by P R Johnson
Chapter 9
On the first morning of his stay in the capital, Matthew walked down the ornate hotel staircase and tentatively entered the bar where he had felt so intimidated the night before. A waiter-service was in operation and he sat in one of the leather chairs in a corner of the room. There were not many people in the bar area and a waiter was soon in attendance.
‘Yes, sir, what can I get you?’
‘If I want breakfast, do I have to use the hotel restaurant or can I have it here?’
‘The restaurant stopped serving at ten o’clock, I’m afraid, sir. However, we serve infusions and a selection of pastries.’
‘OK. I’d like a cup of tea, please.’
‘Certainly, sir. Any particular variety? Earl Grey? Darjeeling?’
‘Earl Grey would be fine,’ Matthew said, determined not to fall into the same trap as before. ‘And do you have any doughnuts?’
‘I’m not sure, sir. I’ll see what I can find.’
The waiter departed and Matthew reached for a tabloid newspaper that was on a coffee-table to his side. On the front page was a photograph of a blonde woman, with the accompanying article describing her carnal affair with a famous soccer star. He turned to page three and found the same lady posing with a fur coat held to her naked body. Beginning to read, he abruptly closed the pages when the waiter wheeled over a trolley upon which were various tea-making things and a three-tier tray of cakes.
As he waited for his tea to stew, Matthew ate a croissant he had selected from the tray and turned again to the newspaper. On page five was a photograph of an elderly man standing beside a well-known actress, and Matthew thought he recognised the man’s face. It was only when he read the headline, however, that he realised why it rang bells.
The headline read: ‘Film legend Wisely fights for life’.
The article beneath described an incident that had occurred the previous day, when the actor Tony Wisely had arrived late to the theatre where he was due to perform in a play entitled First Summer of Love. As the former Academy Award winner was stepping from a taxi, a bicycle-courier had ploughed into him, sending both crashing to the ground. The actor had been rushed to hospital suffering severe internal haemorrhaging and was currently hooked to a life-support machine. The cyclist, meanwhile, had escaped largely unscathed. The article concluded with quotes from some of the star’s friends, who were all of the opinion that he would pull through, because, as one said, he never shied away from a battle.
Matthew took a sip of tea, which tasted peculiar to his palate. He added an extra lump of sugar, only to realise that it was the tea itself that was distasteful. He felt rather disconnected from the news he had just read. Part of him wanted to be saddened by the actor’s plight; yet, another part of him struggled to feel sympathy for a man whose existence he had become aware of only the day before, for the sole reason that he had usurped a taxi meant for him.
After finishing his tea and croissant, he signed the slip of paper that would charge the bill to his hotel account, left the newspaper where he had found it and headed out of the bar. Instead of returning to his room, he proceeded through the revolving door and onto the street. In the hazy sunshine of late morning he found the same hotel porter as before.
‘Hi, Daryl. What’s new?’ Matthew asked.
‘Not a lot, sir,’ the porter smiled back. ‘I’m waiting for an important guest to arrive. He’s due any minute.’
‘Anybody famous?’
‘No, I think he’s in banking. Still, I hear he’s a good tipper.’
‘Where’s the doorman today?’
‘Call of nature, sir. He’ll be back shortly. Did you want to see him?’
‘Not especially. You can probably help. Do you know the Velouria Gallery of Modern Art?’
‘I’ve never been, sir, but I’ve heard lots about it.’
‘What’s the easiest way to get there?’
‘It’s not all that far, sir, within walking distance. If you don’t fancy walking, the underground is your best bet. It’s only four or five stops and you don’t have to change trains.’
‘OK. And where’s the nearest station?’
‘A couple of hundred yards that way, sir.’ The porter signalled to his right, along the wide thoroughfare.
‘Cheers, Daryl. And one more thing, would you mind not calling me ‘sir’ all the time? We must be around the same age and it makes me sound like a tart.’
‘It’s hotel policy. When speaking to guests, we must be courteous and respectful at all times and call them sir or madam.’
‘Fine, if they’re the rules, they’re the rules. But, honestly, I don’t mind if you call me Matt, seeing as it’s my name.’
‘OK … Matt … I’ll try to remember.’
Following the porter’s instructions, Matthew walked the short distance to the station entrance, skipped down a flight of steps and entered the subterranean labyrinth of the metro system. He spent a minute studying a wall-mounted plan, making sure he knew in which direction he was heading and where he should disembark. He purchased a multi-journey ticket, passed through an automated barrier and stepped onto the escalator that would take him deep below ground.
