Nirvana Bites (24 page)

Her eyes widened with shock as she focused on Della's face. Tears welled up and rolled down her cheeks. Suddenly she didn't look anything at all like me.

‘Della?' she breathed in an Australian accent. ‘Oh Jesus. She's dead? What – what happened?'

‘She was murdered,' I retorted. I felt impatient with this lachrymose woman to whom tears came so easily. ‘Can you put the poster up?'

‘Oh yes. Yes of course. I'm sure Horatio and Wendy would agree. Oh, sweet Jesus. I just can't believe it. Just about everyone here knows Della. They're all gonna be gutted.'

I swallowed my orange juice, forestalling any further questions, and strode out. I didn't want to be there to watch everyone being gutted.

I cycled through the night to Catford, passing under the monstrous black cat which loomed over the market entrance like a giant predator. Sinthia's was in a back street, in an end-of-terrace house with blacked-out windows. They must have had very understanding neighbours. Sinthia's was an unlicensed club. The cops must have known about it but never gave any hassle. Rumour had it that some of the top brass from the local nick were regular visitors, their identities hidden, as so many were.

I pushed the button on the entryphone and looked into the camera positioned above the door. The catch clicked and I let myself in. Sinthia's operated on three floors. On the ground floor was the bar, with comfy chairs and a wide-screen TV showing porn videos. It was almost cosy – like your front room but shared with thirty or so strangers. On the first floor Fast Eddie, the resident DJ, spun mixes that seemed impossible in theory, but sounded sublime. The basement was known as the Dungeon: individual cells with iron-bar entrances where people were free to watch. Each cell was kitted out with all the equipment you would expect to find in your average medieval torture chamber.

The club was run by Big Ron and his partner, the eponymous Sinthia. Ron was an ex-body builder. His muscle had gone to flab, which hung in rolls under a skin covered with intricate tattoos covering every inch of his body, including the dome of his bald head. Sinthia was a roly-poly peroxide blonde with an almost maternal manner. Sinthia favoured red satin and black lace – more Barbara Cartland than Marquis de Sade.

I made my way to the bar. Ron rolled over to me, his flesh wobbling in the gap between his leather waistcoat and the belt of his skin-tight leather shorts. He peered at me as he handed me my orange juice.

‘Ere, don't I know you?' he asked in his strange squeaky voice. I suppose if you look like Ron, the chances are no one's going to take the piss out of your voice. ‘Ard to tell with them shades on, but I never forget a face. Ones I get to see anyway,' Ron giggled. He looked round the room. Of the thirty or so people there, propping up the bar or lounging on the settees, at least six wore masks of one sort or another. ‘Yeah. Ang on a minute. Didn't you used to work the bar at the Palace?'

‘Yeah. That's me. Jenny.' I shook his massive hand. It felt like a slab of moist concrete. ‘Actually, I've come to ask a favour.'

I pulled out the posters.

‘Could you put one of these up behind the bar?'

Ron goggled at the poster.

‘Oh my gawd. Sin. Sin, come and look at this.'

Sinthia appeared at his shoulder. Her bright red gash of a mouth trembled as she followed Ron's pudgy finger to Della's picture gazing up from the poster.

‘Oh, Ron,' she breathed. ‘I can't believe it. I'm a witch, Ron. I'm a witch.'

Ron put a comforting arm round her plump shoulders.

‘Only half hour ago, Sin says to me she ain't seen Della for ages and she hoped nothing bad had happened to her. Now look…' He shook his head in wonder, though whether at Della's fate or his wife's uncanny powers, it was hard to tell. I felt absurdly guilty at having been the instrument to fulfil this woman's prophecy, as if it was my fault somehow.

‘Oh, Ron. Do you think Stan knows? They was ever so close,' Sin whimpered. ‘It was seeing him what made me think of Della.'

I was on to her like a park goose spotting a punter with a bread bag.

‘You saw Stan? Tonight? Where?' I demanded.

‘Well ere of course, love,' Sin said, like it was obvious. Which I suppose it was. ‘E's downstairs right now, in't he, Ron? E's in the Dungeon.'

I thought I'd stopped breathing. The room faded into a blur of light and noise. I grabbed the edge of the bar to steady myself.

‘Who's he with?' I rasped.

‘E's with Lola. Ere, you all right, love? You look a bit peaky.'

