‘Where is it?’ I asked wearily. ‘Has Tony got it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ilya. ‘But don’t worry. When I’m in a better position, I’ll get it back. Or I’ll get someone else to get it back.’
At length, after mentally toying with the worst question of all, I whispered: ‘So have you ever shot anyone? Killed anyone?’
‘Nah, too much hassle,’ he replied in a cloud of smoke. ‘I’m better off low profile. I mean, if I wanted someone dead, I could hire a guy to do it. But not me personally. I wouldn’t do it. And before you ask, no, I don’t want Tony dead. It wouldn’t solve a thing.’
‘Jesus,’ I said, and we lapsed into silence once again.
I’d always known Ilya and I belonged to very different worlds, but I’d never imagined anything on this scale. The enormity of the gap between us was overwhelming. He could talk quite calmly about getting people to kill people. I kill spiders. Hardly comparable.
‘So this next thing, this run,’ I began, ‘when that’s all cleared, then Tony’ll be off your back?’
‘Yeah, no problem,’ he said lightly. ‘But, like I said before, Tony’s nobody. He’s just some fucking nutter who collects debts for other people. And right now, I can’t pay. So he’s making the most of it, turning the heat up because that’s how he gets his kicks. And I’ve just got to see it through until the money comes in.’ He ended with a resigned shrug.
‘We’ve got to see it through,’ I corrected.
‘Yeah, sorry,’ he breathed, his black lashes sweeping down.
‘And supposing it goes wrong?’ I said. ‘What if it’s discovered? Are you going to end up in jail?’
Ilya shook his head. ‘I’ve got friends in high places.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll get a tip-off. That’s why I left Teesside. Intelligence were sniffing around. We needed a fresh base. I had contacts down here – Brighton, London, Southampton. It wasn’t really to escape the debts. I was planning to level it eventually. You leave people smiling in this game. But all the shit up north made it tricky.’
‘But if it goes wrong,’ I protested, ‘then Tony’ll still be on your back.’
‘So I just move somewhere else,’ he said indifferently. ‘Keep on running till I don’t need to. But this time I won’t tell a soul. There’ll be no one to blab.’
That, I thought, included me. He would simply go and I’d never hear from him again. I couldn’t bear it.
‘And if I refuse to do this thing for Tony, then what?’
‘Maybe I’d dodge him,’ replied Ilya. ‘Get out of town. Or stay and take the beatings. Check out the food in the local infirmary.’ He smiled weakly. ‘I really appreciate this,’ he continued. ‘Are you sure about it?’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘You know I’m not. It’s fucking embarrassing – putting on a show that could seriously offend, getting on stage in front of a crowd I know. And I’m probably going to have to pay my performers double. And I’ll never be able to walk down a street in Brighton without blushing to the roots of my hair. The whole thing stinks and I loathe and detest Tony for actually –’
‘Hey,’ cut in Ilya. ‘You don’t have to do it.’
It was true; I didn’t have to do it. But the alternatives – Ilya taking shit from Tony and his boys or just disappearing – were much worse. In the scheme of things, what was being asked of me was pretty small. And to keep Ilya that little bit longer, I was prepared to make sacrifices.
Ilya clasped my fingertips across the table. He looked levelly into my eyes as if he were about to propose marriage or declare his undying love.
‘But you make a great little slut.’ He grinned. ‘The gig’ll be fantastic.’
I tried a smile. ‘I’m still sore,’ I complained. ‘I could hardly walk yesterday.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ilya gently. ‘But you were great. And you loved every minute of it, didn’t you?’
‘What?’ I said flatly. ‘Being gang-banged by a load of hoods? Yeah, fantastic, thanks. The most fun I’ve had in ages.’
‘Oh, come on,’ countered Ilya. ‘Don’t pretend –’
‘Tony’s too scary,’ I replied. ‘And that bouncer thug is rotten. And I hated that guy who chewed gum and kept calling me slag and cow and –’
‘Hey, he’s harmless,’ said Ilya. ‘Just doesn’t know how to handle it, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, well I’m not sure I do either,’ I murmured. ‘Not when it’s on someone else’s terms. I’d rather be a great little slut on my terms.’
