by David Mark
Harry Tattershall is a magnificent and venomous swearer: doing things with words that other people would require a snooker ball and a football sock to achieve. Were he able to do the same with the non-vernacular, he would be poet laureate.
“Twat-box cock cunt!”
He picks up the bundle of dropped keys from the damp, dirty curb. Bangs his head on the wing mirror of his old-style Saab as he rights himself.
“Fucking wank-titting monkey pisser!”
He rubs a hand over his forehead and pushes the raindrops back through his thick, gray hair, then takes off his cola-bottle glasses and smears the moisture and fingerprints into a new pattern, before replacing them on his broken nose. He shivers, wishing he’d thought to pull on more than tracksuit pants and a lumberjack shirt before slamming the door closed at his housing association flat. He is a short, fleshy-limbed man in his late fifties, who does not enjoy the cigarette that is habitually hanging from his lower lip. He just keeps it there to light the next one.
Harry exults in his job title of general manager of the private members’ club, but on days like these he can’t help but feel like little more than the caretaker. Were it in his power to appoint somebody to the role of watchman he would do so in a flash, but the owners grumble if he so much as changes to fresh from long-life milk, and in his words are “tighter than a ladybird’s chuff.”
The blue light is flashing on the burglar alarm, but there is no sound. They disabled the bell months ago to keep the neighbors sweet. This is not a nice spot, a mile to the east of central Huddersfield, on the corner of a run-down row of pizza shops and budget hairdressing salons. Despite the less than beautiful location, the club has still faced plenty of problems from protesters and busybodies. Its license is dependent on the council’s not having a good reason to shut them down, so keeping the locals happy is paramount.
Harry scrabbles through the many keys on his chain and finds the big one that opens the closed front door. He does not even think to try the handle. He has no doubt the alarm has gone off for no good reason: the same way it always seems to when he gets himself settled in front of a new blue movie with a pot of tea and a packet of HobNobs.
The big blue-painted door swings open, and he stands for a second in the drafty, unpainted, breeze-blocked cubicle where, on weeknights from seven p.m., consenting adults stand in their lace and PVC finery, sliding a ten-pound note and their membership card through a hatch in the interior door, and waiting to be let in for an evening of no-strings coupling, tripling, and, on one memorable occasion, human-centipeding.
He unlocks the inner door and steps into the dark of the downstairs bar. It’s red-painted, with brass wall lamps and silhouettes of naked women stenciled artistically around the room. The floor is black lacquer, and the booths and bar stools are covered in imitation crushed velvet that, as Harry knows too well, does not wipe 100 percent clean.
With quick, practiced steps, he crosses to the bar and switches on the downstairs lights. It takes a moment for the bulbs to kick in, and there is a brief flickering before the room is illuminated.
At once Harry knows something is wrong. The computer behind the bar is whirring. It’s an old machine and the internal fan is dust-clogged, so it habitually makes a noise like a helicopter in distress. The motor is spinning now. The monitor may be switched off, but recent use of the computer itself is betrayed by a green light winking beneath the bar.
Harry switches the monitor back on. Wiggles the mouse. Screws up his eyes as the database of members’ names and addresses gradually comes into focus on the screen.
“Fuckbollocking titshits.”
He says this under his breath, resignedly, already knowing that his day has just been ruined. They’ve had break-ins before, of course. He’s turned up at work to find an entire week’s worth of booze nabbed from the storeroom, and the fancy leopard-print throw from the circular bed in the viewing room had lasted only a week before it found its way into the depth of a voluminous handbag. But this is the first time the computer has been targeted. He doubts very much any intruder would have deemed the machine itself worth the bother of carrying, but there are bits and pieces stored on its hard drive that he knows, with sudden crystal-clear hindsight, he should have protected better.
“Shit.”
