Chey just sighed in response.
I heard the mansion’s front door slam and Viggo and Lauralynn entered the large lounge where we often gathered for drinks together in the evening. They had just spent a whole afternoon finalising overdubs in the studio. After we greeted them, Lauralynn quickly excused herself and went up to her room, exhausted by the repetitive recording process.
Viggo poured himself a glass of bourbon and settled into his usual leather couch. He also looked tired and nothing like the rock god of stage and paparazzi pictures.
‘So what’s up, lovebirds?’ he asked.
I looked at Chey, silently seeking his approval to tell Viggo the sorry state of our affairs. So far, all he knew was that Chey was in some sort of trouble but we had not revealed its specific nature and he hadn’t asked. In fact, he’d seemed rather chuffed at the idea of hosting a fugitive of sorts, but likely assumed it was creditors Chey was hiding from, and not dangerous mafia-connected drug-runners.
‘We’re up shit creek, Viggo,’ Chey said.
Viggo raised a querulous eyebrow.
‘Tell me more, mate.’
Viggo listened attentively to Chey’s story, occasionally nodding sympathetically and refilling his glass, drinking the bourbon straight, with no ice.
‘Wow,’ he finally said when Chey concluded his tale.
‘Wow indeed,’ I mimicked, ever so slightly annoyed by his wide-eyed response and the look of amusement spread across his features.
‘So, if I understand things correctly, you have the means to leave the country for parts unknown, but without some sort of subterfuge to prevent them from continuing to track you down again, it’s worth fuck all?’
‘That’s certainly one way of putting it.’
Viggo chortled.
‘What you need is . . . magic, guys.’
‘Magic?’
‘Yep. Magic.’
‘I don’t get it,’ I said. Chey remained silent, glancing dubiously at Viggo’s smirking face.
Viggo crossed his legs, set his empty glass down and began manically gesticulating.
‘We have to make you disappear. Easy as that!’
‘How would you propose to do that?’ Chey and I asked in unison.
‘Stagecraft, my friends. Stagecraft. Now that’s something I know something about. Did I ever tell you how I loved Alice Cooper when I was a teenager? All his theatrical tricks, the artifice . . .’
‘Viggo, can you speak English?’ Chey asked.
Viggo triumphantly rose from the couch.
‘Mate, leave it to me. Let me think it over, sleep on it, talk it over with Lauralynn maybe, but I already think it’s a brilliant idea, I really do, and tomorrow morning, hey presto, I will provide you with your means to escape.’
I was nonplussed, thinking he had maybe drunk too much bourbon but then realised I had never seen Viggo drunk. Despite his slim frame, he had the constitution of a horse.
As he left the room, he winked mischievously at me.
Viggo’s mood was just as jovial and as irritating the next morning.
I watched in silence for as long as I could stand it as he capered around the kitchen wearing just his underpants and a smile. Bacon hissed in a griddle pan and he worked the waffle machine with the efficiency of an assembly-line robot until the pile of battercakes formed a tower, Pisa-like, that threatened to tumble onto the tiled floor at any moment. Pans of all shapes and sizes covered the counter top, balanced precariously wherever he had lobbed them in his search for the griddle, and were sprinkled liberally with spilled flour and sugar.
He paused in his mad culinary dance for just long enough to pour a coffee from the filter machine and slide it in front of me as carefully as one might offer a sacrifice to an angry god.
‘So,’ I said slowly, only mildly appeased by the appearance of the hot brew, ‘are you going to share this fine plan of yours any time soon?’
‘Patience, my dear,’ he replied, waving a spatula in the air with a theatrical flourish. ‘We must at least wait for the others to arrive.’
The others? My heart sank. How many people had Viggo confided in?
