by J. F. Penn
Pushing the heaviness aside, Jamie tried to assume the persona of a sexy party-goer. She tried a smile in the mirror, knowing she had to get into the club because it was the only place she had left to go. Still no good, she thought. She pulled off her biker’s jacket and took off her long-sleeve t-shirt, revealing her black bra underneath. She’d lost weight with the last few months of worry, but she still had enough cleavage to attract some attention. It would have to do. She pulled the jacket back on and strode towards the club.
Torture Garden was one of the world’s largest fetish and body art clubs, a place where people could indulge in fantasy and experiment on the edge of extremity. Sex had been the last thing on Jamie’s mind over the last few years of Polly’s illness. There were moments in tango when she felt the thrill of attraction, pressed against a hard body and reveling in the intensity, but that ended when the dance finished. This place was a little outside her comfort zone, but then she was only here to hunt for those who might know Rowan Day-Conti. She had his more recent mugshot in her pocket, but she was aware that this wasn’t the kind of place where people wanted to talk to the police. She was here as a seeker, and right now, she felt on the edge of her own sanity. Jamie looked around at the queue of people and thought that perhaps this was exactly where she belonged.
With not much more than a cursory look at her revealing outfit, the bouncers waved Jamie through. She walked into the club as dance music pumped through the atmosphere, making her heart beat in time. Jamie bought a bottled beer and stood on the edge of the dance floor, watching the crowd. There were plenty of people in skin-tight rubber, many with cutouts revealing nipples and buttocks. Couples gyrated in suspended cages, some simulating sex, others presumably doing it while dominatrixes prowled, whipping gimps in face masks. Women danced in little more than string, bound flesh poking from their bonds, but nothing was shocking about the BDSM scene anymore. Most of these people were bankers, lawyers and consultants in the city, taking pleasure in the slick darkness and then returning to work the next day with their secrets intact.
The perfection of the human body was on show, along with every variation on the spectrum of bizarre. Once the eye was used to so much flesh, nudity wasn’t interesting anymore and the eye wandered. Jamie was more interested in the people who had crossed the line into true fetishism. A fat man wrapped in Mummy-style bandages stood at the edge of the dance floor, a parody of plastic surgery, dotted lines drawn over the bandages and blood seeping through the female pubic hair drawn over the groin area.
A figure close to Jamie in the full ruffles of Elizabethan dress turned towards her and she saw that the face was an alien mask, a vertical gaping mouth with razor teeth and no eyes, just purple bleeding flesh. Jamie couldn’t help but shrink back as a woman in a latex SS officer’s uniform pressed herself against the alien creature, her breasts pushed up, nipples revealed by artful holes. Jamie watched the figure’s hand go under the woman’s short skirt and begin to thrust and rub. She turned away, not wanting to watch the strange coupling as the music faded to a backbeat and then segued into an oriental track.
The crowd turned towards a central stage as the lights dimmed. A spotlight focused on a naked woman standing with her back to the audience, her hands wrapped around a shining silver pole. The bulbous head of an octopus inked in pitch dominated her back with its tentacles winding around her body. The music lifted and she began to dance. As she undulated, the octopus seemed to be moving her limbs, as if she were a puppet unable to escape its grasp. One tentacle wrapped up around her neck, entwining in her hair, another draped around her waist and dipped down between her buttocks. The work was intricate, each sucker on every tentacle finely drawn, the craftsmanship breathtaking. This was truly using the body as a showcase for art, a canvas for creation. Jamie thought how daring the woman must be, to use her body in this way, to make it a physical display and allow people to judge her.
As the woman turned in a slow dance, the full extent of the tattoo was revealed. More tentacles circled her small, tight breasts, one curving around a nipple and the other seemingly caressing the underside. The woman lifted her arms towards the audience, offering herself and it seemed the limbs of the octopus moved with her. One tentacle caressed her stomach and wound down between her legs, tattooed as if it penetrated her there.
