“Can’t believe the cheeky buggers still sneak in and flyer my customers,” she says, dropping them in the bin. “I shall be having a word with my front door team again, letting in those cheap trollops. It’s not even as if they go out looking nice, it’s always the Heroin Twins, or Eating Disorders Anonymous. I’m sure Manager Diane always recruited her promotional staff with the tag line: ‘Failed Entry To A Fashion Degree? Get An A-List Job With Us’. They all look like they’re dying of anaemia. All yellow and thin and bedraggled, with those horrible dark circles around the eyes. Like they haven’t eaten or slept since they were eight years old.”
“Who’s managing Sin now?” I ask. “I haven’t been back to The Plaza yet for any news since Diane moved.”
“Oh, they’ve got a temporary brand manager from the company in, what’s his name, Austin Healy. Some ageing ex-Yuppie who does business make-overs for the hospitality industry. Sideburns galore and a duck’s arse. According to Stacie at The Zone, he’s head-hunting her and one or two other glamour-pusses to take over there. Nicole Ladd, you know, the topless model? He’s asked her. And Misty Fens, the Porn Star who writes that magazine sex psychology column now. He’s trying to make it over as a boutique strip club. As if folks are going to travel from London and all places to our nasty little seaside resort, and get half-arsed lap-dances from spotty University drop-outs just because some J-cup Z-list celebrity has put her name on the advertising website as executive manager or something.”
“Yeah, I can’t figure Stacie out, to be honest,” I admit, sitting on the workstation between the monitors. “What’s she doing at The Zone? Venue management seems to be beneath her. She doesn’t socialize, just cracks her whip at everyone.”
“She’s a brand temp from London, like Austin,” Elaine tells me. “They have a certain look and image that the company wants to utilize, when opening a venue, to attract all the beautiful people in. Then after about three to six months they’ll get a local licensee in - hopefully one with a clean record, and some good accounting and legal contacts in the area, who doesn’t drink too much of the stock or shag too many of the staff - and abandon the place as it slides back down to the level of the rest of town. Stacie was a Harley Street plastic surgery receptionist, and then a plastic surgery sales rep abroad - Spain, Greece, Thailand, Rio and all places - had a bit of a nightclub doorman fetish. Used it to get into V.I.P. bars and clubs, dated one or two footballers out of it. Then she realised the perks were better as a club manager and licensee, and worked her way up the corporate ladder until she became a company Face. The girl is a forty-seven-year-old walking goody-bag hag. I don’t think she actually pays for anything in her life ever, except for her Filipino housekeeper, and her Border & Butler’s grocery bill. She gets beauty treatment free, liposuction free, cars free, travel free, hotels free - all because of her previous work experience. She’s even supposedly been on a date with one of the James Bonds. She was one of those Mystery Girls photographed on a yacht by paparazzi in the Caribbean with him, years ago - while he was on holiday or filming, and suddenly had no eye-bags in his next movie.”
It sounds awesome. Elaine has as much gossip on management and company devices, as I get in my job at my level. Elaine could have her own whole To Do list with the amount of information available to her, if corporate backstabbing came with a price attached for upwardly-mobile contract killers to pick up on. She’s the kind of woman head office would send Valentine’s cards to, hinting that she ought to work for them.
I’d be interested to know if Austin Healy has had time to rummage in Mgr Diane’s dodgy chiller in the basement yet, or whether she’s moved her gory stash already.
“We should take Charmaine out with us next time we all go to lunch,” Elaine suggests, locking the safe finally. “She’s ever so sweet. And the Chang sisters are fun too. Sadie was drunk after work yesterday saying Sylvia and Miranda are wasting money on a Law and a Business degree when they’ll only end up running their parents’ Chinese restaurant, so Miranda talked for half an hour about profit and loss forecasts and economic stability for the next five years in the food markets, while the guys teased Sadie that she’s effectively getting forty grand into student debt for three years spent colouring in and gluing sequins. Sadie rang Viv Henson to try and get some sympathy, but apparently he was of the same opinion as the others and teased her even more. So she was in a horrible mood. Why Viv, do you think she’s on to what happened with you two, and is up for jumping in your grave?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” I nod, feeling quite objective about it, since my own run-in with Viv earlier. “It sounds fairly typical. Particularly now Jag Nut’s off the market. Mind you, it might just be that Viv is the only doorman’s number she’s got who’s working at Pole-Ka-Doodle-Doo, while she knows Joel Hardy is hanging around there after work. She was probably fishing for a sympathy invitation to join them.”