Ilya smiled sympathetically. ‘So what did lover boy say about it all?’
‘Luke?’ I said with a small laugh. ‘I told him it was a surprise get-together. Some people I hadn’t seen in a while. Don’t think he was convinced. But he says I’m odd anyway. Secretive.’
Ilya squeezed my fingertips.
‘So after this gig,’ I said, ‘then you promise that’ll be it? Tony’ll leave you alone until this, this deal is sorted?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ilya. ‘No problem.’
I knew he was lying but I didn’t care. I’d started to prefer his lies.
The room was small, hot and crowded. Coloured lights from the mirror-ball glided over the punters, and I leant against the bar, swigging from my bottle of Becks, searching for Ilya.
I couldn’t see him anywhere. Maybe he’s just gone for a piss, I thought. Or maybe everything’s been sorted and he’s gone back to his B and B. Perhaps Tony can’t make it, and I don’t have to go through with this after all.
Tears stung my eyes but I turned to the low stage and I didn’t let them spill.
A woman with chemical-red hair, dressed in purple latex, was sitting spread-legged on a chair. She was plunging the haft of a multi-tailed whip into her vagina. Leather thongs spewed from her open thighs like entrails.
Some of the audience seemed to like this. They were clapping and cheering. Others were visibly shocked. Nobody had warned them that, tonight, Hot Sex had got to be seriously hot.
And all for Ilya because, if I didn’t do this, Tony would get nasty and Ilya would then suffer or run.
It was blackmail, clear and simple. And it came about because Tony liked me. Because Tony wanted me. Because Tony got a kick from the power he had over Ilya and consequently over me. Because I, stupidly, still cared for Ilya.
It’s the way Tony works, Ilya had said. That’s why he does what he does. He could never be a hit man who takes someone out with a single shot because he revels in tormenting people. He likes to make them squirm, sometimes physically, sometimes mentally. He’s a cruel sadist. A moral blank. And the state of his mental health is up for debate.
The thought made me shudder with fear.
I couldn’t speak to Ilya during the gig. He knew that. I’d told him to keep away because, whatever his behaviour, he was bound to make me lose it. If he acted sympathetic and reassuring, I might crumble into a heap of tears; if he was jokey and encouraging I’d probably want to thump him.
Better, I’d said, if you just blend in with the audience. Be anonymous to me. I want to feel detached from this mess, to concentrate on being a pro.
I wondered if it had disturbed him when I so obviously left the room with Luke in order to go and fuck in my office. Doubtful. He’d never been jealous yet. He’d probably thought, Ah, Beth’s gone to grab a cheap loveless fuck from her toy-boy in order to get into character and dilute the intensity of ‘us’.
And he’d be right. I’d also felt horny. Would he have appreciated the simplicity of that?
Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to do it. Maybe it puts me at the top of a slippery slope and Tony’s going to push it and push it until Ilya coughs up the money.
On stage, the woman – who performs under the name of Mistress Zed, but who I know as Debbie – was making one of the black guys suck on her pussy-wet whip handle. It was all quite feisty stuff, but then that’s what my female dancers do. They’ll strip, they’ll strut, they’ll flaunt; but invariably they’ll up the dominatrix tempo, and their male dancer
s will have to grovel at their feet or feel the sting of their whip.
The guys – Mikey, Leo and Skitz – will do anything for the money. They’re complete whores, lucky them.
I didn’t think Tony would be too keen on it – if he ever arrived. But then it was me he wanted to watch. Me he wanted to see squirm.
Well, I wasn’t going to let him. I’d get on that stage, no matter how hellish I was feeling, and I’d make it seem as if I were loving it.
I wondered how many people would recognise me. I’d be wearing a gold half-mask to cover most of my face. My lips are pretty distinctive though, but then the lights were low and ever-changing. Maybe I’d get away with it.
If I didn’t know anyone, it wouldn’t be quite so bad. But I was on speaking terms with at least half my audience.
Martin was in the crowd. Would he suss it was me? Jenny knew – not quite everything but she knew it was serious. And she thought I was stupid – not because I was doing it but because I was doing it for Ilya, who, as far as she was concerned, was a complete shit and never in a million years would he do something similar for my sake. She’s probably right.
