The Juliette Society(70)

The more I think about it, the more panicked I get, because I’ve texted and called and she hasn’t picked up or responded, she hasn’t called back – another thing that’s just not like her. It seems like Anna has disappeared without a trace. Almost as if she never existed. I only know of three people who could prove that she did.

Marcus.

Bundy.

Kubrick.

For reasons I don’t quite understand, Marcus has denied all intimate knowledge of Anna, of even knowing who she is.

Bundy has gone into hiding.

That just leaves Kubrick.



I give the cab driver the address to the Fuck Factory as best as I can remember it, and the directions to get there as far as I can recall. And he looks at me as if it say, you really want to go there? No one goes there. But as I hop in, he pulls down the flag on the meter anyway, because a fare is a fare and rather him than anyone else.

We’re driving around and it all looks so different to how I remember. None of it looks the same. And it’s not just because it’s daytime and everything looks different by day. It just doesn’t look like the same place. What I remembered as derelict buildings are actually empty shells of houses that have been half-built, then abandoned. I get the driver to stop three or four times at places that look vaguely familiar so I can get out and look for the graffiti that marked the spot where the Fuck Factory was. There’s nothing there.

I look for evidence that it might have been painted over or wiped off. Can’t find that either. The staircases leading under the street all look the same and I’m not about to walk down on the off-chance that I find the right door. So, eventually, I resign myself to the idea that the Fuck Factory must have been busted again between now and then. Even though then doesn’t seem all that long ago.

The Fuck Factory has disappeared without a trace, just like Anna.

And now there’s only one option left.

I have to find Bundy.

The only person I can think of who would know where Bundy could be is Sal, the bartender at the Bread and Butter.

When the cab pulls up outside, the shutters are down. I bang on them as hard as I can with the palm of my hand. A grouchy, wiseguy voice, Sal’s voice, yells from inside.

‘We’re closed.’

Now, from the limited interaction I had with Sal when I was here last time, I just know there’s little point in getting into a back and forth with him through the shutters. That he’d sooner insult me from the safety of his bar than help me in any way, shape or form.

So I bang on the shutters again.

‘We’re closed.’

He already sounds irritated.

I bang again, for longer this time, pretending I haven’t heard.

A door opens in the shutter, Sal’s grizzled mug peers out.

‘What the fuck do you want, girly. You fucking deaf. Can’t you see we’re closed.’

Not so much a series of questions, more a series of accusations and threats.

‘Bundy,’ I say. ‘Where’s Bundy?’

‘Why d’ya wanna know?’ he says.

‘I’m looking for our friend,’ I tell him. ‘Bundy’s friend, Anna.’

‘Oh, that one,’ he says. ‘Blondie.’

As he says it, his voice softens, his face softens, his whole manner softens. And I think, oh Anna, you didn’t.

Sal face’s pulls back into the gloom and it looks as if he’s fading into thin air like the Cheshire Cat. Then his hand comes out.

I pull out a ten-note and put it in his hand. It withdraws like one of those mechanical piggy banks. I wait for Sal to reappear. His hand comes out again.

I think, cheapskate. Sal is the kind of guy who would spit in your drink if you tipped him too little. I can’t imagine I’ll ever step inside his bar again but, just in case, I reluctantly pull out another ten and put it in his hand. It retreats again inside the hole.

I wait for it to come out again. Sal’s voice sails out of the dark, reciting Bundy’s address. I repeat it after him in my head to lodge it in my brain.

He says. ‘Give Blondie my love.’

The door slams shut. I shudder.

I’m starting to feel afraid for Anna. Where is she? One day she was there and next there’s no trace of her. Now I have to swallow my pride. Now I have to go and see and Bundy.



Bundy’s not surprised to see me. He’s just disappointed I didn’t come sooner. So he could tell someone his side of the story.

‘I had nothing to do with it. I swear I didn’t kill those girls.’

That’s the first thing he says as he ushers me into his apartment. His voice is cracking as he says it. Bundy’s world has collapsed and he’s a wreck. The Department of Justice has seized all of his domain names, shut down the sites – every last one of them – and initiated a Federal investigation into suspected pandering and racketeering. His livelihood is gone, his reputation is in tatters.