Midnight's Door

by Robert F Barker

  Suddenly, I felt pressure on my bicep and realised it was Eric’s hand. He drew me back, breaking whatever it was had me in its grip. ‘Take it easy, Danny. I think Frank’s got the message.’

  As if to confirm it, Frank nodded, still not sure what to say. I knew right then that I’d overreacted. Badly. Worse, I’d done damage. What I should have done next was apologise to Frank. Explain some of my reasoning. I should have shared my theory that the killer may be targeting dancers. I should have explained that my outburst was simply aimed at making sure we didn’t expose someone else to potential danger. But I knew I couldn’t do it without revealing some of what had happened between me and Vicki the past few days. I wasn’t ready for that and didn’t think she was either. What I did was look away towards the lobby and front entrance, as if something had grabbed my attention.

  ‘Something I need to do,’ I said, and left them all to stare at my retreating back. I’d gone only a few paces when Vicki veered in from my right. She’d obviously seen us talking and come across to join us.

  ‘Hi Danny. What did you think of-’

  I showed her my palm saying, ‘Can’t stop. Catch you later.’ Like a frightened teenager bailing out of a fight I let my legs carry me away, feeling like I’d just done more damage. But I just managed to catch her words as she turned to Eric and Frank.

  ‘What’s up with Danny?’

  For the next hour I busied myself in ways I thought would stop me bumping into Vicki and Frank. I visited Golman and Eve at the front door and hung around there until I got the sense that my ludicrous small talk about how quiet it was tonight, asking after Gol’s family and how Colleen was doing with the new job I’d heard about, was beginning to freak them out. From there I went upstairs and wasted several more minutes checking out the Private Suites. They were all empty. Even Yashin doesn’t hold court on Tuesdays. And having been thoroughly cleaned out and re-stocked since Saturday, there was nothing that really needed checking on. I headed back downstairs and made my way round the rear fire doors, checking the alarms, making a point of looking to see that the sensors on the doors were all aligned with those on the frames and were working as they should. I’d just checked that the rear fire door's crash-bar was engaging properly when it shut - we'd been having trouble with it the past couple of weeks - when I turned back to head towards the lobby. It was getting towards closing time and the exodus would begin soon. Vicki was standing there, waiting for me to come back along the corridor. There was no reason for her to be there and I realised she must have come looking for me. As it happened, she’d found me in what, at that moment, was the quietest part of the building.

  I made my way along the corridor towards her – there were no other exits and nowhere else to go - wondering what the hell I was going to say, knowing I should apologise for giving her the brush-off earlier, but feeling like something I couldn’t identify was stopping me from doing so. I was already feeling myself beginning to redden. Thankfully, she spoke first.

  'Is everything alright?’

  I barely glanced at her as I passed by, walking half a pace faster than normal so she had to turn and do a skip to catch up with me. ‘No probs,’ I said as she scurried along beside me ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. It wasn’t easy for her in heels while looking for eye-contact. ‘I just get the feeling you’re not happy about something.’

  ‘What’s not to be happy about?’ I said, keeping up the pace. We were closing on the split in the corridor that leads to the lobby one way, the main office the other. ‘Our girls are getting murdered. Takings are down. The Russians are fixing for trouble and on top of that the place is like a morgue. Or at least it was until you decided to show everyone what you’ve got.’ To this day, I have no idea where the last sentence came from, or how and why it seemed to spit itself out.

  Her reaction was instant. ‘WHOAAA.’ She grabbed my arm just above the elbow and yanked to try and get me to stop. I could have ignored it – Vicki’s strength isn’t in her arms – but somewhere deep down a voice was yelling at me to stop acting like a dick-head. I stopped so suddenly she had to totter on her heels to balance herself.

  ‘Just what does that remark mean?’

  ‘What remark?’ I said, all innocence.

  ‘Me "showing everyone what I’ve got.”’ What’s that all about?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just saying everyone was miserable until you got up on the podium.’

  ‘That’s not how it sounded. What’s wrong with me getting up on the podium?’

