Читать книгу The Zima Confession - Iain M Rodgers - Страница 23

A man may not know his own mind, Richard thought, twirling the black and gold card from APHRODITE’S SECRET (Exclusive Gentleman’s Sauna) round and round in his fingers. He hadn’t planned on seeing Melanie, but he felt the events of the afternoon were worth celebrating in some way. What better way than this? Besides, it would be a perfect way to find out a bit more about Mitchell.

Finding out if the whole Mitchell thing hung together – that was the reason why he was now paying the taxi driver for the journey to the club. That was the real reason. Mitchell or Weber? Which one was for real? Mitchell was convincing. Weber had not given the proper identification code. He had mentioned “Zima” out of context. He had mentioned it as though it was an introduction, not as an operation, and he had not offered any instructions for the operation. Weber was probably some sort of imposter. If Melanie had more information, he would be able to confirm it. What he would be able to do about it was another matter.

It was hard to believe Mitchell had committed suicide. Perhaps Weber… perhaps Weber had killed or even tortured him. Richard shuddered. Perhaps that was how Weber had got hold of the codes? Would a professional killer be able to torture and kill someone and have the evidence wiped out by throwing the body under a train somehow? He didn’t know if or how that would be possible, but he knew he would need to be very careful with Weber.

As the taxi drove off, Richard speculated that perhaps he had not brought enough money. He had £500 in twenties in his pocket but he had no idea how much a girl like Melanie would cost. He had an idea that it was a lot though.

He had no particular qualms about what he was doing. It was the capitalist version of an ideal of feminism he’d grown up with. Back in the day, back in the squat in Kelvinside, feminism had been all about freedom. Relationships had been all about free love and one-night stands. But things had changed. Free love was never quite as free as it purported to be. Everyone was jealous of everyone else. Even girls like Line-up-Linda often turned out to be wilder in reputation than reality. Linda liked sex, yes, but as Richard had eventually found out, not quite in the random gung-ho gangbang way that everyone had assumed – or hoped.

This was some sort of throwback to those times. Except that, as Marx predicted, all human relationships had become financial.

Aphrodite’s Secret was in the middle of nowhere, just off the North Circular Road. More precisely, it was in the middle of an industrial estate which was quite deserted at this time of night. There was darkness all around apart from a cosy little scene in an oasis of light.

Included in the oasis of light, just to the right, was a parked Bentley with a personalised number plate. The blank grille of the Bentley’s face neither smiled nor scowled. It was inscrutable. On the left-hand side, an Aston Martin maintained a sickly expression on its visage, as though expressing disgust.

Behind and between the two sports limousines was an impressive red awning adorned with gold trim and tassels. This overhung a plush red carpet. A red carpet that melted beneath Richard’s steps as he approached the entrance. It was as though he had floated there, drawn like a moth.

Thick glass doors emblazoned with decorative gold lettering slid apart effortlessly and Richard drifted through them into the space beyond. Here, the dull thud of music throbbing from the interior quickened the pulsing of his blood. He felt almost faint with anticipation. But he had yet to get through the wrought-iron gate protecting the reception area. Beyond reception, a waterfall gurgled cheerfully down a false cliff, in the middle of which was a not-so-secret, secret door. It was all very snug and reminded Richard of a Santa’s Grotto he had the wide-eyed pleasure of visiting as a child.

A buzzing noise indicated the receptionists had released the electric lock of the wrought-iron gate for him, and he obliged them by opening it and letting himself in.

“Have you been here before?” a blonde receptionist dressed in a clinician’s white coat asked him. It was a genuine white coat that would be worn in a genuine clinic, not a cheap thing that you would wear to a fancy-dress party, and certainly not a “naughty nurse” uniform.

“No,” said Richard.

“The entrance fee is £80. Drinks are free, apart from our bottles of Moet Grand Cru, and the rest is negotiable.”

“OK.”

“What shoe size?”

“Erm. Nine.”

“OK. This is your locker key. Take this bathrobe to change into and wear these sandals after you change.”

