Death & the City Book Two

by Lisa Scullard

  I grin and pat her back gratefully.

  “You’re very wise,” I tell her.

  “Yes, but for some reason it doesn’t stop me drooling over Red Watch whenever I see them,” she says, wryly. “Meaning I end up spoiling my ladylike appearance by talking like a mother trucker, and dry-humping bar-stools thinking I look cool, fun and approachable.”

  I have to put the shoe back, giggling, at the absurd mental image now in my head of Elaine gyrating around the bar of Crypto in her full licensing-officer-visit-day business suit and YSL long boots, talking dirty and offering suggestively-named cocktails.

  “I want to see that now,” I complain petulantly, trying not to pick up a Zombie shoe as they call out to me subliminally.

  “Any Thursday on R&B night,” she groans. “Two-for-one entry fee before eleven.”

  “I’ll be there after work tonight if I can get away,” I tell her, knowing I’m already thinking of it as being a good excuse to avoid Connor. “I want to see your mother trucker act.”

  I don’t buy the shoes, but walk back up to London Road to meet Yuri, thinking about Connor and debating whether I should go back for the shoes next week, when the final reductions will be on sale. I might get them for a single figure.

  As I wait by the bus stop outside City Central, two women are reading a ‘Spring Clean Your Sex Life’ article in Psychologies magazine together, with rather too much personal spouse referencing between them, and I wonder if sex as manipulation is more normal than abnormal. And if Alice’s naïvety of making a song and dance about it is showing her up as impressionable, rather than creating a stir.

  Shame I don’t have the inside knowledge to judge that for myself yet.

  Yuri arrives, and pops the lid on the top-box for my shopping.

  “Any underwear or shoes in there?” he asks me with a grin. I shake my head and stow the fashion outlet bag away, slamming the storage lid shut again, and pulling on my crash helmet. “Pity. You could have given me a little private fashion show when we get back.”

  I pretend not to hear him, tucking my hair in, because I feel myself blushing in surprise. Yuri just grins again darkly.

  Not another one, I think to myself with an inward groan. The bus stop setting should have been an obvious clue. You wait for ages, then all sorts turn up…

  I watch Yuri, as he walks around my car checking final electrical connections, and detaching monitors. There is something frustratingly enigmatic about the more shadowy half of WXYZ Logistics. I don’t know if it’s deliberate, or just necessary - to his privacy, and past history.

  It’s the kind of trap that women always fall for, I think. A mystery. I look across instead at Van Helsing’s considerably stripped-down Mustang, now on a flat-bed in preparation for towing away.

  Yuri sees my change in focus and follows my gaze.

  “You believe in that sort of thing?” he asks me. “Vampires and werewolves?”

  “Not yet,” I joke. “What about you?”

  “I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my life,” he admits. “There isn’t always an explanation for it.”

  “I think people often see exactly what they want to see,” I muse aloud. “Either that, or someone else is willing to put on a show for them of what they want to see.”

  “Not all of the time,” he grins, indicating my shopping bag on the workbench. “Sure I can’t persuade you to do a quick change for me?”

  “I’m sure,” I manage, with a grin in return, standing up for myself. “Anyway, it’s not as if there’s a lot of difference, essentially, between a contract killer and a so-called old school fictional vampire slayer, is there? The profile is the same, just the marketing is different when they’re seeking work.”

  “Yeah, and they can use the fear of God to push the price up as well,” Yuri remarks, closing the bonnet of my car. “It does happen, in some misguided religious areas. Like the old Puritanical witch-hunts. Dig up a corpse, and stake it or shoot it with a silver bullet, charge the locals their annual income. Quite a scheme, in claiming to save the community from their own dead and buried already.”

  I consider why this sounds familiar.

  “How would we put a stop to that sort of thing going on?” I ask him. “I mean, there’s extortion in it, confidence trickery, desecration of a burial site and mutilation of a corpse - but unlike a contract hit-man, no actual murder - if the victim is already dead.”

  “In theory there’s murder,” Yuri says. “If there’s proof of vampires and werewolves being real. Confidence tricksters like that are walking a thin line. If they can offer up all the proof we need that they’re genuinely killing genuine undeads - and demanding rewards for it - they’d be on the To Do List same as all the other contract hit-men, automatically. Which is why we take an interest whenever it’s in fashion. Why we have to analyse all the video and other evidence. It’s taking money to take a life. Whatever kind of life that is.”