  I tried shrugging it away. ‘Nothing at all. Who’s saying there was anything wrong with it?’

  ‘Well according to Frank and Eric, you for starters. They said you were well-pissed about something when I finished.’

  ‘That was nothing to do with you dancing.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ Her gaze locked with mine. I felt her burrowing deep into what lay behind the blank expression I was doing my best to maintain.

  ‘No.’ I said it as if the idea I was pissed-off was ridiculous.

  ‘So what was it then?’

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘What was it you were pissed about?’

  I wafted a hand. ‘I don’t know.’ I made to turn away. ‘I’m sorry I need to-’ But she grabbed my arm again, harder this time.

  ‘Right now the only thing you need to do is talk to me,’ I turned back to her. Her beautiful green eyes burned into mine. There was glassiness in them. I wasn’t sure if it was reflections from the yellow up-lighters strung along the corridor wall, or something else. Inside my chest, it felt like something was melting. I swallowed.

  ‘What do we need to talk about?’ I was conscious that very soon one of my team would be coming along to open the doors I’d just checked to let the punters out. The other side of the wall I could hear the famous Coldplay track I can never remember the title to, and which usually marks Mickey heading for the big close-down.

  She raised her arms then dropped them, like she was frustrated. ‘This whole situation. Me on the podium. Us. Everything. Anything.’ Without warning she actually punched me in the chest. There wasn’t much force in it but her spindly knuckles stung. ‘Dammit, Danny. Talk to me.’

  I looked at her. I knew exactly what she wanted me to say. She wanted me to admit that, Yes, I had hated seeing her dancing on the podium. That I didn’t like to see her exhibiting herself to a bunch of drunken idiots who couldn’t tell the difference between a girl who gets off showing her body in public, and a beautiful, intelligent young woman who can move as well if not better than any podium dancer I’ve ever seen and who, while she would normally only perform in private for someone she cares about, her commitment to her job – and the Club – is such that she will do what she thinks she needs to do to pull things up when it’s needed. I also knew she wanted me to say something about her and me. Something that would show her that since last Sunday morning, the thought had occurred that maybe, just maybe, there was a connection there worth exploring - as she had been thinking. Okay Agnes’s murder and the problems with the Russians and the door meant that the time probably wasn’t ideal to be embarking on a new relationship. And true, I had helped her out with her flat. But that was just Good Old Danny being Good Old Danny. What she wanted to hear – what I knew she wanted to hear - was that it wasn’t just a case of me being ‘Good old Danny’ but wanting to do something that would draw us closer than just colleagues helping each other out through some temporary difficulties. I had no idea how I knew that all this was what she wanted me to say, or that she wanted to hear. It wasn’t like I’d been giving it all a whole lot of deliberate thought the last few days, at least I didn’t think I had. But somehow, as we stood there looking at each other in the corridor that was now deserted but would soon be jammed with punters, I felt closer to her than ever before. Closer even than on the Sunday morning when she came in to my room and slipped under the duvet next to me. So close that I could
sense the thoughts and feelings coursing through her. They were the same thoughts and feelings that I had been having since Sunday morning, but without ever realising it.

  Norton, I thought. You’re a fucking idiot.

  I took a breath, opened my mouth to speak.

  Disappointment flooded her features as she looked at something over my shoulder. Behind me, a voice said. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

  I turned to see Chris standing at the open door to the lobby. As I’d been expecting, he was on his way to open the fire doors in readiness for let-out but had stopped on seeing us. Somewhere in the back of my mind I wondered what sort of rumours it would give rise to.

  ‘S’alright Chris,’ I said. ‘You carry on.’ I turned back to her. She was waiting, expectantly. Hopeful. I thought about what to say. Like I’ve said before, I’m not always the quickest when it comes to words. I needed time. And besides my mind was still full of things that had come to me as I’d watched Elvis, watching her. I’d even wondered about calling Carver and mentioning it to him.