Richard wandered to the rustic door dreamily. The dull thumping clarified itself and transformed into proper music as he opened the door. The lighting was intimately dimmed but he was able to see the immediate features of the club quite clearly. There was a wide entrance to changing rooms with lockers just to his right, and directly in front, a raised circular platform on which two stunning girls, naked except for a layer of glistening oil, cavorted within a narrow cone of light.

There were other guys in the changing rooms. Some of them belonged to stag parties and were quite drunk. None of them were alone. Suddenly he felt quite lonely. He changed, gloomily wondering if Melanie would even be here. He hoped she would be.

By now the stunning, oiled-up girls had stopped cavorting and had been replaced by a couple of equally stunning “schoolgirls”. The schoolgirls skilfully carried on the tradition of cavorting. They slunk around, each undressing the other with overacted passion and enthusiasm.

The bar was straight ahead of him, raised above floor level by three shallow steps. He headed off to see if the drinks really would be free. But achieving this goal was not as easy as he had expected. Every few steps another spectacularly sexy, scantily clad woman would approach him.

Each of them seemed eager to know his name, and where he was from. He supplied this information courteously but somewhat warily. Some of the girls thought he had nice hair, others said that he had nice eyes. Many of them were concerned that he looked sad and needed to be cheered up. He politely fended each one off. It wasn’t easy. He made a mental note of several of the girls in case he decided to change his mind, but for now he only wanted to see Melanie, and he had a reason. He could already see though, that nearly all the girls here were quite as pretty as she was and they were all dressed in just underwear or were completely naked. Naked, shaven, some with large fake boobs, some with real ones. Pale white girls, black, brown, blonde, brunette…

“Rum and coke please.” Richard had made it to the bar. From this elevated position, he looked round and surveyed the scene.

It was strange to recall that, from the outside, this building was simply a windowless industrial unit, intended for use as a warehouse or factory; a lot of effort had gone into creating a theatre in which the imagination was encouraged to reign like a decadent potentate.

The main room, in which the bar was situated, was large but partially segmented into more intimate spaces by the arrangement of snug seating areas – opulent, high-backed, curving shapes that lent themselves to being occupied by panther-like females. The openness of the room was also interrupted by tall, highly decorated pillars that pretended to support intricately baroque mouldings that swelled upwards, and swooped and dripped downwards. The restrained lighting enhanced the feeling that intimacy would be protected and private. Men, cosseted in luxurious towelling robes, laughed and joked with their new female friends; some standing, some sprawling on large couches – Roman Emperors at an orgy, surrounded by concubines and both guarded and threatened by the panther women, some prowling, some reclining.

Beyond the bar’s oval-shaped counter, visible through a wide, round archway, a loose web of shadow undulated across the walls slowly and randomly, for the light in that room originated from the sapphire depths of a small pool. In this mysterious domain a naked girl relaxed, or perhaps simply displayed her wares, by floating with her long black hair spread into inky tendrils on the water’s gently rippling surface.

That she was holding her arms out, as though crucified, further enhanced the sensation of something ethereal, something beyond even the realm of magic, being demonstrated. She was performing a miracle. Richard could see the miracle – her perfect body suspended in a column of light.

He looked around to try to see Melanie. Perhaps she isn’t here! Loneliness suddenly stabbed at his heart and seeped through him like a hollow pain. What was he getting so upset about? He was surrounded by beautiful women. Any of them could make him feel less lonely. Perhaps he would go over to the swimming pool soon, or perhaps he would go and look for one of the other girls he’d already made a mental note of. His heart was beating fast at the idea. Yes, he had decided, he would do it! But there was one final obstacle. It was the only thing stopping him now – he was spoilt for choice. He couldn’t decide which one to approach. He sipped some of his syrupy drink. It had just enough alcohol to give it an edge. There was no hurry to decide yet.

There was a kind of three-dimensional map on the apex of the bar showing the facilities. As well as the stage and the pool, there was a Turkish steam room and a Finnish sauna. You just had to go through the archway to which the apex of the bar pointed. Maybe he should take a walk there too. Not yet; soon.

A voice behind him said: “Hi, I saw you coming.”