I felt someone nudging, trying to get to the bar. I moved slightly, then, from behind, a voice cooed in my ear, ‘Queenie, I’ve missed you so much,’ and a hand stole in to cup my groin through my jeans.
Tony’s here. It’s now. It’s happening. The nightmare has begun.
An inward tremor quivers through me but I don’t flinch. Instead I take a carefully judged step back as I turn, and the heel of my trainer presses squarely on the toe of his shoe. If only I wore stilettos.
Tony doesn’t flinch either. He merely slips his foot from under mine.
‘Watch your step, queenie,’ he says in a menacingly soft tone, a hand touching my hip.
‘So sorry,’ I reply, giving him a steely smile.
He grins back, those horribly narrow lips pulling tight, then his glassy grey eyes drop to my tits. He steps back a few inches and his scrutinising gaze trawls down my body.
I crane round to see Ilya slipping back into his seat – at the only table in the place to have a reserved sign on it. The bouncer thug is with him. So is the ear-ring guy and someone I haven’t met before.
‘I think I prefer you in dresses,’ says Tony, moving too close once again.
He smells of soap and it makes my skin crawl because I imagine that he’s washed before coming out and that it’s for my benefit. It scares me too, because the thought of Tony wanting to impress me is terrifying.
I drain my beer and set down the bottle. ‘Well, Tony.’ I smile. ‘I’d love to stay and chat but duty calls. Afraid I need to get changed.’
‘Want a hand?’ he leers.
I put on a big, false smile. ‘Want a knee in your groin?’ I ask politely, and I walk away, Tony’s mad Tommy gun laughter scattering endlessly in my head.
The closer it gets to show-time, I become, strangely, less nervous and less scared.
The kitchen behind the bar, half-covered in sheets, mirrors propped here and there, serves as our dressing room. It’s not great, but it’s the best I can do.
Polly, one of the dancers, offers me a line of coke, but I refuse, telling her I want to play this one straight.
I’m wearing turquoise PVC hot pants with criss-cross lacing up the front. Above, I have a red, gauze-thin top – long-sleeved, high-necked – and beneath, peeping through, is a purple sequinned bikini top. I’ve got my black knee-length boots on and a glittery gold half-mask. Jane has done something weird with my hair, involving lots of back-combing, coiling, goo and pins, and the end result is two cones either side of my head, like devilish little horns.
Tony had better bloody well recognise me.
I smile to myself. I’ll make damn sure he does, the bastard.
Leo, his black body glistening with sweat and oil, bounds into the kitchen and grabs the nearest bottle of water. Outside, the volume of the music goes up a notch – time for people to mill around, buy drinks, talk about how shocked they are, maybe leave.
‘Wowee,’ beams Leo, dragging his arm across his lips. ‘You look cute as hell, Beth.’
‘No, she doesn’t,’ argues Polly, laughing. ‘She looks gorgeous. Beth is not cute. Beth is hot sex personified, aren’t you, honey?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Got that, Leo?’
‘In one, chief.’ he grins, giving me a playful salute. ‘So are we gonna run through this routine one more time?’
‘Yeah, why not,’ I reply, doing a little shimmy.
‘Oh, I love this gig,’ enthuses Leo. ‘It’s so fucking weird, man. I love it, love it, love it.’
The stage doesn’t have curtains or wings. It’s just a low wooden platform that gets packed away at the end of the night.
Our start-up music is Grace Jones and, as the slow, sultry beats of ‘Nightclubbing’ begin, the three of us – me, Leo and Mikey – slink and sway theatrically through the audience.
It’s tricky because the room is so crowded, but people shuffle to make space. I linger wherever I can, moving sinuously as I run my hands along the contours of my body.
My heart’s pounding with the fever of performance and my two black partners, supple and athletic, make a display of trying to paw me. Leo’s in sparkly gold shorts; Mikey’s in military gear – peaked cap, army trousers, braces over his bare chest and mock epaulettes on his shoulders.
I ham it up, wafting the ends of my purple feather boa at them, blowing vampish kisses as they fail to touch me, because tonight I am the Queen of Sleaze. That’s how I was introduced. That’s who I am.
