Читать книгу Falling Backwards - James Quinn - Страница 5

One afternoon about three weeks later, my bruises browning nicely, I started doing the rounds of the smaller brothels in the area. It was an arrangement brokered between the police and the Safe Sex Collective, a body dedicated to improving working conditions for the local prostitutes. Back then I was its President. I used to be greeted at most of the brothels by surly bouncers or pissed-off owners who would wave me in disdainfully and disappear into a back room. They hated me but they knew the trouble the cops and the Collective could make for them so they usually left me alone to tour the rooms and check for health problems and to interview the girls.

After a tour of one brothel I walked outside and stepped right in a dog turd. The perfect metaphor. I always finished those tours feeling unclean. All that copulation. What scents must the sensitive noses of the dogs have picked up in the Cross? I’d see them every morning on their walkies and again in the evening. It never occurred to them that they should regard the street hookers any differently to their pampered inner city owners. The working girls loved them. Every dog got its ears scratched and would be cooed over. They’d wag their tails with conviction and didn’t care how the girls fucked or whom. I think that’s why the girls loved the dogs so much. They were wonderfully non-judgemental and taking a shit on the footpath was nothing compared to the things the girls must have seen some of their clients do.

I entered the reception at Zanadu and found myself in a velveteen and shag-pile heaven. Velveteen-covered lounge in a room wall-papered with purple shag pile. There was a lava lamp on a coffee table in the corner blobbing and swirling lazily, an evocation of cum. The ceiling was tiled with little mirrors like those on a mirror ball. The effect was at once dazzling and gaudy and tawdry. There was a young woman behind the front desk which served as a chest-high barrier between punter and ‘out back’. Mirrors, fuzz, lava lamps. I remember thinking that this girl must go home with her head spinning. The woman leant forward so that her elbows rested on the desk. She was wearing a low-cut tight singlet and as I approached she pressed her boobs together experimentally with her upper arms and almost went crossed-eyed looking down her own cleavage. She looked up at me again and said, ‘Aren’t my tits just the weirdest?’

They weren’t at all weird. She was. I introduced myself and explained why I was there. She nodded seriously, an acknowledgement of the worthiness of my task, but she did nothing. I looked around the room and she watched me look around the room. Silence then finally, ‘So you’re doing Craig’s old job?’ Craig was my predecessor at the Collective, an okay bloke but very Salvation Army. ‘Craig was the nicest guy,’ she asserted as if I might disagree with her. ‘He never once tried to root Veronica!’ This was stated with an admiring shake of the head, as if it really was something of an achievement, not trying to root someone. I nodded as if I had a clue what she was talking about. The girl gestured towards the door behind her. It had a little ‘Staff Only’ sign on it. ‘Veronica’s the talent,’ she said. Another woman’s voice called out, ‘Ready!’ from somewhere inside the back room and the girl behind the counter smiled, turned and ushered me through the Staff Only door. She had pulled off a neat delaying manoeuvre.

Before I could enter, the door opened and a man of about 45 eased his belly through it. He had the good grace to be a little self-conscious. He immediately assumed that I was a punter and as he passed the girl his Visa card he said in a quiet voice and a kindly tone, ‘Go easy on her, will ya mate. Her daughter was in a car accident last Tuesday.’ He patted me on the back. ‘I know you don’t need telling.’ His card was handed back to him, he pocketed the receipt, slipped the card into his wallet, wallet into his back pocket and headed for the door. It closed after him with a scrape across the shag pile. The girl smiled at me again and told me he was a nice man, and I couldn’t disagree. She went back to pushing her breasts together with her upper arms, head bent forward to watch the effect. She pushed them together, then took her arms away very slowly and watched them ease apart again. It was like watching a person trying to glue two things together when the glue really wasn’t strong enough. They were pressed together once more and this time she held them, held them, and then pulled her arms away very quickly as if she might surprise them into staying together. The broad cleavage reasserted itself. We were both looking at her boobs now with equal fascination. I wasn’t perving, I was genuinely curious to establish what effect she was trying to achieve. We watched them lift and separate one last time then she looked up at me, shrugged, and shook her head in amazement. I was pretty amazed myself. ‘The work space is through there,’ she said, pointing. I walked through and did my tour. There was only one woman working there that afternoon and I knew her from way back. We chatted about working conditions and she gave the place a thumbs up. Nice and clean. No rough stuff. I walked back out to reception and headed for the front door and the street. As I turned to close the door after me the young woman at reception smiled and waved. ‘I’m Angela,’ she called out with a cheerful smile. It was the most genuine and unaffected gesture I had seen in months. I waved back and closed the door with a hint of regret.

* * *

Four days later and it is Faith in the shower. She turns her back on the shower head, closes her eyes, and arches her back to let the water hit her forehead and wash across her face. By arching this way, she tightens and flattens her tummy. The hair between her legs is made sparse by the watershed, her labia pink and open in the hot water. As I watch, Faith straightens her back to stand upright again, and as she does so she brings both her left and right hands to her forehead, sweeping the water backwards in one motion. Her eyes closed, she looks like she is straining against herself. Her chin uptilted, her neck arched and taut, she pulls her hair back two-handed, like a rider on the reins.