I mumbled reassurance. I couldn't believe my luck. Lola was a Glaswegian dominatrix who did the occasional floor show at the Torture Palace. She, Cathy and I had made an outrageous threesome, up for anything and always game for a laugh.

I gulped down my orange juice and headed for the basement stairs. Before I went down, I used the payphone to call Ali. The angels were on our side tonight all right. Ali was home. I told him what I needed him to do. He didn't ask any questions. In the past I'd been frustrated at his apparent lack of curiosity, but now I had every reason to be grateful for it. If I'd had to explain what I had in mind it would have sounded so outrageous, even to my own ears, I don't think I would have been able to go ahead. I hung up and tiptoed down the stone steps.

The walls of the Dungeon were covered in stone cladding, punctuated at intervals by iron candle holders from which flickered the only light. I could barely see, and pushed the shades up on to the top of my head. Grunts, groans and the occasional scream cut through the cold, musty atmosphere.

Three of the six cells were in use. In the first a naked, middle-aged man grovelled on the floor, his neck held in position by a stiletto heel belonging to a statuesque transvestite who winked at me through the bars. In the second, two women with strap-on dildoes sandwiched a third woman who was suspended by her wrists from a hook in the low ceiling. Her head was thrown back, her hair lank with sweat.

In the third cell a man was spread-eagled against the wall, chained by his wrists and ankles. His masked face was pressed against the stone. He was dressed in skin-tight black leather cut away round his buttocks. The man was Stan. Lola stood behind him, taking teasing swipes at his arse with a cat o' nine tails.

I hissed at her and she turned to face me. She squinted at me in the shadows and then her sharp features broke into a broad grin as she recognised me. I put my finger to my lips in an urgent warning. She frowned a question at me but made no sound. She walked over and pulled my chin round to scrutinise my ravaged face, miming concern. I shook my head and indicated what I wanted. She looked dubious. I put my hands together.

‘Please!' I mouthed at her.

She shrugged and nodded. She kissed me on my undamaged cheek, handed me the whip and retreated back upstairs. Now that's what I call a good mate.

‘What's going on?' Stan whined, his voice muffled by the mask. ‘Lola?'

In reply I gave a playful swish of the cat o' nine tails across his bare buttocks. Stan sighed with pleasure and wiggled his arse a little. I paused for a moment then raised my arm and brought the whip crashing down with all my strength. Stan shrieked, but before he had a chance to recover I brought the whip down again. And again.

‘Basta!
Basta!'
Stan screamed. This must have been his safe word. He was telling me to stop, that he'd had enough. But we were playing by my rules now.

I dropped the whip and grabbed his head, grinding it against the wall.

‘I'll give you basta, you bastard. I'll give you fucking basta.'

‘Jenny?' he whimpered. ‘Oh please, Jenny. I'm sorry. Please don't hurt me.'

Then, when I didn't show any signs of relieving the pressure, he started yelling for help. I barked a mirthless laugh. This was the one place where no one would dream of reacting to a cry for help or a scream of pain. Still, I couldn't take too many chances.

On a shelf, the tools of the torturer's trade were laid out. I picked up a huge black rubber dildo. After only a moment's hesitation, I brought it crashing down on to the back of Stan's head. His body sagged, held in position by the chains.

Time for Phase Two of my plan.

I unstrapped his ankles and wrists and allowed his body to slide down the wall and crumple on the floor. I stared at him and considered for a moment the total lack of compassion I felt. I hadn't experienced any frisson from beating Stan. I was just doing what had to be done. I was just surviving.

I took a deep breath and strode past the other cells. The occupants were far too busy to notice me. I ran up the stairs and back into the bar.

Ron was serving a Bloody Mary to a guy dressed like a vampire, with talcum-powder face and canines filed to points. I hopped up and down to attract Ron's attention, doing my impersonation of someone concealing panic with difficulty. He wobbled over, concern etched in his blobby features.

‘Ron. We've got a problem. Stan's collapsed. I think he might have had a heart attack,' I hissed in a hoarse whisper.

‘Oh my gawd,' he gasped, ‘I'd better call an ambulance.'

‘No!' I yelped. Then, lowering my voice again, ‘You don't want ambulances pulling up outside here. I've got a van outside. I can take him to Lewisham Hospital. It'll be quicker anyway.'

Ron squinted at me through small piggy eyes peeping from behind folds of flaccid flesh. He was no fool. He knew there was more to this than I was letting on. I could see his brain ticking over. Sinthia's may have been protected, but having your punters carted off in ambulances was not good publicity in anybody's book. He scratched his belly with a meditative air as he turned over the pros and cons before reaching a decision.