As he descended to the bowels of the city, the chords of a song resonated up the escalator tube. Although the acoustic melody was a pleasant accompaniment at first, when he realised that it was a cover of a song by a recent boyband sensation, the music started to grate.
Near the bottom of the escalator, the old, bearded musician came into view and Matthew could see his open guitar-case and the smattering of coins inside. Walking past, he refused to add to the collection.
He was thankful that from the platform the music was barely audible, and even more so when a train pulled in and drowned the song completely. He boarded the carriage and, finding no available seat, remained in the aisle. The train jerked forward and he reached for the hand-rail to steady his balance.
As he gazed at his fellow passengers, he was taken aback by the amount of attractive women onboard. It seemed as though at every stop a couple of beauties would depart and a couple of others would get on. The thing that united these girls – indeed, all his fellow passengers – was that nobody would look him in the eye. All these strangers would enter and exit his life without the merest acknowledgement.
Five stations along, he disembarked and took the escalator to ground-level. Emerging into daylight, the impressive glass building of the art gallery was directly ahead. He joined the short queue and entered the building behind a group of foreigners whose nationality he could not discern. He paid the entry fee and advanced into the grand, high-ceilinged chamber of the foyer, only to be met with several large sculptures, one of which was a tall, thin, phallic exhibit in blue. The only things lacking, as far as he was concerned, was for it to have a smiling face etched on the tip and tentacles painted down its sides.
Anxious not to linger, he made his way into one of the more enclosed gallery side-rooms, where the art was less embarrassing to his sensibilities. One side-room led to another and each held art that ranged from paintings and sculptures to abstract installations. Largely unimpressed, it took him less than an hour to tour the entire ground floor.
In the final room on this level, there were six paintings of similar style, each with swirls of ominous and darkening brown converging in their centres. Unlike in other rooms, the paintings here were covered by transparent casings.
Aside from him, the only person in this chamber was a blonde girl wearing a denim jacket, brown corduroy trousers and red trainers. While Matthew stood in front of the painting nearest the doorway, she stood at the next one along, her face held close to the casing as if examining some fine detail.
‘This is my favourite artist in the world,’ she said, the hint of a foreign accent in her voice.
Matthew glanced sideways, unsure that she was talking to him.
‘He’s genius,’ she continued, the accent more pronounced. Her head turned towar
ds him and she smiled. When he smiled back she moved to his side. ‘Do you know the name of this painting?’ She signalled to the picture before them.
‘I have no idea.’ His eyes returned to front.
‘It’s called Dog Heaven. The only paint the artist used was the shit of his pet Alsation. I wanted to know if you could smell shit through the glass. In my country they do not cover the paintings. They allow the art to enter through eyes and nose.’ She leaned in and took an exaggerated inhalation. ‘Here you can smell nothing.’ Facing him, she reached out a hand. ‘My name is Ana. And you are …?’
‘Matt.’ He accepted the warm hand.
‘Matthew, I assume, like the disciple.’
‘I guess so.’
‘It is a real big shame that they cover the paintings. You fail to receive total effect. Do you like dogs, Matthew?’
‘Not particularly. I prefer cats. But, to be honest, I don’t think I’d want to see a painting done in cat shit, either.’
‘Interesting. Because he sometimes paints with blood of dead cats. Animals are, how you say, his favourite medium.’
Together they advanced to the next picture in line.
‘Are all the paintings here done with the same … shit?’ Matthew asked.
‘Yes. It’s a series. I believe he is trying to make statement about relationships between people and animals. We eat cows and have dogs as pets. We ride horses and put chemicals in eyes of baby rabbits. He is genius.’ The girl turned abruptly towards him. ‘Would you like to have lunch with me, Matthew? The cafeteria in the gallery is very nice.’
Considering for a moment, his gaze drifted to her red trainers and then to her face. ‘If you want, but I only had breakfast a short while ago.’
‘Good. We can talk more about animals. What is your view on poisonous snakes?’
Hooking her arm through his, the girl led him into the expansive central foyer and up two flights of stairs to the food-court. After collecting a tray each, both selected a sandwich and a carton of drink from the refrigerated self-service unit before moving to the cash register. Just as they were due to pay, however, the girl hesitated and seemed uncomfortable.
‘Matthew, I’m very sorry, but I think I have left my money at home.’ She padded her pockets. ‘I have nothing with me. Is it possible you could lend me something?’
