Читать книгу An Accident Waiting to Happen - Vincent Banville - Страница 6

The Temple Bar area prides itself on being Dublin’s latest in-spot. It has a lot of trendy restaurants, trendy places to be seen, and trendy people to be heard. On this wet and windy October Thursday it was just as miserable as the rest of the city. Cold grey buildings, the smell of fast food, rubbish in the gutters. And one lonely street musician playing a sad song on his wailing violin.

The Purple Pussy nightclub was located in a narrow alley, which led down to the river. I recognised it because of the cut-out purple cat over the door. This appeared to be made of some type of light wood that swung in the wind. It was out-lined in neon strips, some of which had passed their sell-by date.

I knocked on the metal door and waited. A snake of water splashed down from a broken gutter and I had to be quick on my feet to avoid it. After two more knocks and a couple of kicks to the panel, a window opened above me and a head emerged.

‘What’s all the racket about?’ a voice asked. ‘We don’t open till eleven tonight.’

I made the mistake of gazing upwards and got a splash of water in the face for my trouble. I moved back to get a better view. The face above me was young, female and nestled in a huge mop of bright blue hair. She didn’t look very happy to see me.

‘I’m John Blaine,’ I bawled up at her. ‘I was sent for. By Bertie. About a bit of business.’

‘A bit of wha’?’

I sighed deeply, but resisted the temptation to throw something at her.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Could you open the door and let me in? It’s raining cats and dogs out here. And I’m not wearing my waterproof head.’

‘Waterproof head. That’s a good one. Hold on and I’ll come down.’

I held on, and in a short while the door opened and I was invited inside. The head I had been talking to was now attached to a shapely body. She was dressed — but only just — in a halter-neck top and a skimpy pair of shorts. These garments were also in a fetching shade of blue. I gazed about me at the large barn-like building. The walls, drapes, tables, chairs and floor were all coloured purple. I had entered into a purple world.

We gazed at one another, the girl and me. She put a hand on her hip, then ran her tongue along her full lower lip. I shook the rain out of my hair like a wet dog, and tried to look neat, clean and well-advised.

‘Bertie?’ I hinted, hoping she hadn’t gone into a coma on me.

‘He’s out the back.’

‘The back?’

‘That’s where his office is. Through the bead curtain. Second door on the left.’

‘Are you Gertie?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I told you. The name’s John Blaine.’

‘And you do what?’

‘I sell purple paint. I thought you might be in the market for some.’

The girl giggled, then pushed at me playfully with a hand that sported — yes, you’ve guessed it — purple nails.

‘You’re very tall,’ she said. ‘Where’d you get all them scars on your face?’

‘Sticking it into other people’s business. I’m a real Keyhole Kate.’

This time she gave a full-throated laugh. The halter-neck top groaned with the effort of keeping in her chest. I thought about making her laugh some more, but then remembered Bertie waiting for me in his office.

‘I better get going,’ I told her, rolling my eyes regretfully.

She nodded, then said, ‘Gertie is the boss’s other half. She’s spoken for. I’m Denise and I’m free, white and over 21. Come up and see me sometime.’

‘So that we can peel a grape together?’

‘Something like that.’