‘I’d like that.’
‘How is your ass?’
The change of subject foxes me for a moment, until I realise he is enquiring about my recently sodomised orifice.
‘A bit tender,’ I tell him. ‘But I like that. I like to feel that bad things have been done to me. A reminder.’
‘I will remember it also,’ he says. ‘I will think of it a lot, until I see you again.’
‘Next Saturday?’
‘I guess. Shit. I don’t want to go to work. But I must make the money. We have to go.’
‘What’s next?’
‘I put you on that cross and I whip you, baby.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
Chapter Eight
‘There’s that guy again.’
Anton is leaning against the wall, secret-agent style, looking sideways through the office window.
‘What guy?’
‘The brothel guy, or whatever that place is.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I look up from my radio ad copy and attempt to pay the increasingly irritating Anton some of the attention he clearly craves. ‘What?’
‘Every day this week I’ve seen the same dude go in there. Pretty early in the morning for a sex fiend. I reckon he’s a sex addict, must be.’
‘Why do you think it’s a brothel? Might be a crack den.’
‘No way, there’s no way it’s a crack den. Those people aren’t crack heads. Besides, who heard of a crack den that’s open in the morning?’
‘Perhaps it’s a … I dunno … creative arts space or something.’
‘Too many suits. This guy might fit that profile though. He definitely looks artistic. Meaning weird.’
‘Does he?’ I humour him, wanting to get our friendship back on its old footing. ‘What kind of weird?’
‘He looks like someone from the Moscow State Circus or something. And with the best porn tache I’ve ever seen.’
I leap out of my chair and join him at the window, nausea rising in my throat.
‘Where? Let me see.’
‘He’s gone in now. I’ll let you know when he comes out.’
‘So you’re going to stand there all day? What about the Trufax account?’
‘Ah, yeah, forgot about that. Oh, and I’ve seen her before. She goes in there pretty much every day.’
O is wearing a beige trench coat, belted at the waist, and a beret. She looks like a caricature Frenchwoman. The dark glasses, on a day of low November cloud, complete the impression.
‘Do you think she’s one of the hookers?’
‘Could be. That blonde that went in earlier deffo is. High heels, fishnets, the works, at nine fifteen in the morning.’
I thought Trixietots had a day job. What would she be doing there? And is Dimitri with them? And if so, why hasn’t he told me about it?
‘Blonde?’
‘Yeah. Blonde. You’re interested again?’
‘Course I’m interested.’
‘It’s just that you haven’t seemed that bothered lately. Considering how obsessed you used to be with that place. Tell you what, why don’t we go down and stake it out at lunchtime? Like we did that time in the summer.’
‘We didn’t find anything out,’ I remind him, every fibre of my being uneasy.
‘Not that time.’
‘Nah, it’s OK. It’s too cold for hanging around the streets anyway.’
‘Oh! There she is again – the blonde!’
I peer over his shoulder. Trixietots emerges from the black door, swathed in a fake-fur coat, hair swept up and full make-up in place, looking like anything but a sober-suited City worker.
I almost want to close my eyes and pretend I haven’t seen anything.
Especially when Dimitri follows her out.
‘That’s the guy I was telling you about!’
But I can’t reply. All I can do is stare bleakly as he pauses in the covered arch above the door to light a cigarette. Trixietots turns around and says something, laughing. He inclines his head, flirtatiously if you ask me, takes a drag on the cigarette and winks at her. They turn their backs to me and disappear around the corner of the street.
‘Weird-looking guy, right? Who the hell has a moustache like that these days?’
‘I need the loo.’
I spend ten minutes kneeling with my head over the toilet bowl, dizzy, my heart wrenched out of place.
Why? How? Why? How? The questions keep repeating themselves in a loop while the hard tiles bruise my knees.
Eventually the rushing, roaring sensation subsides and I am able to function, if minimally. I take my phone from my handbag and stare at it, as if I’ve forgotten what it is.
What should I do?
I feel I have to speak to him. Now. I dial his number, trying to work out what I’m going to say and not succeeding overmuch.