The woman used the pole to swing her body up and then hang upside down, stretching her legs wide apart into splits. She tilted her hips towards the audience, showing that she was fully tattooed between them, her sex hairless but black with ink. Jamie could only imagine the pain that this woman had gone through to have her body marked this way, yet there was a surprising lightness in her face as she danced. She wore only pale makeup, keeping the attention on her body, but the slight lines around her eyes suggested that she was in her mid-thirties. Her hair was pixie-cropped, almost white and cut close to her skull. She kept her eyes closed, almost as if she were dancing for an unseen god instead of this hungry crowd. There was a brutal sexuality in the perfection of her body under the lights, but in her face there was only peace. Jamie felt a strange pang of jealousy. This woman was free of expectations, behaving as she wanted and empowered to use her body as she desired. The liberation must be extraordinary, and Jamie felt humbled by the gift that this woman offered, a glimpse into another way of living. Her own freedom seemed so far out of reach.
As the music rose to a crescendo, the woman draped herself away from the audience, leaving the spotlight on the head of the octopus on her back. Jamie presumed that this must be O, the name from Day-Conti’s notebook and she was determined to meet her. As the music ramped up the beat and the floor thronged with dancers, Jamie edged around the club toward where the woman had left the stage and slipped into the side corridor away from the main club.
“Hey, this is private. You’re not allowed here,” a deep voice said, as one of the bouncers stepped from the shadows.
“I need to see O,” Jamie said, taking a chance on the name. “It’s a personal matter.”
The bouncer shrugged, and took a step towards her.
“Sorry lady, it’s off limits back here.”
Jamie knew this wasn’t the time to produce her police credentials, but she was so close.
“Please,” she asked, with gentle deliberation. “I’m a fan, and I’m sober and clean. Seriously, I just need to talk to her.”
“You’re going to have to go back to the club or I’ll help you leave.” The bouncer sounded final this time, still polite, but dominant.
“Wait,” a voice came from down the corridor. Jamie turned to see the woman peering out from one of the doors. “It’s OK, Mike. I’ll see her.”
The bouncer shrugged and stepped back to let Jamie pass.
“Alright, but just call me if you need anything, O.”
Jamie walked down the corridor a little way to where the woman stood, the beat of the club fading behind her. O’s eyes were a light, cornflower blue, shining with an innocence that jarred with her naked performance of a few minutes before. An ivory robe was loose around her shoulders and one of the octopus tentacles could be seen creeping up her neck, caressing her throat.
“Why did you let me through?” Jamie asked.
O looked at her, and Jamie felt a power in her gaze, as if she could see beyond the surface. Her eyes were much older than the body she wore so well.
“I recognize pain.”
Jamie paused, then nodded.
“Then thank you. I’m Jamie.”
O stepped aside. “Come in. I’m just getting changed but you’re welcome to talk for a while.”
Jamie walked into the little space, at once a makeshift powder room for the performance artists and a storage closet. It smelled of old leather with a hint of must and a top note of sandalwood. A long mirror was propped against one wall and Jamie caught sight of her own reflection, scarcely recognizing the gaunt woman in black, harrowed features outlined in kohl. O stood behind her. With her ivory robe, almost white hair and pa
le features, Jamie felt that she was the demon here and O, an angel.
“Do you know Rowan Day-Conti?” she asked, breaking the momentary silence.
O’s eyes met hers, as if chiding her for not asking the deeper questions.
“I heard he’d been arrested,” she said, walking a few steps to where a bag hung on the wall. She slipped off the robe and reached for the bag.
Jamie was so close that she could have reached out to touch O’s inked, naked skin. On her back, the head of the octopus seemed obscene, its eyes black orbs but still strangely compelling. Jamie wanted to touch it, to touch her. She swallowed. O looked back over her shoulder.
“It’s homage,” O said, meeting Jamie’s gaze and turning, totally secure in her nudity. “The octopus is what you would call my totem animal, a being I feel kinship with.”
Jamie nodded, understanding the sentiment and wanting to know more.
