by Bella Mackie
* * *
Finally I got lucky. One Tuesday night I got corralled into drinks with colleagues, although admittedly that wasn’t the lucky part. Thirty minutes at the pub was all I could manage in the end. The table was made up of seven women and Gavin, the sweetly camp digital guy who wore cardigans more than he should, and that is being kind because the correct amount is never. The shrieks of laughter were audible from the bar, where I ordered myself a large glass of Brunello because there was no conceivable world in which these people had chosen anything but a bottle of the house white. When I eventually came around to where they were sitting, I saw that my instinct was spot on. My only mistake had been to imagine they’d only got one bottle. Three stood on the table, and only one had any liquid left in it. Exclamations of welcome were made, a chair proffered.
‘We’re talking about which Hemsworth brother is hotter, Grace,’ slurred Jenny, who never spoke to me in the office but smiled a lot when I happened to glance her way.
‘Oh sorry,’ I said as I took my scarf off, ‘I don’t know who they are.’ I did know of course, I think wilful ignorance of pop culture is pathetic, but I didn’t want them to think that I was the kind of person who enjoyed this type of conversation. It would be a slippery slope where suddenly I’d be expected to join in at work more. Not that I was planning a long career at the company. The moment the plan was all wrapped up, I’d be out of there without so much as a courtesy email.
The conversation continued around me, and a phone was produced to show me the important key differences between the brothers Hemsworth. I listened along, rejecting any attempts to have one-on-one conversations, and took my opportunity to leave when Christie went to the toilet and Gavin went to get another round in. I tried to stay cheery in the face of entreaties for me to stay, but I’m afraid I went slightly too far when Jenny grabbed me by the hand and tried to take my scarf off. I reciprocated the pressure she was putting on my palm, and then dug my nails hard into her fingers as I released myself from her grasp with some force. She winced and looked down at her hand, rubbing it as I said goodnight to the group. As I walked towards the door, I looked back at the table. Everyone was listening to Magda as she told some story which involved miming fellatio on an empty wine bottle. Everyone that was, except Jenny. She was still staring at me with a look of complete shock, her hand tucked under her armpit as though she were trying to soothe herself. It took all I had in me not to wink at her as I turned and headed out the door.
I wasn’t ready to go home, so I paused for a cigarette, bothered only once by someone borrowing my lighter – so tedious. The man was handsome in a somewhat generic way, and obviously keen to strike up conversation, but I could already see that he was on the turn. The hair will go first I imagine, and then the jowls will set in. I didn’t have the inclination to invest even a minute on that trajectory. I walked around Soho for a bit, looking in shop windows and weighing up whether to have some dinner. It was only 8 p.m., so I headed for my favourite Italian spot, which has counter seating and doesn’t make you feel strange for dining alone. It is one of life’s great pleasures to eat without anyone talking to you. What could be worse than a bad date with good food? How can you appreciate what you’re eating when someone is telling you about how they really don’t understand the fun in reading. Or worse, telling you that their favourite film is Goodfellas. Liking Goodfellas over all other films means the man has never bothered to cultivate a personality.
After a bowl of cacio e pepe, another glass of wine and a macchiato, I looked at my watch and saw that it was already past 10 p.m. Funny how thirty minutes with colleagues can feel like an eternity and two happy hours with just your own thoughts can pass by in a flash. I think I’d known the whole time I was sitting having dinner that I could drop into the Chinatown dive that Lee frequented. Perhaps that’s why I’d lingered so long. I’d not been thinking it consciously, but as I paid up and walked into the street, I knew that it had been lurking in my mind. It was still a little early for my uncle, and I didn’t even know if the bar was open on a Tuesday. But sex isn’t solely for Saturday nights, and Lee didn’t seem to stay in very much – if ever, so I thought I’d chance it. Besides, I was keen to push on with the next part of the plan, and I had to be more assertive from now on. I had to persuade Lee to come with me to Mile End. This might have seemed impossible, given that we barely knew each other, but I suspected that his need to seek out risk and his low tolerance for boredom meant that he’d go for it. Men like Lee don’t require the levels of trust that other people do. Simon would never take up an offer like the one I was going to give Lee. But Lee had the perfect combination of not being smart, and very much thinking that he is. It’s a heady mix, one which made me pretty confident that he’d be up for the offer. I just needed to pin him down.
I walked to the bar. I wasn’t dressed for a sex party, in my work clothes and woollen scarf and hat, but it was a Tuesday night, and this establishment could hardly demand sartorial excellence when it seemed to imagine that an abundance of red carpet gave off an air of opulence.
The place was fairly empty, which was unsurprising. A few couples sat having drinks in low velvet chairs, while a slightly too drunk man in a leather jacket stood at the bar and perked up when he clapped eyes on me.
‘Can I …’ he said as I took my scarf off.
‘Absolutely not, no,’ I replied and stared straight ahead. Never be kind to men who seek to engage you in conversation. Even a polite brush-off comes off as a challenge. Especially in a sex club.