It was Melanie! At once Richard felt less lonely.

She was completely naked apart from high heels and a pair of pink cashmere leggings which came up to her thighs. She stood on tiptoes and leaned over the bar to ask for a drink, and Richard noticed she had a tattoo of an ankh on her shoulder. The lean that she did was obviously carefully choreographed to ensure that her naked breasts thrust out over the bar while her bottom and long legs would be nicely displayed to whoever was interested, which would include most observers. Her action was not lacking in grace or charm, but Richard found it distasteful, as though he expected her to behave with more decorum when they were together.

Free love was never free, not even when you paid for it. You always felt insecure or jealous for one reason or another.

“Just an orange juice please,” she told the barwoman, who delivered the order in a tall glass with a black straw. She had a whole row of juice lined up just ready.

“Well, I’m glad to see you.”

“I bet you are!” she replied, turning to him and reaching into his gown.

Richard stopped her. She turned away again, suddenly uninterested, and sucked at the straw.

“I’d like to talk to you,” he said.

“OK. We can talk.”

“About Mitchell.”

“We can talk about Mitchell,” she said, her long lashes pointing downwards as she examined the straw carefully. “Let’s go somewhere more private though,” she suggested, looking straight at him. It was that radiant, angelic face again. When that face made suggestions, they were rarely denied.

“OK.” She took his hand and led him through the arch and along a corridor. There were numbered doors on either side of the corridor, like a hotel. At length she stopped outside one of the doors and knocked. There was no reply, so she reached up to the hook adjacent to the top of the door and took the key. She pushed the unlocked door open and locked it behind them.

The room was sumptuous in a fake way. All of the elaborately carved wooden furniture was made of moulded plastic. Heavy duty, good quality plastic. But still – plastic. There was a huge, fake Louis Quatorze bed with a fake crystal chandelier hanging over it like the sword of Damocles.

There was a nice little side table on one side of the bed with a nice little table lamp, all in fake walnut, and there was comfy fake sofa on the other side of the bed. The walls were covered by a material that resembled silk, and although there was no window behind, one wall had full-length curtains along its whole width. You could imagine that they would slide open at the press of a button to reveal a balcony overlooking the ocean. You could imagine many things in this room.

“Why did Mitchell give you his mobile?” he snapped.

“Oh, this is so boring. Why can’t we just have some fun, babe?”

“Don’t call me babe. Answer the question.”

She sat down and looked sulky. This wasn’t getting anywhere. Richard sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her crossly. They were having their first tiff. A fake one, of course.

“Listen Melanie. I’m quite happy to be a good customer of yours if you like. I have nothing better to do with my wages. But I’d like to be able to trust you.”

She perked up a bit. She didn’t reward him with the whole radiant face act, but she definitely stopped the sulky face act.

“I can tell you if you like.”

“Go on then.”

Having promised to be a good customer, Richard wondered what he’d let himself in for. He wondered how much this fakely magnificent room was costing him right now, and as for diamond necklaces and designer handbags, he had to admit he still hadn’t bothered to find out what they would cost. He hadn’t done his research. For all he knew, he might have already blown all the money he brought with him just by stepping into this room.

“Andrew was really, really nice to me. Sometimes we really were like girlfriend and boyfriend. He just told me he was in trouble and he wanted me to have his phone for safe-keeping. So I did. I didn’t expect him to kill himself the very next day.”

“I see.”

“Can’t you see that he was really in love with me?” She turned to him, her face suddenly distraught, tears falling from her beautiful eyes.

Richard didn’t doubt it. She was lovely, she was sweet, she was an emotional roller coaster. He remembered how lonely he had felt as he tried to find her just a few moments ago.

“Did you love him?”

“No, not really.”

The sincerity of her answer convinced him she might be telling the truth pretty much the whole time.

“No, I liked him a lot, and I’ll really miss him, but…” she tailed off and started crying again, holding a tasselled cushion up to her face to catch the tears.

Richard wondered if he should go and put his arm round her to comfort her, but he couldn’t do it. He would feel such a fraud, although perhaps the fake room would welcome another fake addition to its collection of fakeness.