“Octopi are so alien to us,” O continued, “so unlike our human physiology and yet they have tremendous intelligence. In my country, Norway, there is a legend of the great Kraken, a monster that will sink ships and drag men to the depths. In Japan, there’s an artistic tradition depicting violent octopi raping women with thrusting tentacles. And in Hawaiian myth, the octopus is the final survivor from the wreck of the last destroyed universe. So, you see, the image has great power and resonance.”
“It’s amazing work,” Jamie said, “but why ink your body so completely?”
“I can see you’re internalizing your pain.” O’s blue eyes darkened. “Whereas I wear mine on my skin. It reminds me of what I am, of what I’ve lost.” Jamie wanted to hear more, her own troubles briefly forgotten, but O turned away. “Enough of me, Jamie. Why are you here?”
O pulled her clothes from the bag, putting on underwear, a plain t-shirt and jeans. Jamie waited until she was fully dressed, using the time to try and construct a story that didn’t reveal too much. Yet she also felt a strange need to be honest with this astonishing woman.
“I saw that Rowan was going to meet with you tonight, and now he’s in custody. So I can’t talk to him and I was hoping that you might be able to tell me anything you can about his work.”
O looked curious. “What, in particular, about his work?”
“I need to know where he gets the bodies, and who buys his finished works.”
“Why?’ O asked, her face stony now, protecting her friend.
Jamie felt a rising frustration and the feverish headache that had been building couldn’t be held back much longer. She couldn’t get the image of the dissected little boy out of her mind and she had to be honest, at least about Polly.
“I’m not sure you’ll believe me, but my daughter, Polly.” Jamie’s voice cracked and O’s face fell a little, in sympathy. “She died yesterday and her body has been stolen. She bears a resemblance to some of the bodies used in Rowan Day-Conti’s artwork and it’s the only lead I have right now. I have to find my daughter.”
O shook her head slowly, and breathed out, as if making a decision.
“Did you know Jenna Neville?” she asked. Jamie started at the name of the murdered girl.
“Not personally, but I know of her murder and her connection to Rowan. Why?”
O rummaged in her bag and brought out a key.
“I became friends with Jenna, closer friends than with Rowan really. She was investigating Rowan’s supplier and his buyers too. She came to me only a few days ago and asked me to keep something for her. Come.”
O led the way out of the tiny room, down the corridor away from the club. At the end was another storeroom with lockers in.
“We keep our personal items here when we perform.” O explained. “Jenna came to me directly after last week’s performance so I left the envelope here.” As she unlocked the door, Jamie caught a glimpse of a marine biology textbook and some photos inside. O pulled out a plain blue envelope. “She said she’d received a threat to stop investigating and she wanted to leave this with me instead of carrying it with her. Just in case.” O spoke haltingly. “I didn’t ask enough about it. I thought she was being overly dramatic, she had that tendency sometimes. But we’re used to that here, it’s part of the character of the place.”
Jamie knew that the envelope should be handled with sterile gloves and placed in an evidence bag. O should be interviewed at the station with proper protocol. All of those thoughts ran through her mind, but there was no time. She would get the envelope to the police in the morning but right now, she had to follow where this path might lead.
“Can you open it now?” Jamie asked.
“I guess Jenna’s not coming back for it.” Tears welled in O’s eyes. “So we might as well.”
She tore the top of the envelope and pulled out a wad of white tissue paper. Unfurling it in her hand, O revealed a key. Just plain, no special markings.
“Is there anything else in there?” she asked. “Any indication of what it opens?”
O handed over the envelope and Jamie looked inside, tearing it open for some clue, an address, something. There was nothing.
“I should give this to the police, shouldn’t I?” O said. “It might help with her murder investigation. It might even help Rowan, because he can be a bastard, but there’s no way he killed her.”
“I know he didn’t.” Jamie said, wrestling with whether to tell O she was with the police. But it would change the dynamic of the situation, betray the woman’s trust. Being honest with herself, Jamie wanted O to like her, to see her as an equal, someone who fitted in here. And tonight, Jamie didn’t even feel like a cop. She was just another desperate seeker.