I gave myself an hour. If Lee wasn’t there by 11, then I was going home. I very much subscribe to the adage that nothing good happens after 2 a.m., and in this place, it was prudent to knock a few hours off the rule.
Eager not to give the man next to me any further opportunities to talk to me, I took my drink and went for a wander. In a room just next door to the accessible toilets (did Westminster council enforce these rules in sex clubs as strictly as they did in Starbucks?) I found two men and one woman having a threesome. This many people trying to pleasure each other has always seemed like one too many to me. How can you concentrate on your own orgasm when you’re having to think about whether someone else is being neglected? In this situation, there was a clear difference in the levels of attractiveness of the two men, which I imagine they all knew but could not address. One man had a gym-honed body, in that vain way that suggests he spent a lot of time creating the appearance of strength but likely meant he had very little. He looked as though he could chop wood with his bare hands, but his manicured fingers suggested the idea would appal him. The other guy had a sizeable belly on him, and back hair, which I refuse to accept is attractive to anyone in the modern age. You don’t get points for keeping yourself warm. The worst thing about him was his bottom, which had a pretty serious case of acne. Even the forgiving lighting couldn’t conceal it. Grant me the confidence of a man who can go to a sex club with a spotty arse. Truly, it was body positivity in the unsightly flesh.
Not that the woman seemed to mind too much. At least he was putting the effort in, his head between her legs as she leant back and serviced the weak handsome one. The effect was a little like dominoes, and the contortions were surely giving her a lower back ache. Handsome man was absolutely enjoying the performative aspect to it all, I could practically see him flexing his abdominal muscles as he looked over to me and ushered me to join them. I let out a small laugh, which caused the woman to look up and frown, and I felt rather unsisterly in taking her away from her ecstasy. Surely these people didn’t think I would want to join in with this. Absurd. But then I was the one wearing a winter coat and watching three strangers getting each other off, so maybe my laughter was misplaced.
I left the room and went back to the bar, where leather-jacket man had found another woman to bore, and I ordered myself a drink. While I was waiting for it, the door swung open and a very beautiful woman walked in. Behind her was Lee, cowboy boots and all. My heart leapt and then plummeted im
mediately. Because he put his hand on the small of her back, and I knew that getting him alone would be difficult when this woman, who was decidedly not his wife, was commanding all of his attention. Even I was finding it hard to look anywhere else. Lee was 54 years old. He might be trying to slough off some of those years with the hair dye and the regular gym sessions, but the fact remained. And remained inescapable when he stood next to this woman, who was really just a girl. A girl with five inches on me and lips which looked like they’d been sculpted by God himself but a girl nonetheless. It has always amazed me that older men would be comfortable with the visuals when people see them out with women this young. Do they not see how people laugh, and make their friends guess whether they’re with their daughter or their mistress? Or worse, how we think that they’ve coerced the girl, be it through financial power or emotional experience. But I’m a woman. Perhaps other men of a similar age really do look on with a mixture of envy and admiration. I feel quite often that it’s good not to know what goes on in the male mind. If we did, I suspect we would spend a lot of our lives in fearful despair.
The girl who was young enough to be his daughter said something to him and headed towards a side door. Lee was left holding her tiny Chanel bag as he came towards the bar, scrunching it up in his meaty hand as though it were made of paper and didn’t cost close to three grand. He was clearly fairly drunk, his eyes slightly glassy, his brow glistening with sweat. He smiled when he saw me, recognising my face. He was adept at greeting people as though they were old friends, an accomplished blagger who never knew your name but made you feel welcome and warm for the fifteen seconds he’d spend on you before moving onto the next person.
‘Hello again,’ he said as he reached me and air-kissed the space next to the side of my head. ‘I thought you were looking for something a bit more hardcore than this?’
‘I’ve found it,’ I said. ‘I’ve come here to invite you. But I see you’re busy tonight.’
He looked slightly confused and then looked down at the bag he was holding. ‘Oh her. She’s on the job, if you know what I mean.’
I nodded, not wishing to get into the details of how he was in the habit of hiring a sex worker some thirty years his junior, but he must’ve imagined I was still in the dark, because he leant forward, his hands slipping on the bar, and lunged at my face.
‘Virginie is a tart,’ he stage-whispered, breathing whisky fumes into my face. ‘A tart who looks like … art.’ He laughed at his own rhyme, and clicked his fingers at the barman, who narrowed his eyes and ignored him.
‘So are you going to try out this new place with me, or are you just going to talk big about all the dark and twisted stuff you like and never go anywhere remotely different? Virginie will do whatever you want, I guess. But that doesn’t strike me as very exciting. She’s not getting off on it. She’s getting her rent.’
He laughed again, but he was too drunk, and I couldn’t see how to nail this down before his friend came back to find him.
‘You girls are all the same. You put up a big show of being edgy, but you won’t do what I need. Paying for it is easy. I don’t have to ease this one into it, she’ll just get it done for the right price. Scowling bird that she is.’