“Ah, yes, that sounds likely too. She’s a sly one, isn’t she? I think she could be a Stacie wannabe in the making. Let’s get a staff drink, and see if my new glass-collector has found anything interesting on the floor.”
We sit in our usual spot in V.I.P, while Ben quietly writes up reports sitting at the bar on the far side. Both Elaine and I are enjoying a lemonade and lime with no vodka, both of us having felt the effects after last time, and watching more MTV on the plasma screens.
“I think I might be getting over it,” she says, glancing at Ben’s back from a distance, with a peaceful sort of smile on her pixie-like face.
“What?” I ask, not knowing from which direction this observation is approaching.
“Divorce,” she says. “And my fireman fetish, actually. It’s just a uniform and a romantic hero image, after all. A stereotype.”
“Archetype stereotype,” I agree. “Inside every successful woman is a damsel in distress still, waiting to be rescued.”
“You’ve never been in distress,” she chuckles. “You’re always fine.”
I forget frequently that most of my friends don’t know about my identity disorder, and therefore have some unknown image of me as a functional person. Likely a sort of independent relationships-counsellor-life-coach-friend-type person. For some of the girls I know, a useful intermediary between them and male door staff, without guessing my compliance in those matters is non-existent, without anything genuine going on to support or defend for them. I’m a social dead-end for that sort of thing. Got enough on my plate, without playing matchmaker to fickle wannabe door WAGs.
“Well,” I say, hazarding that a little appropriate vulnerability wouldn’t harm the conversation. “A bit of counselling can go a long way.”
“That’s why I’ve got you,” Elaine grins, and I realise I was right beforehand. I am the sidekick, the wingman to all my friends. She still thinks we’re talking about her. But actually, I don’t mind. At least I’ve said it, and she’s interpreted it to mean I’m supporting her - not undermining my own social image by showing any shortcomings of my own. Never mind. Probably wouldn’t do any good to show a human side. Women only learn that sort of thing about each other through sharing the relationship issues they have, and so far, I haven’t had any that would be considered normal to share with my friends.
I feel in my pockets for my phone, wondering if Connor’s tried to ring, and recall that I’ve left it locked in the car.
“Damn, I’ve just remembered something,” I say. Besides that, I’m tired, and meant to be on this wild goose chase with D.J. Crank tomorrow. “Have to go. Enjoy the live entertainment.”
I nod towards Ben, currently scribbling on the bar surface, as his biro threatens to run out before completing his paperwork.
“I will.” Elaine gives me a hug before I get up. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”
I let myself out of Crypto’s second Fire Exit at the far end of V.I.P, making sure it slams shut behind me, and cross the road into the skate park.
Maybe close friends are meant to have secrets from each other, stu
ff they keep private, I think. Aware of a lingering hung-over type feeling and headache as my brain registers I’m done for the night, and on my homeward bound routine. I cover a yawn, force of habit, even though as far as I know nobody’s watching. Maybe getting overloaded by talkative histrionic types who apparently have no social discretion, or inhibitions, isn’t the best example of how relationships between friends are conducted. Meaning those are the extraordinary ones, not the norm. Maybe normal daylight denizens are more conservative in their socializing and sharing.
A breeze whistles through the arcs and architecture of the ramps and half-pipes in the park, and the newly-flourished leaves on the trees scatter fragmented shadows against the graffiti, from the infrequent street lamps along the main pathways. The breeze has an icy snap to it, making my eyes stream as it hits the side of my face. I wipe the aggravated tears from one cheek, and the wind-speed suddenly doubles, yanking my coat hem from around my knees and whipping it against my legs.
