The Cutting Room (14 page)

For people who weren’t drinking much, the girls certainly

had a buzz on. There was an air of anticipation, a first-night atmosphere. A haggard redhead clicked open her handbag

mirror and sighed at her reflection. She stretched her mouth out in a long ghastly grin and freshened her lipstick. She passed the mirror to the girl next to her, who grimaced, then repainted her own lips a dark shade of magenta.

Someone settled another cocktail in front of me. It tasted

fine, pleasantly palatable. I wondered why I didn’t drink them more often. From now on my tipple would be pink and fizzy

and made with double measures of gin. I raised my glass and

saluted the company. A few of the girls raised theirs in

response.

Everyone was in women’s clothes apart from me and a

portly middle-aged man in a terrible jumper, talking intently to two of the more exotically dressed girls. The jumper was

orange, a red cartoon cat leered toothily across it. It looked like a standin for a personality and had probably cost more

than my suit. Trust me, the jumper said, I’m made of wool. Look, I have a sense of humour, I’m not afraid of making fun of myself. No one who wore me could ever be a threat.

A large girl in a red velvet dress who looked as if she might spend the daylight hours cementing bricks sat beside me. Her wig was a chestnut helmet of curls.

`So, is this your first time?

I told her it was.

She opened her handbag and removed a small tub.

`I remember the first time I came.’ She unscrewed the lid,

took out a moistened pad and started stroking it across her

nails. Pink polish streaked away. `I was terrified.’ She raised her eyes from her task. `I came dressed, though.’ She gave my knee a protective pat. `When you feel ready, just you come

along. You know how it is, things are never as bad as you

think they’re going to be.’

I told her I’d often found that.

`There you are then, and you know’ - she smiled kindly `I really hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you would look a lot better with some make-up on.’

I said I’d give it some thought and asked why she was

removing her nail polish.

She sighed. `My wife hates it. She says that she used to

worry I might run off with another woman, but she never

thought the other woman would be me.’

Rose was talking to a tall girl, almost as tall as me. The

girl’s long legs were encased in skin-tight, black spandex

trousers. She wore an off-the-shoulder black top and a pink

satin bomber jacket. The ensemble was completed by a

blonde-bombshell bobbed wig.

Rose waved me over. `This is Sandy.’ Sandy and I shook

hands. `Sandy’s a pink lady from Grease.’

I began talking to her about Piraeus harbour in Athens.

`No.’ Rose interrupted me. `Not Greece. Grease, the

musical. Sandy’s an Olivia Newton-John look-alike. Excuse

him, he’s got no culture.’

I wasn’t interested in talking to anyone apart from Les and

he was holding court, pointedly not catching my eye. I fetched another jug of cocktail and sat beside him.

`These slip down pretty good, eh?’

He turned away from his entourage. `They hit the spot.

Cheers.’ We touched glasses. Les knocked half of his back

with one tilt. I followed suit. `So what were you at earlier?

Did you pull??

‘And you call me nosy.’

`You are nosy, Rilke. A nosy cunt.’

`Aye, well, I’m nosy for a reason.’

`So you say, but see, I still can’t work out what your reason is. We swapped favours the other day, that’s fair enough.

What you get up to is none of my business. But now you want

something for nothing and I want to know what it’s all about before you go sticking your neb in where it doesn’t belong.’

`I told you what it was about.’

`You’re losing it. Look at yourself. You’re cracking up,

man. Is that it? They photos?’

I nodded.

‘Pure loco. What have they got to do with anything?’ He

finished his drink and gestured for more. `Jesus, that’s no his game.’ I refilled his glass. He took a sip and looked me in the eye, grave as a bank manager refusing a loan. `I think you’re getting things out of proportion here. Maybe it’s not this girl that’s upsetting you. Have you thought of that? There’s

people you can talk to nowadays, you know, counsellors

and the like. There’s no shame in it.’