  What I ought to have said was, ‘I understand what you’re saying, Vicki, and yes, I’d like to talk, about all these things, others as well.’ I should have reached out, stroked her cheek, maybe pushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across her face in a way that, now I focused on it, gave me a funny feeling inside. I should have smiled at her in a way that would have said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll sort it all out.’ At least it would have given her the reassurance that I was certain she was looking for at that moment.

  I did none of those things.

  Like the idiot I am, I said to her. ‘I need to close up. I’ll catch you later. When it’s quiet.’ Even as I turned away, having already caught the first sign of the angry/crestfallen look that my stupid, hollow, empty words had already triggered, two others took up residence in my tiny brain.

  Big Mistake.

  CHAPTER 22

  Over the space of the next thirty minutes, I must have run on auto pilot as I went through the motions of closing down and wrapping up. The only thing I was aware of was the growing feeling that not only was I a tosser, I was completely out of order for not giving her something back. Something that would let her know what I was really thinking and feeling. It’s all well and good playing the Hard Man, but sometimes you need to show you’re human too. By two-thirty, with most of the punters having already spilled out onto Bridge Street, getting ready to join in inflicting on the town centre the drunken, spewing mayhem that always follows ‘Student Night,’ I knew exactly what I needed to do. I just hoped it wasn’t too late. I went looking for her.

  I tried the office first. She wasn’t there. I checked the Dusk ‘Til Dawn bar where I knew she sometimes likes to take a late latte, while taking stock of the night’s events. Not there either. I tried the Green Room, but it was empty. In the staff room, Eve was stowing her stuff and signing off. I asked if she had seen Vicki.

  ‘She left half-an-hour ago. I let her out the side door. I’ve got her mobile number if you need it?’

  ‘S’okay,’ I said.

  I made my way up to the Early Hours Coffee bar. It would be quiet there. The staff had just finished putting the chairs up on the big, square tables for the cleaners to come in. I pulled one down and settled in a far corner. I took out my mobile and dialled her number. It went straight to voicemail, which meant her phone was either switched off, or she was talking to someone. I waited a few minutes then tried again. Voicemail again. This time I waited for the beep.

  ‘It’s me. I just want to say I’m sorry. I was way out of order. I’d like to speak, if you don’t mind speaking to me. Ring me back?’ I waited another five minutes, just in case and tried a third time. Still voicemail. I went back downstairs.

  In the office Eric was talking with Frank. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he said as I came in. ‘We thought you’d bunked off early.’

  ‘Just a couple of things I needed to sort out. How’s everything?’

  ‘No probs,’ Eric said. Then he added. ‘I’ll cover lock-up if you want to get off?’ I think I’d heard him make that offer once in four years. I turned to him. He was looking at me strangely. Like he knew something. Everything, even. Unlike the last time he offered, I nodded. ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  As I left the staff room and headed for the back door and car park, Eric appeared again beside me.

  ‘How long?’ he said.

  ‘How long what?’

  ‘You and Vicki.’

  I stopped, gave him a look.

  ‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘I’m not as bleedin’ thick as you like to make out.’

  I managed a half-smile. ‘Less than a week.’

  He whistled through the gap in his bottom teeth. ‘And problems already? Doesn’t look good.’ He paused. ‘It’s you I take it?’

  Christ, I thought. He knows me better than I do. I nodded.

  ‘Thought so. Want some advice?’

  ‘No, but I assume it’s coming anyway.’

  ‘Sort it out. She’s worth it.’

  I nodded again, said nothing.

  I left him at the door and stepped out onto the car park. I’d gone less than a dozen paces when I saw it. Her red Honda sports. Near to where she usually parked it. I came to a dead stop. ‘What the-?’

  I turned back to the club. Eric had already closed the door. I stood there, thinking. Eve had said Vicki had left over half-an-hour ago. There was nowhere else she could go this time of night. I went over to the car. It was locked. I ran through the possibilities. There weren’t many.

  Breakdown. But she would have come back into the club. Chris is a car mechanic, as are half the bar staff.

  Someone offered her a lift. But why accept? And if she knew her car was going to be there all night she’d have come back and told someone. Either Eric or I would have heard.