There is a sudden rushing noise in my ears and a thump in the middle of my back, my left arm pulled around behind me as if grabbed from the side. I see my elongated shadow on the ground in front of me stumble, inexplicably alone, as if dragged into a Freddy’s Nightmare of haunted darkness.
The next invisible blow comes from the front, and I grab whatever hits me and throw, using its own momentum. I feel the vibration of the ramp nearest me as it lands heavily, and through the cold-smarting tears see the white human outline in the graffiti, like a 1940’s Chicago gangster crime scene.
My ears ring from a third blow to the side of the head, and as I go down onto the tarmac, all I can think is, What have I eaten today that would do that?
Adam Grayson’s face isn’t the one I would have chosen to be the first I saw as my waking view, but at least it’s in my preferred context inside an ambulance, not from the viewpoint of lying in an open grave in a cemetery, or tied to his bed with his current girlfriend, about to make my first and last porn movie debut.
“Hello there,” he says, seeing my eyes open. “I want you to look at this light and follow it.”
“Ow,” I react automatically, as the bright light shines in my eyes, and I blink, but do as instructed.
“Can you tell me your name?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I say guardedly, not entirely sure who it’s appropriate I should wake up as.
“Do you remember where you were last?” he continues. I see him scrawl something on the back of his glove, but I’m lying at the wrong angle to read it.
“Skate park opposite Crypto,” I reply promptly.
He nods.
“Looks like you’ve had a seizure,” he says. “Are you on any medication for epilepsy?”
“I’m not epileptic - not as far as I know,” I reply. “I had one before as a reaction to medication when I was sectioned - Largactyl and Melleril. Never told anyone, I was alone in the ward at the time. One moment I’m getting thrown across the room by the Invisible Man, the next I woke up on the floor and got back into bed, went back to sleep.”
“Could be a short circuit, a flashback,” he says. “How long ago?”
“About eighteen years.”
“Hmph.” He grunts non-committally. “Have you ever taken cocaine?”
“Had cocaine solution after sinus surgery in hospital to stop haemorrhage, followed by Temazepam or Diazepam to counteract psychotropic effect.”
“How long ago?”
“Sixteen years.”
“Narcolepsy?”
“Sounds like a criminal offence,” I say, making an attempt at humour. “No, I’ve never had it.”
“Any chest pains or breathing difficulties?”
“No.”
“Are you drinking?”
“She got drunk last night,” a familiar voice cuts in. “With me. Other than that, rarely.”
Adam moves aside and I see Connor standing behind him, watching me lying on the stretcher. His arms are folded and he’s biting his thumbnail, in thought.
“Right,” Adam nods, and looks back at me. “How’s your sleep patterns?”
“Crap,” I reply.
He makes a note on the back of his purple glove.
“Any strange feelings before it happened, out-of-character feelings, like talking to strangers or disinhibited behaviour?” he asks me. “Meaning out of your normal range of personality variables.”
I shake my head.
“Done anything unusual today, eaten anything new, let anybody buy you a drink?” he continues.
“How long have you got?” I ask. “It’s been a long day.”
“Are you on the Pill?”
“Dianette sometimes, for my skin. Been on the most recent prescription about three months.”
“Taking your thyroxin regularly, and having it checked?”
“Yes.”
“Taking any other medication or drugs?”
“Only aspirin and Superflu, recently.”
“Okay. Your eyes look fine but they’re not synchronized in dilation, which could be either an infected sinus congestion, over-tiredness, thyroxin malabsorption, or a knock on the head when you collapsed, so I’m sending you in for tests tonight,” he says, looking at the time on his watch and making another note. “Just to be on the safe side. You should try going to the gym or swimming instead of taking Superflu next time, the exercise mobilizes the lymphatic system and shifts infection out of the body quicker. I always go for a run. Works with a hangover too. Connor said he’ll drive you over to A&E if you’re awake, and fully compus mentus. How do you feel about that?”