‘You want me to pay?’ he asked, eyes widening.
‘I have no wallet, I swear. But I pay you back; I promise I pay you back.’
He shrugged, trying to allay concerns. ‘All right. I’ll get yours, as well.’
‘Would you? You are very kind. A very kind boy.’
After he had paid the cashier, they moved to a table on the edge of the mezzanine food-hall, overlooking the phallic statues in the grand hall below.
‘Tell me, Matthew, do you like the gallery?’ The girl took a bite of her sandwich.
‘I’m not sure. I’ve heard lots about it and I wanted to see for myself. It’s interesting. It’s certainly interesting. But I don’t know whether I like it.’
‘Do you live here in the city?’
‘No. I’m kind of on holiday. What about you? Where are you from?’
‘I live close to the gallery.’
‘I meant which country are you from.’
‘I come from Lapland, in the North.’ Her eyes looked skywards. ‘I have been here for five months, but still I don’t speak so good. Please excuse my mistakes.’
He smiled. ‘Actually, you speak very well. Lapland? Isn’t that where Father Christmas comes from?’
‘Yes, that is right.’ The girl gazed round conspiratorially before lowering her voice. ‘This is big secret, and you must not tell anyone, but I am illegitimate daughter of Santa Claus.’
Again, Matthew’s eyes widened. ‘You’re Santa Claus’s daughter?’
‘Yes. He is not a virgin, you know. He is randy old man. When he comes down the chimney, he often has sex with women while they sleep.’
He nodded and quickly changed the subject. ‘So, are you here to study the language, or something?’
‘No, I came to study art, to see your wonderful galleries. We don’t have many galleries in my country. I have visited this one fifteen times already.’
‘Fifteen times? Don’t you get bored?’
A smile lit up her face. ‘No, this gallery is perfect. Full of creation and emotion. And there are always good people to talk to. That is why I come, also.’ Their eyes met. ‘You know, Matthew, you are a very beautiful boy.’
He shifted awkwardly. ‘Thank you.’
‘I hope you don’t think I am strange, but I always believe it is good to say what is on my mind.’
Having finished his sandwich, Matthew drank from his carton of juice and stared at his companion, drawn to the pale colour of her skin, the angular lines of her face and her grey, vacant eyes. And when she gazed back, he felt illuminated by the possibilities of their encounter.
‘So, you’ve been here for five months.’
‘I have.’
‘I guess you must be missing your family.’
‘My mother, yes. My father I do not speak to. He’s too busy preparing for Christmas. But I will see my family soon.’
‘Why, when are you going home?’
‘My plane leaves at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Initially taken aback, a smile quickly spread across his lips. ‘And you’re going home by plane, you say. I’m surprised you’re not going by magic sleigh.’
‘No. My father won’t let me use his company car. He is cruel to his children.’ Having finished her carton of drink, she peered at her watch and said: ‘Matthew, I’m sorry, but I must leave now. There is much to do and time is very short. She stood and brushed the crumbs from her corduroy trousers. ‘It was good to meet you. I wish we could have met us sooner. We could have toured rest of the gallery together.’
She reached to shake his hand.
Matthew remained seated but accepted the hand. ‘Why don’t I walk you home? You said you lived close by. Then you can pay me back for the sandwich.’
‘But you haven’t seen all of the gallery.’
‘I’ve seen enough. I can always come back another day.’
The girl hesitated and, again, an anxious expression appeared. ‘The problem is, Matthew, my boyfriend is waiting outside. For this, I must go alone.’
‘One of Santa’s little helpers, is he, your boyfriend?’ He released her hand.
‘No, that would be wrong. Like incest. My boyfriend is big, strong ... like bodybuilder. I tell you what we do.’ She reached into her jacket pocket and retrieved a notepad and pencil. ‘I give you my address in Lapland. If you write me, we can be pen-pals and I can send you money.’
‘Really, I’m not bothered about the money.’ Matthew shrugged. ‘It was only a sandwich.’
‘No, I said I pay you back and I will.’ She scribbled several lines, then ripped out the page, folded it four times and passed it to him. Returning the pencil and pad to her pocket, a pretty smile came to her lips. ‘Write me soon. And thank you for the sandwich, Matthew. I make sure my father brings you something nice in December.’ She winked cutely, turned and made her way towards the staircase.
