Found a bench.
Sat in darkness.
Turned the phone on.
There were three numbers called—his and two he didn’t recognise.
He dialled the first unknown number.
The phone was answered after two rings.
“Heya honey, what can we do for you tonight?” A voice trying hard, a little too hard, to exude sultry allure.
“Uh… I don’t really know. Who am I speaking to?”
“It’s Salome. Can I take your name?”
“Salome… who?”
A switch, a drop from sultry to something altogether more regularly seen down the pub. “Do you want me to get the missus?”
“Where are you?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what number I’ve called.”
“Wivelsfield.”
“Wivelsfield?”
“You seriously don’t know?”
“No.”
“We’re a massage parlour and luxury club experience, mister.”
“Right.”
“Luxury club experience. For men, yeah? With massage? Jesus.”
“Oh. I see.”
A slight shuffle on the other end of the line, an attempt to reassert a certain sensual musicality to the whole conversation, failing. “So you uh… interested?”
“I don’t think I am right now, thank you. Do you know a woman called Dani Cumali?”
“She’s not one of ours. Look, I’ve got to go, there are other callers, the lines are like, you know…”
“I just need to know if—”
“If you’re not buying then…”
“Can I ask—”
“Bye!”
The woman hung up.
For a while Theo sat, holding the phone, bewildered. Thought about calling back. Wasn’t sure what he could possibly say.
He dialled the second unknown number.
Waited.
Waited.
“Hello?”
“Hello, who am I speaking to?”
Silence.
A rustling, a motion, a beep.
“Hello? Hello? Is anyone…”
The line was dead.
He called back.
The phone rang, then stopped immediately.
Rang again.
Didn’t get past the first ring, before it was silenced.
Texted instead, went through various drafts, threats and challenges, wheedles and appeals to a better nature. Chose the least offensive of them all.
I knew Dani Cumali.
Hit send.
Counted to thirty.
Rang.
The phone rang a very long time. One ring before it was going to go to answerphone, a man answered.
“Yes.” He sounded tired, resigned, old.
“Who am I speaking to?”
“You first.”
“My name is Theo.”
“Theo what?”
“Just Theo. You?”
“Faris.”
“Is that…”
“Just Faris.”
“Fair enough.”
“I can’t help you.”
“I just need to ask a few questions about—”
“Don’t call me again.”
A sudden blurt; a desperate burble of words before he could be cut off. “Dani Cumali was murdered by a professional hit woman. A firm called Faircloud Associates have bought a discretion clause to close the case. Dani’s phone, the one that was registered to her, has been lost by the police. You were one of three people called from this device, which neither the killer nor the police found. One was a brothel. I am the other. I think it would be in both our interests to meet.”
time is
flying when you’re having fun
takes for ever when you’re about to have a needle shoved in your arm, it’s just one of those things
The man called Faris thinks a very long time, then says, “I can meet you in an hour.”
They met at a café near Vauxhall Bridge. The café was inside a licensed area. The bouncers checked Theo’s ID and credit rating, waved him in.
Thwump thwump thwump the sound of bass. It hurts the ears, it’s in the stomach, the kind of sound that lets you know how much food you’ve eaten lately, or if you had a liquid lunch, because you can feel it all vibrating, the soft inner sea inside your belly bouncing like the surface of the water before an earthquake thwump thwump thwump
An assault of colour.
Fuchsia, magenta, pink deepening down to red. Streaks dripping from the ceiling like blood. Across the floor, colder whites and blues, ultraviolet splotches on the floor lighting up the spilt gin and fluorescent paint, spinning green disco lights and sharp-tipped lasers burning on the retina.
Drugs too.
Theo looks for a few seconds before seeing the first pills, just there, on the table, a bit of something extra a bit of something to raise the night keep you partying stronger, harder.
If the cops catch you there’ll be an indemnity of £9150 minimum but actually the girls taking it tonight
they can pay
And more importantly the licensed area has its own security, private security on a corporate contract. It’s not that they endorse breaking the law. It’s just that cops don’t have any authority over licensed corporate business, because the law isn’t about removing choice; it’s about protecting it.
Eyes of bursting red, capillaries popping. Swollen noses, hysterical laughter, a woman sobbing in a corner, dress torn, a group of friends by the toilet door, one of their number bent over double, she didn’t make it to the sink. Let it out, honey, just let it all out.
Women in patty-line overalls, mopping up noodle-threaded puke. A parade of flesh in bikini and thong, the hottest new commodities, some are from the patty line looking to make a buck. Others too—this is just what they do. They want the money, dream of the money. Money makes the world go round.
Theo scuttles on as the security guards glower at him and his light wallet, sober face.
He found Faris in a section designed to resemble an all-American burger bar, complete with alcoholic milkshakes in chilly metal pint jugs that dripped slow condensation onto the tabletop. The sound of music was fainter here, muffled by curtains behind which waitresses in tight yellow tops and frilly white aprons negotiated with clients for more than the usual service, arms poked and scratched, veins like dead silver worms sunk into flesh.
Faris was tucked into a booth, halfway through a chicken burger with extra chilli, his beard stained with orange sauce, dark brown eyebrows drawn together. He glanced up as Theo approached, scowled, looked down at his plate, carried on with his burger.
Made a big deal of consuming it, every last bite, licking his lips, wiping his face with a napkin, spreading the detritus, putting the napkin down, picking up a single, skinny dry chip from the basket by him, taking a bite, half a chip gone, chewing with his mouth open, then the other half, licking his fingers, picking up another, watching Theo. His skin was the colour of monsoon earth, his hair was going badger grey at the temples and crown. His nails were buffed down to tiny, soft stubs. Two tendons stood out below his jaw and down his neck, like the lines of a suspension bridge.
He ate chips.
Theo waited.
Another chip and
another chip and
Theo waited.
Faris took another chip, and didn’t eat it, but held it sticky in one hand and at last met Theo’s eyes.
“So. Dani.”
“Yes.”