He surprises himself with the simplicity of the statement. Pulls up a stool and begins tapping at the keyboard. He would never call himself a computer expert, but he knows how to build a database and surf for porn. He also knows how to transfer footage from the CCTV camera in the swing room to his own personal file.
Harry spins away from the keyboard, grabs a half-pint glass from beneath the bar, and holds it to the vodka optic, gathering up a healthy double measure. He opens the beer fridge and removes a bottle of Holsten. Takes a swig of vodka, then dilutes the burn with the lager. He’s not worried yet, but his mind is racing. He wonders if he will be blamed. How they got in. How they got out . . .
It occurs to Harry that he has not yet checked the rest of the building. There is another bar downstairs, with a dance floor, pole, and large flat-screen TV where they show pornos to get clients in the mood. Upstairs there are five private bedrooms with doors that lock, and three where the policy is very much open door.
In the old-school boozer where Harry used to work, there was always a rounders bat next to the till. He wishes he were there now. But there hasn’t been any trouble in the two years he has run the place. The members are like-minded and friendly. They know the rules and play the game. They take no for an answer and leave when asked. Harry likes working here. With two students running the bar and a bouncer on the door for three hours on Friday and Saturday nights, the place works like a dream. At the last count they had more than a thousand members, and there can be upwards of fifty people who make this their regular Friday-night outing, turning their backs on regular pubs and clubs for an evening where they can be who the fuck they like in the company of people who don’t judge, and are grateful for the attention.
Harry’s mind whirs with the same grinding difficulty as the computer fan. He tries to imagine who would break in, and why they would go straight to the machine. He has had plenty of time to get to know the clientele over the past couple of years, lounging at the end of the bar with a mug of coffee, nodding appreciatively at the lads and ladies in their eclectic wardrobes. He could write a book on the sights he has seen. The people. The pervs. The giant, hairy Asian man in the dog collar and leotard. The big one in the gold mask who made a noise like a heifer in distress when he reached orgasm. The woman in her seventies who had to be helped out of the love swing when her hip came out. The fat lass in the pirate costume who cried rape when one of the four men she was fucking tried to put it in her arse . . .
He taps the keyboard again, unsure what to do. Wonders about the potential consequences of inaction. Suppose he confronts a burglar? Suppose they have seen the footage on his private files? He can’t afford to be blackmailed. Would simply have to admit culpability to the bosses and look for another job. He doubts there would be charges. But who would target him? He shakes his head and downs his vodka. Perhaps somebody is looking for information. Perhaps a member wants to find out more about somebody who caught his eye or pissed him off.
Perhaps they want to delete their own information. He knows from experience that members are notoriously shy about giving real names and real addresses, so doubts anybody would think it worthwhile to even try and get a name or phone number for another member.
His train of thought is derailed by an unmistakable creak from upstairs.
He closes his eyes, takes a breath, then picks up the nearly empty bottle of Holsten and upends it; a dribble of beer running over the blurry blue ink of his tattooed forearm.
He pulls open the door to the stairway and peers into the gloom. The cord-carpeted stairs disappear into darkness halfway up, and there is nothing appealing about climbing
them. Harry pauses, already half decided.
There is another creak.
“Fuck.”
He puts his foot on the bottom stair. Puts a hand on the banister and pulls himself up, trying to stand on the corners of each step so as not to make a sound.
As he reaches the top step, the last dribble of beer runs over his wrist. The sudden coldness makes him jump and he lets out a small exclamation, which he follows with a curse.
Harry knows he has given himself away. Whoever is waiting in the dark can fuck-buggering stay there.
He turns. Begins to creep back down the stairs.
This time the sound is unmistakable. Running feet. Sudden movement. Coming closer.
Harry looks up.
Crack.
Opens his mouth to let rip with a stream of invective, but finds himself wordless. His tongue has been crushed to pulp between his back teeth; a reflex reaction to the hammer blow that has struck him just above the left temple.
Movement. Bone-jarring impact. Thuds and cracks.