Matthew followed with his gaze, waiting until she had disappeared before he unfolded the piece of paper. As his eyes flitted across the sheet, he read:
Ana Claus
127 Christmas Street,
Wonderville,
Lapland.
ELF-999
Screwing the paper into a ball, he stuffed it inside the empty sandwich-wrapper and mumbled: ‘Fruitcake bitch.’
He finished his drink unhurriedly, giving the girl ample time to escape, before he too headed down the staircase, past the blue, phallic statue and towards the gallery exit.
Relieved to find no sign of her outside, he decided to head back to his hotel. He took the underground train to the station he had embarked from and found the same bearded g
uitar-player at the bottom of the escalator run. This time, however, Matthew failed to recognise the tune he played.
He emerged from the station and walked to the hotel, where the doorman was back on duty, and proceeded straight to his room. The curtains had been opened and his bed had been made. When he looked at the waste bin in the bathroom, he saw that it had been emptied; gone was the discarded, unsoiled octopus condom from the night before.
The rest of the afternoon he spent alone in his room, most of the time watching television and contemplating the night ahead. At eight o’clock he showered and put on a pair of black trousers, a smart white shirt and the shoes he normally wore to school. By a quarter to nine he was making his way out of the hotel and towards the same fast-food restaurant as before. As he approached, he saw the beggar with the cowboy hat swigging from a can of lager.
Seeming to recognise him, the beggar let out a wolf-whistle. ‘Look at you, you fancy Dan. Where you heading tarted up like a tart?’
Matthew smiled, unperturbed. ‘I’m going to have a quick bite to eat and then I’m going disco-dancing.’
He pulled open the restaurant door.
‘Get us something while you’re in there, Guy. I haven’t eaten all day. I swear I haven’t.’
Matthew raised his shoulders in advanced apology and entered the establishment alone. Inside, he ordered the same food as the previous day and sat in the same seat. The restaurant was fuller than before and included a group of noisy infants who appeared to be celebrating a birthday.
He finished as quickly as he could and, anxious to escape the boisterous, excited children, proceeded outside.
‘What club you heading to?’ the beggar asked as he emerged.
‘The Golden Bottle,’ he reluctantly answered.
‘The Golden Bottle? What the fuck you going there for? It’s a proper shit-hole, no doubt about it. Buy me some dinner and I’ll show you to a decent club.’
‘I gave you money yesterday.’
‘Yeah, but I’m even hungrier today.’
Turning with a shrug, Matthew said, ‘Maybe next time,’ and continued on his way.
Heading up the street, all round him lamps began to illuminate to counter the fading light. He experienced a murmuring in his stomach, which he guessed was partly caused by indigestion and partly by apprehension. From his pocket he produced a strip of antacid tablets and sucked a couple as he walked.
The street was longer than he remembered from the taxi-ride. He had been walking for almost twenty minutes when he spotted the yellow sign of The Golden Bottle discotheque and the two men who were guarding the entrance.
A queue of twenty or so people was lined against the wall, standing on a red carpet that led to a chord barrier. Matthew joined the queue behind two young men who were chatting in harsh capital accents. They had been stationary in line for almost ten minutes when Matthew interrupted their conversation.
‘Excuse me, mate, but the club is open tonight, isn’t it? The queue hasn’t moved since I got here.’
‘Yeah, they’ll let us in when they’re ready,’ one of them responded. ‘They like to keep you waiting, let the queue build up. That way, the club looks more popular.’
Another five minutes passed and several people had joined the queue behind them when at last they began to inch forward.
While those in the line awaited entry, a group of four girls was dropped by taxi in front of the nightclub doors. With seeming deference, the doormen stepped aside and allowed them into the club, ignoring the lengthening queue.
‘Bit of a fucking liberty,’ one of the guys in front of Matthew said to his friend.
‘Yeah, well, if you had legs like that blonde chick, I doubt we’d have to queue, either.’
By the time Matthew reached the front of the line, darkness had fully descended. He looked on as the two men before him were instructed by the bouncers to empty their pockets before being frisked in a security check. They were both allowed inside without drama and then it was Matthew’s turn.
‘Empty your pockets,’ the shaven-headed bouncer ordered him nonchalantly.
Matthew produced from his pockets a wallet, a thin bundle of tissues and the strip of antacid tablets.
The bouncer briefly padded him, feeling his pockets and his legs to his ankles. He then checked what he carried in his hand.
‘What are these?’ he asked of the strip of tablets.