“Can I take the key?” she asked, holding her hand out. “I know someone who might be able to find out what it’s for.”
O hesitated. “What about the police?”
“I think we should leave them out of it for now. Please. They’re too busy with the murder to worry about the theft of my daughter’s body. I think this key might help.”
“If your friend can’t find what it’s for, then it needs to go to the police,” O insisted.
“Of course.” Jamie nodded. “First thing tomorrow … How do I find you again?”
O smiled, the drama returning to her eyes. “I’m a performance artist, darling, you can find me everywhere. Online, in the clubs, on the stage.”
Jamie felt she had caught a brief glimpse of who O was beneath the tattoos, but now the veil was drawn again as she returned to her stage persona. But her bold example made Jamie want to ink her own pain into her skin.
“Thanks for your help, O, and I loved the show.”
O stepped forward and kissed Jamie gently on the cheek, her lips cool on fevered skin.
“Come back soon,” O whispered.
Jamie walked back down the corridor and out of the club, passing the freak show on the dance floor. Her heart was scarred like these bodies, her spirit just as twisted. For a moment, Jamie felt a part of them, with an understanding that the body could be a canvas, an external expression of self. She pulled the motorbike jacket tighter around her as she walked away from the club, out into the London dawn. She needed to find out what the key opened without going through official channels, and there was only one person she could think of to help her.
Chapter 18
Blake slunk into Bar-Barian, the unobtrusive entrance down an alleyway towards Tottenham Court Road in Soho. They knew him well enough in here, understood his habitual drinking, and didn’t question his gloved hands and haunted eyes. There were dark posters on the walls of Arnold Schwarzenegger as Conan and Jane Fonda as Barbarella, their swaggering poses a declaration of confident sexuality. Fake double-edged blades hung glinting in reflected light, homage to an era when the struggle to survive eclipsed cerebral concerns. People came here to edge closer to chaos, to tame the crazy and to forget.
Rock music pumped through the bar, heavy enough to thump the heart in time. Blake found that the beat anchored him to reality and he welcomed the throbbing p
ulse. Seb, the barman, nodded at him and started pouring before Blake had even sat down on one of the tall stools by the chrome counter. It was always the same. Two shots of tequila and a bottle of Becks.
“Bad day?” Seb said, his voice as caring as any barman interested in his alcoholic customers could be, a tone between solicitous and encouraging so that the pounds were all spent before complete oblivion was reached. Blake used to come to the bar only on bad days, but they seemed to be happening more regularly now. He couldn’t stop the visions leaking into his waking consciousness, and his ability to hold them back was weakening.
Tonight he was haunted by the mutated monsters in the bell jars of the Hunterian, their preserved flesh trapping them as undead, floating obscenities. He couldn’t stop thinking of the scientific brutality of Mengele cutting into live bodies, seeking his perverted truth in vivisection. Over these nightmares, he watched Jamie dancing the tango but as she spun around, her partner was revealed as the Angel of Death, his teeth stained with blood. They were dancing over the bodies of the damned, her spiked heels piercing flesh, her eyes fixed on a horizon that she would never reach.
Blake thought it curious that his mind was spinning dark fantasy from an amalgamation of the visions, but it also worried him. Jamie was clearly affecting him, and he wanted to both protect her and push her out of his life. Helping her was dangerous, for she was already under his skin. He felt the pull of her pain, as a wrecked ship is pulled down to crushing depths.
Slamming back the tequila shots, one after the other, Blake took a pull of the beer. It chased the fiery liquid down, and Blake visualized it burning his visions and dark thoughts away. He waited for the kick of spirits, sipping the beer, now concentrating on the myriad bottles behind the bar, exotic liquids from far flung countries. Sometimes two shots were enough to chase away the demons that lurked in the corners of his mind, but tonight he needed more. The tequila buzz was dulled by years of habituation. He signaled Seb for another round.