When we reach the stage, we continue in a similar vein: me as the self-absorbed prick-tease, full of mock sensuality; the men as my admirers, lunging to touch, sometimes stroking down my legs then spiralling away.
As I sway, caress myself and pout, I survey the room before me through the eye-holes of my mask. Jenny’s furry red lovehearts, flecked with moving spots of colour, hang from the ceiling. They look good. The glare of lights makes the furthest reaches of my audience a faceless, amorphous blob. But closer to the stage, where the little tables are clustered, I can clearly make out people – most of them smiling at our burlesque display. Good.
Ilya’s group have, of course, some of the best seats in the house. Their table, laden with beer glasses and shorts glasses, is just off-centre, slightly to my right. Tony, his keen eyes fastened on me, leans to say something in Ilya’s ear. Ilya, watching me intently, smiles and nods.
I wonder if Ilya recognises the purple boa from the time he blindfolded me, buggered me and turned me into a video star for his friends’ consumption. I hope he does, because that’s why I’m wearing it.
Our opening track ends, just as my eager men move in either side of me. They lower themselves up and down, trailing their hands over my body, rubbing their crotches against my thighs. I throw my head back, making an exaggerated show of abandoning myself to lust.
The music segues, almost neatly, into another Grace Jones number – ‘Use Me’ – and we flip into action as the tempo steps up.
Mikey grasps my wrists, lifting my arms high, and I feign confusion, my head turning left and right, as he takes a backward stride and steadies himself. My body arcs back a little, supported on his, and I’m held that way, on show for my spectators, as Leo kneels and traces his hands up my legs to my groin. From below, he rubs the crotch of my glossy hot pants and, as rehearsed, I press my hips forward, making it seem like I’m so greedy for it.
My pussy twangs with arousal. That didn’t happen in rehearsal, but then rehearsals were briskly efficient, sometimes frustrating, sometimes funny. They weren’t horny.
But now Leo is being more indulgent, caressing me firmly so I feel all the strength of his massaging fingers. And now I’m on stage in a darkened, colour-dancing room. The lights are on me, the music’s pulsing and everyone’s watching. That thrills me more than anything.
While Grace is chanting about how good it feels getting use
d, Leo leaps up, deftly finds the tiny cut in the neck of my gauze top and tears – one, two, three. The filmy garment rips down the middle, exposing my midriff and glitzy purple bikini. I feel a rush of exhilaration.
Then, acting delighted, Leo starts to write on my bare flesh in lipstick, darting from side to side, spinning away and back, so the audience can see the word as it forms, letter after letter: S – L – U – T.
I can’t see Ilya’s face because I have to keep my head tipped back, but I wish I could. Will he get this reference? Will he remember the time he wrote the same thing on my back? When he and Pete humiliated me for hours? Once again, I hope so, because that’s what my performance is: it’s a jumbled montage of stuff we’ve done together.
I’m not sure why yet. I don’t know if I want to show him how good it was, how bad it was. I don’t know if I’m wrapping things up or asking for more. I don’t know if I’m trying to say, ‘Look, you swine, I’m doing all this for you,’ or, ‘Hey, it’s a public arena and only we know what these little things refer to and isn’t that great?’
I’m just doing it because I needed some kind of structure, a theme to build my performance around, and this popped into my head and I thought, why not? It’s as good as any.
When I make my fake getaway from Leo and Mikey, I cast my shredded top to the floor and stand proud before my audience, my pelvis rolling as I bend my knees, snaking my body, flaunting the ‘slut’ label on my midriff.
I let my hands drift sinuously. I trace an hourglass up and down my curves, rub flat-palm rotations over the swell of my hips, cup my sequin-clad breasts and squeeze them together.
The mask is good: it blocks a lot of my peripheral vision and I see things in a frame of black.
Ilya is trying to suppress a broad grin: I think he’s got the allusion. Tony looks self-satisfied and greedily intense, no doubt thinking that this is all for him and that I’m putting on a great show, but that deep down I’m dying with shame and embarrassment. Well I’m not. I’m OK. Getting better all the time.
Asking For Trouble Page 25