Chey was still in the shower where I had left him. The fear of going on the run again had made him even more appreciative of his creature comforts and he had begun bathing with the sort of languid thoroughness that I saved for the pool in the basement. And with little else to occupy his time, he spent hours each day working out in Viggo’s elaborate and rarely used home gym. Bar a little of his initial cockiness, he was almost back to the Chey that I had known in New York.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Hello, my darlings,’ Viggo cried as he shooed the newcomers into the house, still holding his spatula aloft like a baton.
Dominik and Summer had arrived, and were looking just as mystified as I felt. Dominik observed Viggo’s state of undress and raised an eyebrow. Summer did not seem even to notice.
She had her violin case tucked under one arm as she always did. Her red hair tumbled loose around her shoulders and a fuzz of tiny wisps stood out from her scalp like a halo, as if she had been walking in a stiff wind or was sorely in need of a new brand of conditioner. I knew from my brief interaction with Dominik that he seemed to prefer his women natural, without artifice, and I had watched the change in Summer since their return to coupledom with amusement. These days, I rarely saw her wearing lipstick.
Lauralynn was the next to appear. She was almost as scantily clad as Viggo, wearing just a buttoned-up men’s shirt that barely covered her arse.
‘Is it laundry day for you two?’ Dominik asked drily as Lauralynn raced over to give him an exuberant kiss on the cheek.
‘An early morning treat,’ she replied. ‘I know how you like a woman in men’s clothing.’
Dominik snorted. Even after all this time I still found his relationship with Summer fascinating. She was not the least bit puzzled to see her friend flirting with her boyfriend, and I was sure that Lauralynn would never dare tease Chey in my presence in quite the same way.
Lauralynn took over in the kitchen and sent Viggo upstairs to put on some clothes.
‘Do you have any idea what this is about, Lu?’ Summer asked, pouring her and Dominik a coffee and then slipping onto the barstool next to me. I caught a faint whiff of her perfume, musky and sweet.
‘He hasn’t told you yet, then?’
‘Not a word. He called before the sun was up and invited us over for breakfast. Brunch is so much more sociable,’ she sighed. Summer was almost as fond of her lie-ins as I was, perhaps a characteristic that we’d both developed over years of irregular employment.
Dominik stood behind her and began running his hands through her hair. No wonder it was such a mess, if that was how she combed it these days. She leaned back against him and purred.
Viggo appeared moments later, dressed this time, though frankly I didn’t think that his jeans and ripped old T-shirt were much of an improvement. Chey trailed mutely a few steps behind him. His expression was forlorn, hopeless, and made me all the more determined to find a solution.
‘Right, kids,’ Viggo announced, rubbing his hands together. He was clearly enjoying this, and if his plan wasn’t any good, I resolved to toss my now cold cup of coffee over his head to wipe the smile from his face. ‘Have you seen Romeo and Juliet?’
‘The Baz Luhrmann version?’ asked Summer.
‘That’s not really the point, my dear. Allow me to explain.’
He looked over at Chey and I, as if asking for permission to elaborate.
‘For God’s sake,’ I hissed, ‘get on with it. Please.’
Viggo grinned.
‘You’re going to fake your own deaths. And we’re going to help.’
Lauralynn looked as pleased as Viggo. They were both bonkers. Summer and Dominik now looked even more perplexed.
‘Did we miss something?’ Dominik asked.
‘Our friends here are on the run, mate. Probably safer if you don’t know
all the details. Just in case, you know. If it all goes tits up and we’re interrogated, it’s best if you don’t have anything to tell them.’
‘Right,’ Dominik replied.
‘Luba has created the perfect opportunity for a diversion,’ Viggo continued. ‘One last dance. In Dublin. There isn’t a lie that can’t be told on the stage, if you do it right. Particularly if a naked woman is involved. Or two.’ He cast a questioning glance over at Summer, who shrugged as if to say that on-stage nudity was too trivial a matter to even be remarked upon. ‘We’re leaving at the end of the week,’ Viggo continued. ‘Are you in?’
‘This sounds nuts, but for you, Viggo, how could we refuse?’ said Summer.
‘Wonderful. Because I’ll be needing your violin again.’