‘They’re just for indigestion.’
‘Indigestion?’
‘Yes, stomach ache. You can buy them in any chemist.’
Taking the strip of tablets from him, the bouncer motioned to his colleague, a taller man with a twisted nose, who was standing inside the doorway. ‘What do you make of these, Frank?’
The second doorman approached, took the tablets and studied the packet.
‘They’re for indigestion,’ Matthew repeated anxiously. ‘They’re nothing bad.’
‘Indigestion?’
‘Yes, heartburn. An upset stomach.’
The bouncer remained stony-faced. ‘Yeah, they’re all right,’ he eventually said to his colleague, ‘as long as they’re what they’re meant to be. My nan pops them like sweets. She’s off her head most of the time, but it ain’t because of these.’ He handed the strip back to Matthew and a threatening glint appeared in his eyes. ‘Suck your sweets all you like, matey, but if I thought you were trying to smuggle something in, something naughty, I’d come down on you so fucking hard, that no amount of pills could make you feel better. Understood?’
Matthew nodded as a bead of sweat trickled down his armpit. The broken-nosed bouncer withdrew and Matthew pocketed his things and advanced to the cash desk.
After paying the entry fee, he proceeded through a set of doors to a flight of stairs. On legs warn out from walking, he climbed the stairs towards the pulse of a soulful beat and passed through a second set of doors. There he was hit by a wall of music in the darkened club.
He was surprised that the place was nearly empty and that on the large central dance floor scarcely anybody was dancing. While music pounded his senses and flashing lights disorientated him, he made his way to the nearest bar and purchased a whisky and coke. The barmaid appeared pretty in the half-light, but was afflicted by an expression of bored antipathy. He quickly downed the drink, bought another and refocused on his surroundings.
On the far side of the club was a cordoned area, raised from the rest and protected by a bouncer, where a couple of people sat on sofas. The rest of the club had only bar-stools and a few armchairs placed round occasional tables. Matthew eyed the cordoned area, looking to see whether he recognised anyone famous. Spotting nobody he knew, his attention quickly waned.
Turning again to the bar, he purchased another drink from the dour barmaid and walked to the side of the dance floor, which had suddenly become busier. While a cluster of people was dancing in the centre, a couple of females had mounted raised podiums either side of the disc jockey console and were dancing in an exaggerated, yet skilled, manner. The music continued to pound and the disco lights dazzled, while a bouncer would pass occasionally, completing circuits in apparent vigil of disorder. A further bouncer stood permanently in front of the disc jockey console, observing the dancers.
Aside from purchasing drinks, Matthew spoke to nobody during the first hour of his visit. He downed five successive whiskies – always returning to the same bar to be served by the same girl – and the alcohol quickly took the edge off his lonely unease.
When not at the bar, he would return to the edge of the dance floor, where he could eye the numerous pretty girls as they danced. On occasion, he found himself tapping his foot in time with the music, music that he usually detested. From his vantage-point he watched engrossed as a black man and a white girl performed an intimate dance in which their groins seemed permanently locked.
A group of three girls came and stood close by. Although Matthew eyed them from time to time, none seemed willing to reciprocate inte
rest and soon they moved away.
When he approached the bar to buy his sixth whisky and coke, he looked at the barmaid’s surly features and said in a casual manner:
‘Cheer up. It might never happen.’
She responded with a smile so bitter that Matthew regretted having spoken.
He was contemplating making a circuit of the club in search of more pretty girls, when he noticed one sat on a stool at the other end of the bar. She briefly glanced at him and flashed what appeared a genuine smile. He was so encouraged by this gesture that he decided to linger. Her cute, fresh face and long blonde hair were alluring enough, but more so was the low-cut neckline of her top, in which nestled a pendant in the shape of a heart. He remained at the bar for several minutes, waiting to see if anyone would join her. When nobody came, he resolved to approach, but was held back by sudden coyness.
While trying to think of a way to induce conversation, finally he took a deep swig of whisky and sidled over.
‘Hi. My name’s Matt,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard above the music.
The girl smiled back. ‘Hello.’
‘What’s yours?’
‘My what?’ She, too, raised her voice to be heard.
‘Your name.’
‘Helen.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Helen. Can ... I buy you a drink?’
‘No, thanks, I’ve already got one.’ She pointed to the tall glass in front of her, out of which a couple of straws protruded.
Matthew took another swig of his drink and found his gaze wandering to the girl’s cleavage and instantly back to her eyes. ‘Is this your local nightclub?’