I shook his suggestions away. `I found out McKindless was a regular there.’

`Sweet Jesus, there’s no stopping you. So what? What does

that prove that you didnae know already? He bought his porn

from the same place I sent you. Big deal. It’s a small world. I bet you know every antique dealer in Glasgow and beyond.

It’s the same with crime - there’s only so many of us. You

tend to run into the same faces.’

`He never mentioned seeing McKindless when I showed

him the photographs.’

`Why would he? His type work on a strictly need-to-know

basis. He decided you didnae need to know. Be grateful.’ He

turned a glazed stare on me. `He’s not a nice man, Rilke.

Now piss off, you’re bringing me down.’

`Ach don’t be like that, Les. Come on, tell me why he’s

not a nice man.’

`Jesus Christ.’ He shook his head in silent exasperation. `If I tell you, do you promise to leave me alone for the rest of the night? I promised. `And do you promise to show a bit of

discretion??

‘When have I never??

‘When you were fucking that guy in the toilets. We could

hear the grunting up here. Christ, the whole bloody balcony

was shaking.’

`Very funny. I’ll be discreet.’

`Okay, remember I’m telling you this for your own good. I

trust you, we go back a long way, but this is serious. It’s not a subject for gossip.’

`I get the message.’

`Just see that you do.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette.

`Trapp’s a ponce, Appeared a few years ago, I don’t know

where from. I don’t know the scale of his operation, don’t

want to know. Sirens is just the tip of the iceberg. He’s also involved in several massage parlours cum brothels - no pun

intended - and he has a couple of amusement arcades.’

`Amusement arcades? Money laundering?

`Possibly. That and boys.’

I must have looked bewildered.

`Oh come on, you’re not going to tell me you don’t

know. You walk past these wee grocer’s shops converted

into amusement arcades. Nothing in them but fruit machines

and half a dozen young kids.’

I shook my head.

`You mean to tell me that you’ve never clicked what they

are??

‘I’ve never really noticed them.’

`Well you will now.’

`And that’s what he does??

‘One of his sidelines. You go in, buy a boy a shot on one of the machines, except you’re not buying a shot on the

machine. See what I mean? Not a nice man. A corrupter

of youth and God only knows what else. But he’s into enough

dodgy dealings and he’s making big money. He’s nothing to

do with your photos. Why would he be? So he knew your

guy. Hardly surprising, is it??

‘McKiridless wasn’t into boys.’

`Aye, but he was into porn. Christ, you’re hard work

sometimes. Anyway, this guy doesn’t confine his business to

boys - he’s an equal opportunities exploiter.’

`How did you meet him?’

`Not through choice. Ponces are always big into drugs.

Good means of control. He wanted a supplier, some cunt gave

him my name. I didn’t deal in the kind of thing he wanted but I put him in touch with someone who did. To be honest, I

would have bumped him anyway. Glasgow likes to think it’s a hard city but compared to London or New York, fucking Paris

probably, we’re a peaceful wee haven. Our career criminals

are junkies and third-generation unemployed. Trapp, well,

he’s something else. Fucking international flesh bandit. The sooner he moves on the better.’

`He offered me a lot of money for those photographs.’

`Do you want my advice??

‘Not really.’

`Take it. This is turning into an unhealthy obsession. Take

the money and forget all about it. Give it to charity if that makes you feel better. The society for buggered orphans. Bad things happen. You’re not responsible.’

`I found them.’

`So what? You think you’re streetwise, Rilke, and so you

are, for your own scene, but you know nothing about this.

Shall I tell you the truth? I was glad to get rid of the favour he owed me. It made me uncomfortable, him being in my debt.

You want as little to do with his like as you can. That’s my last word on it. Change the subject or bugger off.’

`He was desperate to get the photos off me.’

`Buffer off.’

I poured us both another drink. `I have a feeling about

it.’

Leslie lifted his glass. `Cheers. Now bugger off.’