I glance past him at Connor, who nods reassuringly.
“Yeah, fine,” I confirm.
“I’ll call it in, they’ll be expecting you,” he says, and turns to Connor. “Is that okay? Might take a few hours of your time.”
“Yeah, we’ve got plenty of staff on duty tonight. What about you, are you on Taylor watch?”
“Yeah, more babysitting. About time they cracked down on staff lockins - those things can cause all sorts of trouble.”
“She wouldn’t know - never hangs around long enough after work,” Connor remarks. “Come on, Missy. I’m driving you in your car, otherwise you’ll get clamped in the morning - better give me the keys.”
He gives me his hand as I sit up from the stretcher, and helps me step down from the ambulance as well. Adam just says goodnight, and hauls the steps back inside, slamming the door.
Connor doesn’t say anything as we walk the few yards to my car, unlocking it. It feels really strange, walking around to the passenger side and getting in.
“How long was I asleep in the ambulance?” I ask, opening the glove-box and getting my phone out, as Connor does up his seatbelt. Three missed calls, all from him.
“Not too long,” he says. “I was outside The Zone and had just tried ringing you when I found your car wasn’t outside, then head office rang me and said you’d left Crypto to cut across the park and not made it back to your car. I rang you again a couple of times, to see if I could find you quicker by the ring-tone, but luckily when I got to the skate ramps you were in plain sight. Head office sent Adam over from The Plaza where he was monitoring kick-out time. Stop leaving your phone in the car, it’s not just for head office to inconvenience you with.”
“I don’t do it that often.” I put it back in my pocket anyway. He starts the engine using the key ignition. I’m glad to assume that means it’s only my own fingerprint recognition scanned into the car. I still like to feel I have some independent control over my own life.
“I’m guessing you don’t black out often either, otherwise you’d keep it with you.” Connor shakes his head to himself, waiting for the ambulance to depart before pulling out of the parking space behind. “I knew today was a bad idea, changing your work pattern. Too much information going through your little brain in one go. Something was bound to blow a fuse.”
I don’t say anything else as we drive to hospital. I get the impression he’s no
t in a good mood.
The A&E receptionist confirms my details, phones through to Referral Admissions to tell them I’ve arrived, and a Dr. Ji-Yong arrives shortly, with forms for the Haematology and X-ray departments.
“I’d rather walk,” I say, as she says she’ll call a porter with a wheelchair. “I know my way around fine.”
“It’s all right, I’m staying with her,” Connor adds.
“When you’re done, come back to Casualty, then the consultant on duty will see you and go over your results,” she says.
I have to do the usual bodily fluids samples as well as a blood pressure check, and they also take a forehead swab with a sterile paper strip, which I happen to recall is a test for cocaine use. When they ask, I manage to remember everything I ate and drank, from the cup of tea at Connor’s and aspirin, to some of the Haribo I confiscated and withheld from Cooper, right up to the lemonade & lime at Crypto – I guess I’m not that much of a diet freak now - but also that virtually everything I ate today came from other sources which I didn’t oversee, except for watching Connor make tea this morning. I hope nothing turns up in any of these tests, as it’d be virtually untraceable.
When I go to the X-ray department it turns out they want to do a C.S.I. scan, not because my brain is a Crime Scene but because they want a full Cross-Sectional Image. The newest model higher speed scanner is out of service due to technical problems with the drive computer, so I’m stuck on the standard one, which I’m told could take up to an hour. Or longer, if the computer fucks up halfway through. I’m told during this time that I have to keep as still as possible, not even move my eyes, but it doesn’t matter because as soon as they start, I fall asleep anyway.
The consultant waiting for me back in A&E is Mr. Katana, a Neurologist, whose pink shirt and purple tie make me think of Pole-Ka-Doodle-Doo hen-night special door staff uniforms, but whose openly benign and learned expression behind his red-rimmed spectacles is the complete opposite.
“I’ll wait outside if you want,” says Connor, but I shake my head.
Death & the City Book Two Page 27