stomach punch. The possibility that Natalie, despite being the most gorgeous girl in Soho, might even have a boyfriend hadn’t entered my tiny mind.

  ‘You’re joking.’

  He could see how gutted I was. He nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Yeah, she goes out with one of the DJs.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Well, listen. We’ll see you Monday, mate.’

  ‘Yeah, looking forward to it.’

  And I cycled off.

  I never drank. Didn’t see the point. Having my wits about me was how I got by in Soho. I couldn’t think of the last time a drop had passed my lips. If ever.

  But right then, I jibbed off the Rack and went to the Coach and Horses on Greek Street. With uncharacteristic abandon I left my bike outside and went and ordered a pint and a whiskey chaser. And downed them. And ordered some more. And some more.

  An hour later, I staggered outside. Some bastard had nicked my bike. My own stupid fault, of course, but still, it didn’t stop me swearing my head off at all the people drinking on the pavement.

  I was a bit unsteady on my feet, being unused to sinking so much booze, and couldn’t decide what to do.

  In that moment, I happened upon what I took to be a genius idea. I would go for a ride on the tube and sleep this off.

  I went into Leicester Square tube. Down the steps. I didn’t understand the tube system as I was so used to my bike by then, and before that I’d relied on walking and cabs. I stared at the ticket barrier. And I decided to jump over it.

  As I did – another genius idea, or so I thought – I caught my leg on the barrier, and fell in a heap on the other side.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see a tube worker giving me daggers. He was radioing into a walkie-talkie. Five minutes later, I was outside on the pavement with him and a policeman.

  The policeman was asking me my name.

  I’d lost Natalie. I had nothing else to lose. And possibly something to gain.

  I told him the truth.

  I remember him radioing through. ‘Can I get a C.R.O. on Danny Bioletti.’ Then he gave my date of birth.

  I was too pissed to be scared. I heard a crackle on his radio. And I remember him going ‘What?!’ in real disbelief.

  The rest of it was a bit of a blur. But a minute or so later, I was a free man.

  Swerving my way up Charing Cross Road, I couldn’t really take it in. The Old Bill had stopped me. I’d committed a crime. And they’d let me go.

  The last thing I remember from that night is standing in the middle of traffic at Cambridge Circus, and bellowing at the top of my voice:

  ‘Declan! You beaut!!!’

  Next thing I knew, I was waking up on Framboise’s couch. I didn’t have any clothes on. I think I’d slept with her.

  The Wolfe of Great Queen Street

  Who was I trying to kid, you know? Me. The runt of the litter. The lad who blended in with the frigging wallpaper. How on earth would I have walked into Kinky Gerlinky anyway? And how would I have impressed the fair damsel Natalie in the first place? What would I have worn? A telly on my head? Naked but for a fig leaf? Everyone in the queue, as I watched them going in that Monday, wore ‘look at me’ outfits. And I could see that if they weren’t dolled up to look like they’d just landed from another planet, Natalie was turning them away.

  She couldn’t see me, of course. No way. How would the siren of Soho see the Invisible Man staring at her from across the street, huddled next to the statue of horses on the corner? She had downplayed the outfit a bit this month, but she still looked breathtaking. Without the green slap on her mush, I could see she was more beautiful than ever. She wore this gold sequinned bomber jacket, and a pair of those weird bondage trousers that even I knew were made by Vivienne Westwood. But of course, this being the hippest destination in London, her one concession to the madness was that she was wearing roller skates.

  I wanted to run across the street and drag her by the arm, roll her away and . . .

  It was pointless having these fantasies. She was spoken for. As soon as I’d dragged her away, the pair of us now magically, in my mind, both on roller skates, we’d be chased by her bloody DJ boyfriend. Who’d batter me. And she’d think I was mental.

  And maybe I was.

  Coz look at me. Stood there. On a Monday night. Staring at the unobtainable.

  Unobtainable. I liked that word. It jolted back a memory of my mammy.

  We’d been shopping for a new carpet for her bedroom. We’d been in a place in St Helens, and the woman serving was right up her own arse.

  I remember her saying, When I look at this carpet, Mrs Bioletti, I think movie star. I think unobtainable.

  And then she must have remembered she was trying to flog it, coz she continued, And yet . . . it is obtainable. Because you can actually buy it for a very reasonable price.

  Mammy had got the carpet. But from the looks of it, I was never going to get Natalie.

  I took out the scrap of wallpaper and found a phone box.

  I called Declan.

  He told me to go over to his flat in Great Queen Street.

  The deal
with Declan

  God only knows why Declan had done the big song and dance to win me over. He had strutted about like a peacock – look at all this power I have – when actually, what he wanted from me was very simple. Something that needed no wowing to get me on board. It was a straightforward enough deal: he wanted me to hand out flyers for his new nightclub. For every flyer that got a punter through his doors, I would get a pound.

  I give Joe Bloggs a flyer on the street.

  Joe Bloggs goes in Declan’s club.

  Joe Bloggs shows the flyer.

  Declan knows he’s one of mine.

  I get myself a nice quid.

  I said yes to Declan’s deal.

  It worked out well. It suited me. In a few months, I had several of the lads from the Meat Rack working for me, whizzing round town on their BMXs handing out the flyers. Every month I was earning thousands and thousands of pounds. But I was still heading back to the Dominion to sleep.

  The deal with me

  I got all the clubs buying in the end. Declan didn’t have sole use of my skills. When people go clubbing, they want to have a good time. In order to have a good time they often want drugs. More often than not, when I was giving out the flyers, folk would be asking me if I knew anywhere they could get decent pills. When you work the streets you do, so I’d point them in the right direction.

  After a while I got thinking: that’s where the money’s at. So I decided to cut out the middleman. Once I worked out where the dealers were getting their pills from, I went to them and starting doing my own dealing.

  There was a lot of money to be made from selling pills. I could buy them from my contact at three or four quid each, and then sell them on at fifteen quid each. That’s how much they went for, back in the day. And you don’t have to be Alan Sugar to work out that’s a pretty good markup, and profits were huge.

  So if I was buying, say, in the space of a year, 100,000 ecstasy tablets – you’re looking at a profit of 125k.

  I often wonder how my life would’ve turned out if I’d not seen Declan that day on the street. Dealing had never been a goal of mine; it was something that had never crossed my mind. I never used the stuff I was selling. I hardly ever drank. It was only years later, when I went through a bit of a dark patch, that I took. And took. And took. But back then, I was clean and serene.