He turned from me, back into conversation with the girls

next to him. I sat quietly, nursing my drink, sulking.

The bricklayer girl with the chestnut hair leaned towards

me. `Now’s your chance to become famous.’

I looked up, confused. `Pardon?

She gestured across the balcony. The jumper man had

moved. He was talking to Rose’s Pink Lady now, nodding,

giving her his full attention. They sat alone in a pool of white light. Sandy looked happy. She was talking, smiling, moving

her hands gracefully in the air. The man said something and

she threw back her head and laughed. It was a Hollywood

gesture, Joan Crawford might have brought it off, but Sandy

didn’t quite make it. Jumper made a swift signal with his right hand and for the first time I noticed his companion. A bluejeaned, paunchy man, kneeling on the floor before them, his face concealed by a video camera. It was pointed at Sandy. I watched him focus in on her face, saw the repeated image on

the tiny video screen.

In the cruel fluorescence Sandy’s magic was gone. She laughed, head thrown back, Adam’s apple revealed, laughter lines creasing and the camera man captured the

shot. The line where the thick Max Factor *Makeup

Artists to the Stars* foundation ended and the gooseflesh

neck began. He broke the illusion, took her carefully

constructed beauty and turned it into a clownish mask.

Fast words tripped from her, desperate to tell her story

before they tired and left. She gestured to her pink satin

jacket, opening it, revealing the lining, pointing to her

name, chain-embroidered, Sandy, to the right of her

lapel. She slipped it off and exposed her black top. Her

eyes glittered with excitement. Jumper nodded, asking

her questions, leading her on. She laughed again,

bending towards the camera. Too close the lens zoomed

in, roving over the pits and craters of a lunar landscape.

She smiled and the camera focused on her mouth. Seeing

beyond the full painted bow to the thin lips, the receding

gums and nicotine teeth of the man Sandy wanted to

forget.

A wave hit me and I was on my feet. I heard a voice

shouting, `So you think it’s funny, do you? You think this is all a big laugh?

The voice was familiar. I ignored it. I had problems of my

own. The floor of the balcony was unsteady and I needed to

get to those men. Someone caught my arm. I shook them free

against a shatter of breaking glass. Other voices were raised.

Somewhere in the distance Rose called my name. The

cameraman was still squatting on one knee. He turned,

taking in the company in one seamless cut, aiming the lens

at me. I gave him a swift kick, catching him off centre,

wresting the camera from him as he toppled. I was going to

smash it in the smug face of the man with the deceiving

jumper. He was dangerous. He took people and killed them

with a lens. I saw Sandy’s face, her fear. Tears trembled in her eyes. It’s okay, I wanted to tell her. I won’t let them hurt you any more. The camera slipped from my grasp and I fought to

gain purchase on the pitching floor. Strong arms caught me

from behind. I bucked against them, then others joined in the restraint, pinning me until I moved no more.

Darkness.

Darkness.

I wanted to die. My throat was dry and my heart barren. A

pulse throbbed a slow heartbeat on my temple, pounding

tarry blood through my aching head. I massaged the hard

bones around my eyes, feeling the tight skin move, slick

against the planes of my skull. Small sparkles of light glittered for an instant in my blind eyes. I opened them again.

Darkness.

I remembered a time when I was afraid of the dark. Some

of the fear returned with the memory.

Slowly, I raised myself on one arm. It wasn’t my bed. The

throw was patched; heavy, soft velvets mixed with cool

cottons, ridged corduroy bordering decaying satin. There

was a smell of face powder. The musky odour of old clothes

and unwashed sheets. I ran my hand across the quilt, feeling the rents, the half-finished embroideries. Something was

digging sharp into the soft flesh at the small of my back. I shifted a little. A hairpin.

The evening came back to me, as evenings do, in the

darkness of the night. I hoped I’d managed to hit the jumper man just once before they pinned me down. But my memory