I noticed her arm imperceptibly tighten around the case of her precious Bailly, but she did not protest.
The conversation then turned to the matter of breakfast, and nothing else was said on the matter. If Viggo gave the others more details separately about the parts that we would each play, he didn’t share that fact with Chey and me.
‘We don’t have any other choice, sweetheart. We have to trust him,’ Chey said to me as I vented my frustration and anxieties once we were out of earshot.
He was right, but that didn’t make me any happier about the situation. Our lives, as well as our deaths, were now in Viggo’s hands and there was absolutely nothing that we could do about it.
A few days later, we were on our way to Dublin.
The Network had booked us into a sprawling, palatial room in the Gresham Hotel, at the top end of O’Connell Street. Summer had arranged to be in the same hotel but had organised it separately, while Dominik was staying in a smaller bed and breakfast near Trinity College on the other side of the river. Chey and I had brought little luggage, as we knew we wouldn’t be checking out. All we would have would be the clothes on our backs and the single suitcase we had hidden away in a left-luggage locker at the Heuston train station shortly after we had arrived in the Irish capital.
Dominik had gone ahead of us. He had deliberately made his own way to Dublin and, apart from a brief telephone conversation with Summer to touch base and verify everything was on schedule, had neither been in contact nor been seen with us since we had arrived. Vouched for by Viggo who had once been an appreciated customer of the Network, he was going to be a legitimate member of the audience, hopefully beyond all suspicion. Back in London before our departure, Summer had jokingly remarked that they’d had to go out and purchase a dinner jacket for him, especially for the occasion.
We had no idea where Viggo and Lauralynn were lurking, but assumed they were already in town and in position. Viggo had still not explained all the details of his plan to us as he wished to retain an element of surprise. My only reservation was that with his enthusiasm for matters theatrical and his warped sense of humour, whatever he had planned might prove somewhat over the top and unconvincing. We were in his hands now, however, and it was too late to turn back.
I wanted us to take a cab to the designated venue, but both Chey and Summer were nervous and suggested we walk the short distance from the Gresham to Temple Bar on the other side of the Liffey, if only to clear our heads.
The New Year’s Eve celebrations were in full flight, with inebriated groups of youngsters cruising up and down O’Connell Street, swaying in all directions. Temple Bar and its myriad restaurants and bars were draining the crowds and we followed in their wake as midnight approached. I glanced over at Chey and Summer as they walked by my side. Both looked preoccupied and I realised, with a minor shock of recognition, that of all the people making their way towards the heart of the festivities, we were probably the only ones with glum faces. Not only were we not here to celebrate the turn of the year, but we had all been careful not to drink before our planned performance for fear of messing up Viggo’s utterly crazy plan.
The closer we got to the hall, the more I convinced myself that this would be a total fiasco. And not only would we be left totally humiliated and with egg on our face, but Chey could end up dead, for neither of us had any doubt that the oligarch who had booked us for tonight must have some sort of underground connections and that Chey’s name and face would have been circulated in their midst.
The building was halfway down Temple Bar, with a buzzing restaurant on the ground floor which people were queuing up for, in the hope of cancellations for the final service of the year. To the left of the restaurant’s main entrance was another closed door, with a sign indicating a set of functions rooms. The whole top floor had been booked for a private function. That meant us.
I rang the bell and the door promptly opened.
The security man who greeted us and checked us off against his list was built like a ton of bricks and fitted uneasily inside his badly cut tuxedo. His shaven head reflected the light from a single bulb that illuminated the narrow entrance and a deep corridor that led to a set of wooden stairs. Although he remained silent and nodded us on, I knew the man must be Russian. Our guest had his own full-time protection and didn’t rely on local talent from the looks of it.
As we passed him and walked to the stairs I could feel his stare in my back. Or maybe he was fascinated by Summer’s fiery mane of curling red hair. We Russian blondes were a common sort but redheads were more of a rarity.
I’d noticed our names were on a separate page of his checklist. Just us three. The entertainment.