‘I suppose so. But I’ve never been before. It’s pretty amazing, don’t you think?’
‘It’s all right. Not really my scene, though.’
‘What scene are you into?’
‘I don’t know. But not this. The only people who look good dancing to this kind of music are black men. White guys just look stupid.’
‘Isn’t that a bit racist?’
‘What, admitting that I’m a crap dancer?’
The girl paused before smiling, her teeth shining in the disco lights.
‘So, where are your friends?’ Matthew asked, hopefully. ‘You look a bit lonely here on your own.’
‘I’m not lonely, at all. I know some people who work here.’ She lowered her head to suck on the straw in her drink, emptying it. ‘If you want, you can buy me that drink now.’
‘Right.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘What are you having?’
‘Malibu and lemonade.’
Encouraged by the progress, Matthew nodded and turned to hail the barmaid. Before she had arrived, however, he sensed a presence close by and swivelled to find the bouncer with the twisted nose standing next to the girl.
‘All right, babes. How’s it going?’ The man winked at her, tapping the side of her leg playfully. ‘Is this a friend of yours?’
‘Not really, we’ve only just met. He’s offered to buy me a drink, though. I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘That’s your look-out. It’s a free country.’ Then to Matthew he said: ‘Excuse me, mate, but do you think you could come with me for a minute?’
‘You what?’ Matthew responded.
‘I need to have a quick word, that’s all.’
‘What about?’
‘It’s best that I tell you in private. It’ll only take a minute, I promise. Then I’ll leave you in peace.’
Flashing another wink at the girl, the bouncer placed a hand firmly on Matthew’s shoulder and directed him towards a door marked ‘Private’ a few yards to the right of the bar. In front of the door a second bouncer stood waiting. The twisted-nosed man unlocked the door with a key and showed Matthew inside. The small room was a windowless office complete with a desk that sported a telephone and computer console.
While the broken-nosed man perched on the edge of the desk, the second bouncer entered behind them and closed the door, reducing the music from the club to a muffled beat and fuzzy bassline.
‘So, tell me, my friend, how’s your indigestion?’ the man with the twisted nose began.
‘My indigestion?’ Matthew mumbled nervously. ‘Good, thanks.’
‘Glad to hear it. Stomach ache ain’t no fun. I should know: I’ve got an ulcer myself. Ain’t no fun at all. Right, sonny boy, let’s get straight to the point. What do you think you were doing out there?’
Matthew attempted an innocent smile. ‘What do you mean?’
‘With Helen. What was on your mind, exactly?’
‘We were just chatting, that’s all.’
‘A nice friendly chat, eh?’ The man smiled, his voice remaining good-humoured. ‘That’s OK. It’s good to be sociable. The only trouble is, I know what goes on in the minds of young guys. It’s all right, son, we’re all lads here, we all know the score. She’s a pretty girl. And you were trying it on. I was watching and you, my friend, were making a play for her.’
Matthew shrugged anxiously, sensing the other bouncer behind him and feeling the walls of the office constrict. ‘I thought she was on her own.’
‘You weren’t far wrong.’ The man nodded. ‘She was on her own, and for a very good reason.’ He tilted his head and suddenly his eyes narrowed. ‘Little Helen, my friend, is out of your league. So far out of your league that it’s like you’re playing different fucking sports. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘You might as well face facts, son: there’s no chance a girl like Helen would be interested in a guy like you, is there?’
‘I guess not. But listen, if I thought for a second that she had a boyfriend, there’s no way I would have talked to her. Let alone if I thought she was going out with a bouncer.’
The man’s face tightened. ‘Who said she was going out with a bouncer? Did I say she’s going out with a bouncer?’
‘I just presumed she’s your girlfriend. Isn’t that what this is about?’
The man’s head drooped and he nodded forlornly to his colleague. ‘Tom, do me a favour, would you?’
Matthew had no chance to react as, from behind, a rigid, thick arm wrapped tightly round his neck. In the same instant, his left arm was twisted and pinned against his back so savagely that it jarred in its socket.
‘What are you doing?’ he shrieked as a searing pain shot to his shoulder-blade. He tried briefly to struggle, but the man behind had such a grip that he was rendered almost immobile. As he vainly attempted to free himself, his arm was twisted harder and the grip firmed round his neck.
The man holding him spoke tersely in his ear. ‘Calm down, matey. Relax. The more you struggle, the more it’ll hurt.’