  Of course, I think. Adam Grayson’s snuff movie parody.

  “I never thought of head office as being superstitious,” I remark, as he throws the car keys to me over the roof.

  “Not superstitious,” he replies. “Just thorough.”

  “So if vampires and stuff exist, and are a menace to society, and we start bumping off their scaremongering money-grubbing slayers, who deals with the undead?” I query, still keeping the tongue-in-cheek tone. But Yuri seems surprisingly straight-faced about it.

  “Well, certainly not unlicensed freelancers, or new trophy hunters after a fast buck,” he says. “Until the undead come out openly, willing to negotiate antisocial behaviour order restrictions, in theory they’d be dealt with as vermin. Not in your department. For anything like that which turned troublesome, it’d be a Pest Control issue.”

  “Ah,” I say, thoughtfully. “Right.”

  “Thought you’d have worked that out by now,” he adds, and grins at me knowingly.

  Junior has taught her Zombie Pets to linedance, between the time it takes to pick her up from school, and make pasta with cheese and tomato sauce for dinner.

  “If I win the Line-Dancing competitions, it unlocks Morris Dancing,” she tells me, fork in one hand and DS stylus in the other, with a pasta shell impaled on each. “And then things get Really Messy.”

  “Cool,” I agree. “I would love to see Zombie Morris Dancing.”

  The thought of dancing Zombies, decimating each other with sticks, handkerchiefs and bells, cheers me up while I watch the News summaries on multi-screen. The Newcastle office bombing is no more than a line of text at the tail end of many, running along the bottom of the screen just before Sports Results. And among the local UK round-ups, some stock footage of the town, over a ten-second statement to the effect that ‘an incident’ took place, requiring the Fire Brigade’s attendance and a small number of as-yet unnamed casualties occurred.

  I guess to the rest of the world, private security firms don’t warrant the Media interest that those in the small otherworldly bubble of licensing, bar and nightclub work would imagine. We are like our own V.I.P. club, with no red carpet-calls, but lots of stories and urban legends no-one else gets an insight on.

  The item isn’t a patch on the latest natural disaster zone, celebrity adoption, soccer team transfer, politician’s WAG’s kiss-and-tell book, small disabled child performing Shakespeare, 104-year-old man rescuing 75-year-old parrot from tree, and giant provocatively-shaped snowman still refusing to melt in Alexandra Park, Hastings, News-of-the-Day.

  I have quite a reality check about it, in fact. Considering I scoff at internet bloggers, and celebrities, about their own self-centred Universe, my job makes my own social and occupational nightlife world about as self-obsessed and internally-referenced as it’s possible to be, with no celebrity membership to raise the profile into the public eye. A members-only country club, in fact. Population: Security Operatives Only.

  I wonder what happened to the Animal Rights protests Media coverage, then recall what head offic
e said about stopping any more rabies stories.

  But mostly, what I think the News coverage is missing right now is some Zombie Morris Dancing footage. Better than parrots up trees, any day.

  I text Connor: NOT A VERY BIG NEWS STORY :)

  Shortly the reply comes back: That’s why I told you to look for it. Blink and you’d miss it otherwise. As if the rest of the world cares what we get up to ;) Xx

  Good point. I forget that, under my 24-hour surveillance occasionally - mostly what my total audience consists of at any one time is a couple of guys on shift in an office somewhere. A lot less than follow Alice on her internet blog, even. But still, I don’t know whether this reminder affects the part of my personality charged with having a conscience.

  That part of me is still mainly feeling guilty about not spending enough time at home, doing housework.

  Chapter 33: Early Christmas

  A staff meeting at The Zone prior to opening reveals that after tonight, those of us on loan from The Plaza will be heading back there (to the sound of much groans and moans by those not looking forward to returning to Mgr Diane’s clutches), as enough new door staff have now been recruited for the venue to run on. And also a heads-up about a fire drill Evac at some point tonight, as the Fire Brigade are due to check our new alarm system and evacuation procedures.