  That was as far as I got before the memory that had been stirring since I first saw her car in its usual spot thrust its way to the surface. It was an image of Elvis, staring at her as she danced, what I now remembered as a leering, sinister look on his face.

  A bomb went off in my stomach.

  I turned and ran back to the club. I had to go round to the front where Chris had just shut the doors. Seeing me, he opened them again.

  ‘What’s up Boss?’

  ‘You haven’t seen Vicki come back in?’

  ‘No.’

  I headed to the office. Frank was there. I asked him the same question.

  ‘No. Something wrong?’

  ‘Her car’s still on the car park. She’s not there.’

  He looked puzzled, but not alarmed. ‘Strange. Why would-’

  I cut him off. ‘Where’s Eric?’

  ‘Doing the rounds I guess. What do you-’ But I didn’t hear the rest as I was already out the door.

  I found Eric at the D-D bar, about to take a pint. He jumped up off the stool as he saw me approaching across the empty dance floor.

  ‘What’s up?’

  I told him about her car then added, ‘Do you know where Elvis lives?’

  ‘Elvis? What’s he got to-?’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Sankey, I think. Greta would know.’ Greta runs the cloakrooms. Has done for years. She knows everything about everyone. ‘I’ve got her number if you need it.’

  ‘I’ve got it.’ He didn’t ask how I had Greta’s number and I didn’t say. ‘Do me a favour. Ring the police. Get hold of Jamie Carver. Tell him Vicki is missing. Tell him Elvis likes dancers.’ I headed for the door.

  ‘Elvis like dancers? What the fuck? Where are you going?’

  ‘To find Elvis.’

  ‘What the fuck’s going on Danny? What’s it all got to do with Elvis, and why the big panic?’

  ‘I think Elvis has taken Vicki.’

  CHAPTER 23

  Out on the car park, I stood by her car and tried her mobile one last time. Still voicemail. Not good. In the short time I’d been with her, I’d seen enough to k
now that like most young women these days, her phone was her third hand. I brought up Greta’s number. As I rang it, I checked the time. Three fifteen. She would be arriving home about now. Longford isn’t far. It rang four, five, six times.

  ‘Danny?’

  I didn’t want her to get any wrong ideas so I just said, ‘I need your help Greta. Do you know where Elvis lives?’

  She didn’t, other than it was somewhere in Sankey. But she knew someone who did. I asked her to find out and ring me back. She started to ask, ‘Why do you need-?’ but I just told her it was urgent and cut her off. I was probably gruffer than I needed to be but hey, WTF.

  By the time she rang me back I was already half-way to Sankey. ‘Twelve Lunts Drive,’ she said. I thanked her and rang off. I knew where it was. A former council estate, on the Widnes side.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled up on the other side of the street and twenty yards down from a pair of three-bed semis with big front gardens enclosed within low picket-type fences with hedges behind. Number twelve was the one on the left. I got out and headed towards it. As I neared, I saw the house had the sort of run-down look that often marks a man living alone. The front garden was untidy and overgrown, unlike the one next door which had a nice lawn with neatly kept borders. Dull net curtains that looked like they hadn’t been washed for months if not years hung at the downstairs windows. An old Ford Focus was parked up in the drive. I didn’t know if Elvis drove or even owned a car, but I assumed the killer had to have one. But what drew my eye was the orange glow in the upstairs bedroom window. Behind the red curtains that hung like a pair of nailed-up blankets, a light was on. One of the transom windows was open.

  I stopped at the front gate and strained my ears. From far away, the rumble and clatter of Widnes’s twenty-four-seven chemical plants echoed through the night. I shut it out and concentrated on the small opening. Then I heard it. A sound like a sharp smack or slap followed immediately by a woman’s squeal of pain, then a man’s voice. At first I couldn’t make the words out, but the last few were clear. ‘…and you're a dirty fucking whore. WHAT ARE YOU?’ An image of Vicki, threatened, terrified, crying, came to me. It was enough.