Harry finds himself upside down. Right way up again. Feels his old limbs twisted into unnatural directions as they jar with the brick and stair.
Darkness.
Now red clouds.
A sensation of friction at his back and pressure at his wrists.
Now he is looking at the ceiling from an angle he has never seen it before. Now there is dusty, cheap carpet by his face. How did that happen? Why am I at the bottom of the stairs?
He blinks. The effort pains him. It seems to awaken other senses.
Agony grabs him. Twists him in its fist.
He looks up. Sees a face. Halfway familiar; attractive and cold.
A voice. Soft, in his ear.
“Her real name. It’s not here. Just ‘Blossoms.’ I already know that.”
The voice sounds as if it were underwater. Harry hears an echo. Feels dampness on his skin.
“I never really thought it would be here. I knew you wouldn’t check. Just a name and a number. And the number isn’t real.”
Harry wants to speak. Wants to ask for help. An ambulance.
Harry manages a croak.
“I’m sorry. I’m getting desperate. I had to try. I don’t even know if it’s her. He said ‘Suzie,’ but he could have lied . . .”
He croaks again. Tastes blood. Blood and vodka.
“It keeps getting worse. It could have been simple. Now look where we are. There will be more, I know it. I’ve just made it worse. He’ll be so angry . . .”
Harry knows what he wants to say. Can feel the words lining up in his mind. Wants to say that, whatever this is about, he will never speak of it. Wants to say that he can feel himself dying and cannot stand it. Wants to know where his glasses are, and whether they can be fixed.
“I thought your neck was broken. I think it is. I don’t know. I could have walked away if your neck was broken. Now it has to be an accident.”
Harry tries to move. Realizes he cannot feel his limbs. That it only hurts on one side of his body. On the other, he can feel nothing.
“I’m so sorry.”
He lies broken. His limbs broken branches, his back shattered glass. He is on his back, wedged in the doorway. His positioning tells the story of his death. Of a man who slipped climbing the stairs, and who could not put out the flames . . .
His neck is twisted gruesomely to the left, so Harry does not see the cigarette butt that a gloved hand grinds into his vodka-soaked T-shirt. Cannot move his arms to flick it away. Can only watch, eyeballs climbing out of his skull, as it begins to smolder.
He sees his killer walking to the back door, the same hammer in hand that was used to force the lock and crack his skull.
Pain now. Heat. Smoke and flame.
He gulps hard, trying to clear his mouth; to speak.
Swallows clotting blood. Begins to choke.
Coughs and pukes, choking on blood and sick, as the flames take hold of his ragged clothes and spread to the floor.
He is dead before he has to endure the stench of his own cooking skin.
SUZIE’S POSTURE implies prayer. She is bent forward, elbows on her knees, palms clasped fast, both thumbs pressed hard enough into her forehead to make grooves. Her lips move soundlessly, as though begging forgiveness or benefaction.
Her thoughts are far from divine.
She is lost in memory. Consumed by a recollection that has surfaced unbidden.
For a moment, she is entering the red room, with its glitter ball and its velvet sheets. She is gazing upon naked forms. Is recoiling, spluttering in nervous laughter, drunk and giddy enough to change the mood. She is staring into a mask, leering and lascivious, incongruous atop a fleshy body that makes no concealment of its desire.
She is controlling herself now. Saying yes. Letting go. Feeling a warm, familiar hand in her own. Accepting permission like a blessing.
She is on her back, weight upon her. Light making shadows of a grunting, thrusting face, given over to pleasure that could just as well be pain . . .
She shakes it away. Forces the memory back. Pushes her features into a smile. Hides it. Hides her feelings, even from herself . . .