  I notice already that Hurst and Jag Nut are absent, replaced by new recruits, and also Niall Taylor, which gives me a small amount of relief. So it’s pretty much only me, Animal, Cooper and Salem left of the original reinforcements, that I’m on familiar terms with. Cooper is looking kind of deflated, like he can’t wait to leave and get back to his comfortable Plaza, with its dozens of secret links, corners and offices he can hide in. And Salem can’t wait to ditch the neon pink Zone front-door hi-vis, which he says is only suitable for Downtown Willy’s gay comedy club, opposite The Dog Star, where I shot camp hit-man Phil Preston the other day.

  The new guys, in contrast, look serious and overly-professional, like an Airfix model Army. Probably recruited straight from the membership list of Heath Gardner’s gym and sauna, then vetted by Mgr Stacie’s eye for sun-bed use and good dental work. Hurst would call them shirt-fillers - new licence-holders, no old school experience in any of them. Just the one goofy-looking guy, who is probably the token First-Aider, perhaps from leisure centre pool life-guarding or the Territorial Army. Solange is flirting relentlessly with most of them, while Pascaline ignores everyone, texting on her phone in a corner, or vanishing to the toilets to make calls. Apparently those two girls are staying on here. Solange is happy, with so many Action Man dolls around her to choose from, while Pascaline just looks pissed off. She used to do Downtown Willy’s front doors with Phil Preston. Funny, I haven’t heard anything about who might have been sent to work there, as replacements. Mostly the two managers stand on the front doors of the club, as per their SIA licence-holder status entitlement, so Phil and Pascaline were the eye candy. Whose eye - it’s hard to say.

  Mgr Stacie looks happy with her own new eye candy, anyway. I imagine it won’t be long before Mgrs Diane and Melanie are sneaking up here, with their camera phones, or arranging V.I.P. staff nights out to The Zone in order to Facebuddy the new door supervisor talent. Mind you, most of the Zone’s barmaids also look like supermodels, so it’ll be a full claws-out competition if they set their sights on anyone working here. Would be a relief to the likes of Ryan, Joel and Harry though, to get a bit of breathing space for themselves. Doorman Harry’s actually married, although you wouldn’t think so to look at him, and by the way he behaves. Apparently his wife’s a geriatric nurse who likes to pole-dance when she’s drunk. My psychosis has a problem with trying to picture this, having never met her face-to-face. I don’t know if it means she’s a pole-dancing retired elderly nurse herself - or a nurse who treats older persons, and I don’t like to ask. Either would be believable - Harry has celebrity crushes on everyone from Shakira and the Olsen twins to Tina Turner, Ruby Wax and Joan Rivers. His only regret in life is he’s too young ever to have met Mae West. Bit of a strange lad at times.

  I think I’ve missed his greetings of announcing he wants to punch someone, over the last week. It’s all a bit uptight and image-conscious here in The Zone.

  Cooper hangs around the end of the bar, chatting idly with me as the shift starts on my bar island position, and I have a weird sense of him looking for his own reality check, which I can’t help noticing I don’t have a copy of on me tonight. He seems a bit too random, a bit too escapist in mood, like someone’s been trying to pin him down of late. I can imagine who that might be. He seems to want to talk work, and general doorman gossip, in a way I realise makes him feel more secure in his senior door role. Even though he’s several years younger than me and I’ve been doing the job twice as long as him, I’m always polite enough not to point this out. Not to his face.

  “Have the others gone back to The Plaza already?” I ask instead, encouraging him with my lack of inside knowledge on current migratory door staff events.

  “Hurst and Niall are back there tonight, Jag Nut went to his uncle’s funeral today, so he’s on annual leave,” Cooper divulges. He accepts a glass of water from one of the bar staff, and looks at the swirling bubbles from the tap suspiciously, putting it down on the bar and watching to see if they settle.

  “What happened to his uncle?” I ask. “I heard it was something sudden.”

  “Old landmine. He was clearing No-Man’s-Land ex-security checkpoints with his team abroad. Tripped a twenty-year-old roadside bomb. Unlucky sod. Puts me off the thought of going to war for real.” Cooper shakes his head as a thin cloudy layer of scum gradually forms on the surface of his glass of water. “What the Hell is that stuff in the water, are we really drinking this shit?”