The doorman with the twisted nose, meanwhile, had risen from the desk and was edging towards Matthew.
Through eyes filling with tears of pain, Matthew caught the glint of something shiny in his hand. Steadily the hand was raised until he could make out the glinting metal blade of a knife.
‘Can you see what I’ve got here?’ the man snarled, his eyes wild with menace. ‘Can you see it? My shiny little knife. The thing about this small piece of metal is that all I have to do is drag it across your throat and that would be the end of you. Game over. No more Mr Indigestion. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Choking for breath, Matthew winced as the blunt side of the cold steel touched the taut flesh of his cheek. At the same time, the pressure round his neck increased, blocking the flow of air completely.
Held there for a second, the knife blade was lowered until Matthew could no longer see it, but could feel it trail lightly across his thigh.
‘On second thoughts,’ the man said, the smell of peppermint faint on his breath, ‘I could simply slice off your bollocks and stick them in your mouth. Maybe you’d find it’s not so easy to chat up the ladies when you’ve got a mouthful of your own bollocks.’ He lingered a moment longer and then turned and withdrew. At the same time,
the pressure eased around Matthew’s neck, allowing him to suck in air.
‘Little Helen, out there,’ the man continued, placing the knife on the table, ‘is not my girlfriend. And do you want to know why? Because she’s my niece, you little fucker, my own flesh and blood. Which means that she is not to be touched. Not by you. Not by anybody, not without my say so. That’s the way it has to be: the law of the fucking land.’ The man leaned against the desk and his voice resumed some of its former calmness. ‘Now listen, Sonny. Tom is going to let go of you in a minute and you’re going to head back out to the party. This is a nightclub, after all, a place to let your hair down. But you aren’t going anywhere near Helen, are you? That would really piss me off and I don’t like getting angry. It’s bad for my ulcer, my doctor’s always telling me. Are we agreed?’
‘Yes,’ Matthew mouthed, nodding as much as he could with the other man still holding him.
‘Good. That’s all I wanted to hear.’
The pressure at last eased fully around Matthew’s neck and his arm was released, leaving him to stand freely. He coughed and breathed deeply to refill his lungs, glancing desperately towards the door through which they had entered.
‘Go on, then, fuck off,’ the taller bouncer said, signalling to the door. ‘Who knows, if you’re still around later I might buy you a drink, to show there’s no hard feelings.’
Matthew moved towards the door, catching the sound of chuckles as he went. He opened the door and was blasted by a wave of amplified, throbbing noise, which dizzied and disorientated him further. Regaining his balance, he stepped into the darkened nightclub and closed the door behind him.
He did not stop walking, but carried on past the girl, who was sitting alone like before, and towards the flight of stairs. The music was deafening, his head was swirling and his legs wobbled as they maintained an uneven step. Yet, somehow, he managed to negotiate the stairs and walk past two bouncers who were standing by the nightclub entrance, one of whom bade him a cheery ‘Goodnight’.
Once outside, the warm air entered his lungs and gave him a burst of energy like he had never had before. He walked away and quickly his walking turned to running. His running then became sprinting.
He ran breathlessly, as fast as he could, along the empty street, his legs pumping maniacally until the sudden pain of a stitch stabbed violently into his side. Halting in his tracks, he bent double, struggling for breath and expecting to unleash a volley of puke. As he stooped, however, and spat a mouthful of saliva onto the pavement, not a drop of vomit emerged.
Struggling to catch his breath, he sat on the kerb-side and buried his face in his hands. He was shivering, though not from cold. His forehead was damp with perspiration and his eyes were filled with tears.
Eventually, as his breathing returned to normal and the sickening feeling dissipated, he stood and walked on, shivering and unsteady on his feet.
He neared the fast-food restaurant, now closed and unlit, and passed the beggar, who was huddled beneath a poncho that complemented his cowboy hat.
‘Fuck me. It’s a bit early to be going home,’ the man said, eyes peering from beneath the tatty brim. ‘I told you The Golden Bottle was a shit-hole. You should have listened to me. I would’ve showed you a decent club.’
‘You’re right,’ Matthew answered forlornly. ‘It was a shit-hole.’
‘It’s not too late, you know; I could take you somewhere now. You’d have to buy me a drink, because I’m right out of cash.’
He was unable even to force a smile.
‘Maybe tomorrow, but now I need to lie down,’ he said and continued his slow walk to the hotel.