‘C'mon,' he wheezed.

I followed him downstairs and into the cell. Stan's body was in the same position, hugging the wall. Ron knelt down beside him. For a horrible moment I thought he was going to pull off Stan's mask. I wasn't worried about the angry red weals across his arse, and I knew Ron wouldn't be either, but I couldn't be sure if the damage I'd inflicted to his skull would be visible. Expecting Ron to ignore that would be asking too much.

I needn't have worried. Ron leaned over, rolled Stan on to his back and put his ear to his chest.

‘Still breathing,' he confirmed, giving me license to breathe too. ‘C'mon. Let's get him out of here.'

He heaved Stan's lifeless body on to his shoulder with a total lack of either effort or ceremony. He straightened his legs, shifted Stan into a more comfortable position as though he was a sleeping cat, and moved to the stairs.

I followed at his heels. At the top of the stairs, Ron turned right along a short corridor. He pushed the heavy rod of a fire door with his free hand and we emerged into the bite of the cold night air. We were in a small paved yard with stacks of empty crates and barrels round the edges. Noise and laugher spilled out from the bar. The upstairs windows vibrated from the pumping bass. A cat ran from behind one of the barrels and hissed at us.

We went through a wooden gate in the wall and came out into a side street. I prayed Ali had arrived in time. My head spun with relief as we turned the corner and saw the welcome sight of the transit parked twenty yards up the road.

Ali leapt out and opened the back doors as we approached. Ron bundled Stan inside as I unlocked my bike and tucked it in next to him. Ron stood back, looked at my bike, looked long and hard at Ali, then looked at me.

‘I hope you know what you're doing, girl,' he breathed in his falsetto.

‘It's OK, Ron. Don't worry. I swear you won't be implicated,' I reassured.

‘I never seen you ere tonight,' he said.

‘I was nowhere near here,' I concurred.

He stared at me a while longer. I realised my shades were still on top of my head, exposing my damaged eye. Just as I thought he might make trouble, he turned and walked away without a backward glance.

Ali and I leapt into the transit. He looked me up and down for a moment, taking in my outfit, then he switched on the engine and took off with a screech of tyres.

‘Slow down,' I urged. ‘We don't want to get stopped by the cops.'

31

ALI FOLLOWED MY
directions as I explained my plan. It sounded insane, even by my standards, but Ali said nothing. I took that as approval.

I directed him through the back streets behind the industrial wastelands of the Old Kent Road. We drew up in a deserted car park between an old Ford Escort with no wheels and a burnt-out wreck. I took a deep breath and stepped out. There was a fine drizzle falling from a faraway sky. I tipped my head back and looked up at the monstrous hulk of the tower block thrusting up into the night clouds.

Ali opened the back doors of the transit and I crawled inside. My hand hovered over Stan's mask as a hideous thought hit me. What if this wasn't Stan? What if, by some grotesque twist of fate, I'd got the wrong man? Illogical. But that's what paranoia is like when it's stoked by massive quantities of adrenalin. I ripped off the mask and rocked back on my heels, sick with relief. But also filled with dread. It
was
Stan, of course. Which also meant we had to go ahead with Phase Three of my plan.

He groaned and rolled his head on the van's floor. Bet that would have hurt if he'd been conscious. He was wearing a massive leather codpiece, which I was glad about. I didn't think I could face what we were about to do if his enormous stapled dick had been swinging around.

Ali took a khaki canvas toolbag from behind my bike and slung it over his shoulder. I grabbed Stan under the armpits while Ali pulled his feet. Together we manoeuvred him out of the van. Ali and I were both tough and wiry and Stan was not a large man. Even so, we staggered under the weight.

Boddington Heights was one of the few truly run-down blocks left in Southwark. The odd corporate nod had been made in the direction of renovation. They'd installed an entryphone. It never worked. Renewed the windows. The double glazing was harder to smash. Harder, but not impossible, as the numerous boarded-up blank eyes attested. They'd installed new lifts. Within twenty-four hours they had been smothered in graffiti, vandalised and liberally pissed in. These were the so-called hard-to-let places, where you only got dumped if you were a junkie, had mental health problems or had been evicted from somewhere else. Or all three. If you weren't mad when they first housed you there, you soon would be. I should know. I grew up there.