Suzie is twenty-six years old. Petite. A little fleshier than she would like to be around the middle. Kooky, her bosses call her, when clients remark on her multicolored nails and chunky, homemade jewelry. Today she’s dressed in a short black skirt over footless leggings, a long-sleeved white top, and flip-flops. The fleecy Disney scarf around her neck covers the top end of a tattoo that her bosses at the law firm have deemed unsuitable for exposure. Her elbow-length lace gloves were considered more off-putting than the butterflies they obscured, so she has taken to wearing fluorescent wristbands. She expects to be asked to remove them as soon as one of the senior partners plucks up the courage. Her shoulder-length hair is dyed a color somewhere between copper and autumn, and today is held back from an unremarkable but pretty face by a pink band. Tiny hummingbirds dangle from the lobes of her multipierced ears.
She is fun to look at.
She makes people smile.
The bells of St. Mary’s Church inform her it’s one p.m., although she does not need their help. She has always just reached this stage in her lunch when the hour chimes. She fears she’s becoming a creature of habit.
Suzie wonders why there are not more people here. It’s a pretty spot, and she finds herself surprised on a daily basis to have it to herself. She’s five minutes from work and a stone’s throw from the relative bustle of the Old Town end of the city center, but in the three months she has been eating her packed lunch here she’s had to share this lovely little courtyard garden only a handful of times.
She’s in the only green square to be found in the Museums Quarter, hidden away at the center of this pocket of gorgeous old buildings and cobbled streets, constructed two centuries before in the angle between the Rivers Hull and Humber. Here, between Wilberforce House and the Streetlife Museum, she has found a place of near sanctuary. Here, protected by red brick and sloping archways, she feels delightfully invisible, set back under the protective branches of a tree she has come to think of as her own.
The spitting rain picks up its pace. The larger drops make a pleasing noise on the tree’s burgundy leaves. She spots one leaf bulging under the weight of collected droplets and reaches out with her left leg so that, when it spills the cold water, it will trickle onto her bare toes. The sensation, when it comes, is exhilarating.
Suzie takes the iPhone from the pocket of her bag. It was an extravagant purchase, forcing her to live for a month on sausage rolls and biscuits from the office tin as a consequence of using her food budget for its acquisition.
She logs on to Facebook. Two pokes from old school friends and a new post from her mum.
A song thrush has fluttered damply down to the nearest flo
wer bed. Suzie looks on the bench for a crumb to give it. She finds one in her scarf and chucks it to the bird, who ignores it and flies away.
“Marmite. Either love it or hate it . . . ,” she says under her breath.
She opens her e-mail account. Ignores the messages from the various websites that send her discount codes for music downloads and vouchers for chain restaurants.
“What we got . . . ?”
Two messages.
She finds herself smiling. A tickle of excitement flits between her stomach and chest.
“Still going strong . . .”
He sent one midmorning, and another five minutes before she came out for lunch. A query about whether she touched herself when she woke up, and a one-line missive informing her that he is “so damn hard” at the thought of her.
“Sweet,” says Suzie, hitting REPLY.
She got talking to “Dom” last night, halfheartedly at first, distracted by the vampire movie she was watching on the laptop, then later with an enjoyable intensity.
His advert on the website had been straight to the point. “Dominant male seeks under-30 playmate. Must be up for anything. Are you game? Put your body in my control. Be my rag doll.” He had put a little x at the end of the posting. She liked that.
“Hey there,” she’d written in reply. “Saw your ad. Think we could have fun. Am twenty-six and Ok looking. Have played this game before. Love to be dominated and test myself to the limit. Am I your sort of girl?”
Dom had replied within a minute. Told her he was “aching” to know more. Said he “yearned” for the taste of her. Was “consumed by a need to lick the tears from her face.” His words had a lyrical quality that Suzie approved of. Suzie likes words. Completed a year of an English-literature degree before her fiancé’s job moved them to Hull and they had decided that his new bumper wages made her continuing on the course a waste of time for both of them. When they split up not long after, she took solace in few things, but words were among them. She enrolled herself on a creative-writing course. Met the skinny, giggly, lovingly absurd little peacock who would become her best friend.