  “Might be residue from the glass washer tablets,” I point out.

  “Don’t think I want to drink that either, the last thing my intestines need is a diamond-like sparkle to them,” Cooper remarks, and feels in his pockets around his phone and keys for change. “Another crappy tight-wad venue that won’t give its staff free drinks. Do you want a can of pop? It’s all right, I’ll sort you out.”

  I accept a cola and we both snap our tins open in front of a passing Mgr Stacie’s cold nod of disapproval. Cooper glugs half of his in one gulp in order to summon a deliberately mutinous burp.

  “Lara,” he teases, blaming me humorously. “Gross.”

  I know it’s immature, but I grin anyway. The situation needs lightening up generally.

  “Doesn’t matter, we’re out of here for good at the end of tonight,” he reminds me. “Might as well do what we like. Have a wander. It’s this bunch of stuffed shirts who have to impress the managers now, not us. I’m off to see if there’s anything not nailed down that would look good in the boot of my car.”

  He grins at me and saunters off. This time I know he’s joking. Everything here is nailed down.

  I head up to the D.J. capsule overlooking the club, and find Crank in a similar rebellious mood, eating Chinese out of the cartons, listening to Santana, and chatting on Waffle on the venue’s ‘Free Whiffy’ wireless internet, while R&B chart trash is piped out of the mixing desk into the club.

  “Thought you were off to Vegas,” I greet him, as he offers me a salt-and-pepper battered king prawn.

  “Decided to take the double or nothing route,” he says. “Baccarat at 11:00 p.m. If I win I get to take a plus one to Vegas and fly First Class. Got any annual leave? You could be my close protection security for my million dollars.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I remark, washing down the prawn with a gulp of cola.

  “I’m serious,” he says, eyebrows raised. “I’m planning on taking my winning trip in time for the Dance D.J. convention. If I win that in Vegas, I get a trip to Miami to perform at the Latino Beach Ball. From there, it’s a short hop to Trinidad and Tobago to go house-hunting. Come fly with me. It’ll be fun. Get you out of this dive for a few days.”
/>   I chuckle.

  “Just show me the tickets, and I’m all yours,” I joke, taking another prawn as he holds out the container.

  “Deal,” he grins.

  As he withdraws his hand holding the empty container, and stretches out to drop it on the D.J. console beside his feet, which are resting up on it, the sleeve of his grey marl No Fear sweatshirt hikes up. Before I turn to leave, my brain has registered a huge diamond Rolex on his wrist, high-roller style.

  Imagining things, I tell myself. Not that I’d even have recognised it, from some P. Diddy promo or anything like that…

  It’s Hot Bods night in The Zone tonight, another gem of Mgr Stacie’s following the Bond theme fiasco on Tuesday. Meaning shadow dancers not half as good as the stripper I saw in Bar Celona at lunchtime, topless promotion boys shivering in the powerful air-conditioning under their pink satin bow ties, glitter and fake tan, and offers on fruity cocktails with fruitier names - the themed Hot Bods drinks menu listing their vitamin C content and other nutritional benefits (supposedly offsetting the alcohol percentage). Two on-site technique head-and-shoulder masseuses drift around V.I.P. offering to relax people. I debate over whether I should point out that it’s against International Therapist Training Council policy to treat anyone under the influence of alcohol. Maybe at the end of the night as a bit of industrial sabotage. Might be worth their while, knowing that their liability insurance would be void, should they be accused of assault or causing injury. That’s if they’re actually qualified and insured, of course.

  I think Cooper and I are thinking along a similar line of sadistic wit tonight, avoiding our fixed positions in favour of free roaming, neither of us having been shown any gratitude or loyalty for supporting the new venue. Cooper whispers to me in passing that he has raided all the condom machines until the only thing left in them are breath mints, looking quite pleased with himself as he wanders away in search of more mischief. I’m not sure whether he wants them for himself or just did it to spoil everyone else’s chances tonight. If he’s got a booty-call after work, Des will think she’s finally met her match when he empties his pockets at her place later. I picture her face as he tells her to call two friends to come over and join them, as he’s got more than enough Coop to go round tonight. Aiming to out-animal Viv Henson in the bedroom reputation stakes.