As we took our first steps up the stairs, we heard another buzz at the door and I turned my head to see the security giant ushering in a middle-aged couple in ostentatious evening attire and tick them off the list. Guests.
On the third and final floor we were greeted by a young Irish woman with jet black hair, dressed in Confederate-style crinolines. The outfit was incongruous, but suited her pale complexion and green eyes.
‘I’m your hostess for tonight. Welcome,’ she said.
‘We’re the artists,’ Summer pointed out.
‘Oh, I know that, Miss Zahova. It’s an honour to have you performing for us tonight. I’m a great fan of yours, by the way. I was so terribly excited when I heard from Oleg that you would be . . . involved.’ The young woman looked over at Chey and me. ‘It’s an incredible bonus to have you playing for your friends. So unexpected.’
Summer forced herself to smile.
‘Where can we change and . . . prepare?’ she asked the Irish hostess. I wondered briefly if this girl was on the oligarch’s permanent staff or had just been recruited as a greeter for the evening. Did she know the exact nature of the performance we had agreed to undertake?
‘This way.’ She led us to a large empty room in which piles of dining tables and chairs had been pushed into one corner. At the centre of the room a large mirror and a trestle table had been set up for us.
‘It’s not ideal,’ the woman pointed out. ‘But it was awkward to find a venue of the right size at such short notice.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I said.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you prepare. I’ll be back in a while with your envelopes, as arranged. You come on at fifteen minutes past the hour, yes?’
I breathed a sigh of relief as she departed, her impossibly high heels clicking against the parquet floor of the function room that was now to serve as our changing room.
We all looked at each other.
The costumes that Chey and I would initially be wearing were simple and functional. For me, a white silk semi-opaque camisole that reached all the way down to my ankles. I would dance barefoot. For Chey we had come up with a pair of black, sharply creased, toreador trousers and a loose white shirt with billowing sleeves which he had at first objected to, but we didn’t come up with any better alternative and he had conceded defeat.
Summer slipped out of her jeans. She had been wearing them commando and the fire of her pubic bush was now on full display. I glanced at Chey as he noticed. Despite the tense nature of the situation, I could sense his calm appr
eciation of her wild beauty. I had encountered her in New Orleans, had tasted her exuberant nudity there, and I knew how she revelled in this form of exhibitionism, but this would be the first time I would actually see her perform in the nude, as she had agreed to do to accompany our curious dance. It was something Viggo had suggested. The perfect diversion, he had called it. Somehow I wasn’t surprised that Dominik had consented to this. I couldn’t help but be fascinated by the undercurrents and erotic quirks of their relationship.
Now fully naked, Summer stood proudly, a triumphant look on her face. She leaned over and took her violin from its battered case.
I held my breath in awe.
Right then the young Irish woman returned, not even batting an eyelid at the spectacle of Summer naked with her instrument in one hand.
She handed us a series of thick jiffy bags and envelopes, which we had to bureaucratically sign for.
‘Your fees as agreed,’ she said, giving both me and Summer different envelopes. Summer had negotiated to be paid separately.
Then she passed over the larger brown jiffy bag to me. It was securely sealed. ‘From your employers,’ she added.
Chey’s new documents – a passport and an identity card, even though we still didn’t know what name he would now have to pass himself off as. And would we ever have the opportunity to use these documents?
Chey nervously glanced at his watch as I passed our envelopes over to Summer, who locked them inside her violin case with her own, as we had agreed beforehand.
The sounds of fireworks and drunken cries reached us from outside as the New Year arrived in full swing.
We had just a few minutes to kill before our dance of death. Chey ordered us each a shot of tequila from the bar to steady our nerves before we went on stage. I gulped mine down, coughing as the bitter liquid burned my throat. He had forgotten to bring lemon and salt, and there was no time to go back for it. Thus fortified, the three of us waited, dressed and undressed for the next episode in Viggo’s preposterous scenario to unfold.
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