‘Well, I won’t waste my time. I’ve found a place where everything is catered for, no questions asked. It makes this place look like a yoga class for bored housewives. I don’t want to go on my own, because where would be the fun in that? I think we could have a good time together. If you get tired of paying by the hour and want to play with someone who’ll really put their all into it, give me a call.’ I smiled at the barman, who came over immediately. ‘I’m sorry this man was so rude earlier. I believe he’d like to apologise. He’ll have a whisky on the rocks and whatever you’re having. And could I possibly borrow a pen?’ The barman delivered a biro and I wrote down my number on a cocktail napkin and put it in Lee’s jacket pocket. ‘Remember to save that before the maid finds it. Or worse, your wife does. Though I imagine that discovering a woman’s mobile number would be fairly unsurprising for her.’
He looked at me, and frowned. ‘You’re a bitch, you know that?’ he said, over-enunciating like all drunks do.
‘I do know that, yes,’ I said, as I turned to go. ‘But that’s what you really want, Lee. Isn’t it?’
I left the bar and called a taxi. He’d call me. Now I just had to make the final preparations.
* * *
Prep work for killing someone is an odd thing. I wish there was an online group where you could share tips and offer up advice to newbies, telling you which gloves are the most practical and weigh in on whether a shove down the stairs is an effective way to take a life. Mumsnet, but for murders. Actually, I assume there is something like this on the Dark Web somewhere, but I’m not going to seek it out. It’s a lonely business, and it involves a lot of waiting around and a fair bit of trial and error.
For Lee, I had two things to do. The first part I’d ticked off already – a visit to the Mile End establishment where he’d be shuffling off this mortal coil. Having seen the place, I almost think his family would be more ashamed that he died in Mile End than that he died of auto-asphyxiation. The venue was off the main stretch of road, below a bridge, the door almost hidden in the arches. There was no glamorous girl with a clipboard here, just two slightly grim-faced men behind a screen, who demanded twenty quid, took my phone and pointed to a staircase which led down below ground. But my God, it was perfect. The place was dark, with sticky floors and no windows. Bodies packed together, loud thumping music almost deafening the moans which came at me from all angles. There was no polite drinking area where you could gingerly inch yourself into the depravity, this place was teeming with people in various states of undress. And they were going for it with really joyous abandon. And it was sort of glorious actually. People of all shapes and sizes writhing around, as though it were a huge Bacchanal orgy and not taking place in a former railway warehouse. I picked my way through the throng, bracing for a stray hand or embrace, but was pleasantly surprised at how well enforced the rules of consent were. I wasn’t interested but it’s always nice to be asked before the fact.
As with the other clubs I’d been to, there were doorways off the main room, and I’d checked out every single one to size up suitability. Most of them were small and airless, with rudimentary furnishings and different themes. One room was lined with black rubber. One had a huge swing in the middle which was having its weight limit tested by four energetic bodies. But these rooms were gentle and that was no use to me. On and on I went. Further away from the main area, the people thinned out. And then I found the right place. A door painted glossy black took me into a room which looked like an old storage cupboard. There were big silver hooks attached to the brick wall, with ropes attached to each of them. Looking directly at it, I could see more clearly that they were arranged in the shape of a person, with one further hook dangling promisingly from the ceiling. A metal chair was propped up against one wall. I sat down and looked at the room for some time. Since cameras were not allowed in the club, I had to memorise the set-up for later. The chair was integral to the plan, and I could only hope that nobody removed it. Having to go and look around for another one would surely ruin the mood for Lee somewhat.
Someone pushed the door a fraction, and I spoke sternly. ‘This is a private session.’ The door closed. People were so wonderfully polite at this free for all. Such a typically British respect for the rules. It wouldn’t matter too much if we were disturbed since it would look very much like a typical kink session, but I hoped we’d be lucky.
The second thing I had to do was practise. Practice makes perfect after all.
From careful perusal of an old tome called 25 Knots You Need to Know – discovered by happy coincidence when browsing a second-hand bookshop one day – I learnt that the more knots you tie in a rope, the more you weaken it. So you need one strong knot. God help me, I found this fascinating. I decided that the most suitable kno
t for me was the scaffold knot. I don’t think I need to elaborate on where the tie got its name. This looked like a fairly complicated noose, and my explanation of it will surely be insufficient, but from memory, it went something like this: you form a loop with the rope, wrapping one end through the loop several times before bringing it back to meet its twin. It involved three loops, loosely woven and then pulled tight when finished. I had to practise this many times to get it perfect, because it had to be constructed after it was attached to the hook. I spent an entire Sunday working to get this right, and it took hours of frustration before I finally did it correctly in one go. Even then it had taken me over three minutes of concentration. I wouldn’t have three minutes on the day, it would look far too sinister, even for a man who was a willing participant. Within another hour, I’d got the time down to forty-five seconds, which I felt was acceptable.
The other key piece of advice I got from 25 Knots You Need to Know was that a rope to stop a falling object may be subject to a load many times the object’s weight. With this in mind, I plumped for the nylon rope, 10 mm in thickness. It was a little pricier, but you can’t put a value on peace of mind, can you?
