touch, to pull away without actually
moving.
Lana felt like she’d just told her
daughter the biggest lie of all.
****
Later, after tidying the
room and rearranging the remaining furniture, Lana left Hayley to play with her
jigsaws and headed for Monty Bright’s place. She had spent the rest of the
morning trying to think of another way, to formulate an alternative plan. Not
long after noon, she had finally faced the truth and begun to prepare herself
for a confrontation.
It was still raining when she
stepped out of the building and into the street. The wooden windows of the
shops opposite were dark and streaky, reflecting dense banks of cloud; the
glass panes had still not been replaced from when local kids had thrown empty
beer bottles through them a fortnight ago. Young people in tracksuits and
hooded sweatshirts gathered on corners and in doorways, their faces featureless
smudges against a flat grey background.
She followed the narrow lanes that
led to the row of shops where Bright kept his offices. The environment
deteriorated around her: buildings low and stooped, windows broken or boarded.
Soon she was standing at the kerb outside a shut-up bookmaker’s. A light shone
sickly and weak from an upstairs window. The sign over the recessed door had
been sprayed with whorls of black paint, its text long since obliterated. Even
the graffiti in these parts was meaningless.
Lana reached out a shaking hand and
pressed the buzzer. It was set into a metal plate that had seen better times. A
low droning sounded somewhere deep inside the building, like the mournful call
of an ailing elephant. Lana closed her eyes, pressed her fingernails into the
meat of her palms.
“It’ll be okay,” she whispered. “Be
fine.”
The door banged open, slamming
against its frame. “What you want?”
Lana opened her eyes and stared at
the man on the doorstep. He was huge – well over six feet tall – and his head
was shaved right down to the glistening flesh of his scalp. His eyes were
narrow, untrusting, and a black snake tattoo ran around his skull, an inch
above his ears.
“Well, bitch?”
Lana took a step back, feeling a
breeze press against her legs. She wanted to run but knew that she could not.
“I’m here to see Monty Bright. My name is Lana Temple.”
The big man laughed; his shoulders
rolled in a strange loose movement. “Lot of people want to see Monty. He’s a
popular guy, especially with the bitches.” His smile was all gold teeth.
“Just tell him my name, fuckwit.
He’ll want to see me, I’m sure.”
The man leaned backwards,
momentarily shocked, and then smiled again. “Stay there.” The door slammed
shut.
Minutes later she was climbing a
dingy stairwell. Three floors: a landing on each, with doors that led into
tawdry boudoirs and chambers of ill-repute. Behind the closed doors she heard
abrasive laughter; the open ones showed her skinny women clad in male-fantasy
underwear; sluttish scraps of red-and-black lace. Bruised smiles and empty
stares.
“This way,” said the big man,
stepping aside when at last they reached the top floor. The muscles bulged
beneath his thin white T-shirt and his tight jeans showed a similar bulge at
the crotch that was nothing short of terrifying. He cupped his balls and grinned,
flashing once again those ugly gold teeth. “Go on in.”
Lana pushed open the door and
stepped into a room that was bare, functional, but surprisingly tasteful.
Framed shop-bought Monet prints hung on the walls, the pile of the carpet was
thick and plush, and the furniture was all real leather. Monty Bright sat
behind a long oak desk, leafing through a pornographic magazine. The cover
showed a woman, bound and gagged, being penetrated by a large black man with a
thick penis. Bright’s orange oval face shone with thinly disguised delight. His
slick black hair looked like a shell or a carapace.
She stood in the centre of the room
and waited to be noticed. Her hands toyed with the hem
moving.
Lana felt like she’d just told her
daughter the biggest lie of all.
****
Later, after tidying the
room and rearranging the remaining furniture, Lana left Hayley to play with her
jigsaws and headed for Monty Bright’s place. She had spent the rest of the
morning trying to think of another way, to formulate an alternative plan. Not
long after noon, she had finally faced the truth and begun to prepare herself
for a confrontation.
It was still raining when she
stepped out of the building and into the street. The wooden windows of the
shops opposite were dark and streaky, reflecting dense banks of cloud; the
glass panes had still not been replaced from when local kids had thrown empty
beer bottles through them a fortnight ago. Young people in tracksuits and
hooded sweatshirts gathered on corners and in doorways, their faces featureless
smudges against a flat grey background.
She followed the narrow lanes that
led to the row of shops where Bright kept his offices. The environment
deteriorated around her: buildings low and stooped, windows broken or boarded.
Soon she was standing at the kerb outside a shut-up bookmaker’s. A light shone
sickly and weak from an upstairs window. The sign over the recessed door had
been sprayed with whorls of black paint, its text long since obliterated. Even
the graffiti in these parts was meaningless.
Lana reached out a shaking hand and
pressed the buzzer. It was set into a metal plate that had seen better times. A
low droning sounded somewhere deep inside the building, like the mournful call
of an ailing elephant. Lana closed her eyes, pressed her fingernails into the
meat of her palms.
“It’ll be okay,” she whispered. “Be
fine.”
The door banged open, slamming
against its frame. “What you want?”
Lana opened her eyes and stared at
the man on the doorstep. He was huge – well over six feet tall – and his head
was shaved right down to the glistening flesh of his scalp. His eyes were
narrow, untrusting, and a black snake tattoo ran around his skull, an inch
above his ears.
“Well, bitch?”
Lana took a step back, feeling a
breeze press against her legs. She wanted to run but knew that she could not.
“I’m here to see Monty Bright. My name is Lana Temple.”
The big man laughed; his shoulders
rolled in a strange loose movement. “Lot of people want to see Monty. He’s a
popular guy, especially with the bitches.” His smile was all gold teeth.
“Just tell him my name, fuckwit.
He’ll want to see me, I’m sure.”
The man leaned backwards,
momentarily shocked, and then smiled again. “Stay there.” The door slammed
shut.
Minutes later she was climbing a
dingy stairwell. Three floors: a landing on each, with doors that led into
tawdry boudoirs and chambers of ill-repute. Behind the closed doors she heard
abrasive laughter; the open ones showed her skinny women clad in male-fantasy
underwear; sluttish scraps of red-and-black lace. Bruised smiles and empty
stares.
“This way,” said the big man,
stepping aside when at last they reached the top floor. The muscles bulged
beneath his thin white T-shirt and his tight jeans showed a similar bulge at
the crotch that was nothing short of terrifying. He cupped his balls and grinned,
flashing once again those ugly gold teeth. “Go on in.”
Lana pushed open the door and
stepped into a room that was bare, functional, but surprisingly tasteful.
Framed shop-bought Monet prints hung on the walls, the pile of the carpet was
thick and plush, and the furniture was all real leather. Monty Bright sat
behind a long oak desk, leafing through a pornographic magazine. The cover
showed a woman, bound and gagged, being penetrated by a large black man with a
thick penis. Bright’s orange oval face shone with thinly disguised delight. His
slick black hair looked like a shell or a carapace.
She stood in the centre of the room
and waited to be noticed. Her hands toyed with the hem
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