Red Light

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Pula mea!’ he snapped, brushing them off his trousers.

  Unnervingly close to his left ear, a strongly accented female voice said, ‘I would laugh, Mânios, if anything that you ever did could be funny.’

  Startled, Mânios Dumitrescu twisted himself around, but whoever it was ducked down behind his seat so that her face was hidden. All he could see was the sleeve of a black leather jacket and the leg of a pair of black denim jeans.

  ‘Who the fuck are you and what you do in my car!’ he shouted. He started to unbuckle his seat belt, but at that moment the lights changed to green and a truck blew its two-tone horn right behind him.

  ‘Okay! Okay!’ he screamed, but the truck blew its horn again, and now the cars behind joined in, too.

  He drove slowly up Summerhill, trying desperately to find a space to pull into the kerb, but it was a narrow road with a narrow pavement and the first hundred yards were bordered by the stony perimeter wall of Trinity Presbyterian Church. There was a bus stop fifty yards further up, but a 207 bus had just pulled into it, and the lay-by immediately beyond it, which served O’Donovan’s off-licence, was blocked by a council refuse truck.

  Meanwhile, the truck that had blown its horn at him stayed only about two feet behind the spare wheel of his Range Rover, aggressively revving its engine.

  Mânios Dumitrescu slowed down even more as he approached St Luke’s Cross, thinking he would turn left into Wellington Road and park outside the bookmaker’s. As they neared the junction, however, the woman behind him said, ‘Don’t even think about stopping, Mânios. Keep going. Go to the house where you were meaning to go anyway.’

  ‘Listen – who the fuck are you?’ Mânios Dumitrescu demanded, twisting around in his seat again. He slowed down almost to a standstill and this time he was treated to a deafening five-second blast from the truck. He turned back immediately and angrily stamped his foot down on the accelerator, so that he surged past St Luke’s Cross and kept on climbing up the Ballyhooly Road, his exhaust-pipe rattling like maracas.

  ‘Mânios – it does not matter to you who I am,’ said the woman after a while. In spite of her strong accent, she sounded quite cultured. She also sounded distracted, as if she were thinking about something else altogether, something much more important – or maybe somewhere else altogether, somewhere very far away, where everybody spoke like her.

  ‘So how do you know my name, hey?’ said Mânios Dumitrescu. ‘How do you know where I am supposed to be going?’

  ‘The Avenging Angel knows everything.’

  ‘And who the fucking fuck is the what? The Avenging Angel?’

  ‘Be patient, Mânios. Ssh! Don’t be in such a hurry to get to hell.’

  ‘What crap do you think you talk about, scorpie? What is to stop me from pulling over right up ahead here, then to drag you out of my car and throw you into road in front of bus?’

  It was a long, steep ascent up the Ballyhooly Road and the green hills of the surrounding countryside were beginning to rise into view all around them above the grey city rooftops. Because of that, Mânios Dumitrescu had gained at least two hundred yards on the truck and it was no longer tailgating close behind him. Dillon’s Cross was coming up, where there would be space for him to park outside the pharmacy and heave this unwelcome intruder out of the back of the Range Rover. He was so angry he was doing that sniffing, head-jerking thing again, and that made him even angrier. When he was younger, his school friends had teased him by calling him marionetǎ, or ‘puppet’, whenever he grew angry.

  ‘I told you,’ said the woman. ‘Keep going until you reach the house where you wanted to go. Do not stop. Do not turn around again to look at me. I am here. You will be able to see me soon enough, and then you will wish that you had not.’

  ‘Well, all I say to you is fuck you,’ said Mânios Dumitrescu. ‘Pizda mǎ-tii!’

  They had reached Dillon’s Cross now and he could see a space on the opposite side of the junction where he could pull in, but the traffic lights had just turned to red and he had to wait.

  As calmly as before, with no sense of urgency at all, the woman said, ‘All I say to you, Mânios, is that you can curse me as much as you like. But curses I can brush away like flies. What you cannot brush away is the gun that I am aiming at the back of your seat.’

  She paused for a moment, to allow this to sink in. Then she said, ‘I promise you that I do not lie to you, Mânios. If you try to stop before you reach 14 Glendale View, or if you turn around to look at me again, you will have more to clean out of your lap than chocolate biscuit crumbs.’

  Mânios Dumitrescu adjusted his rear-view mirror, trying to see her face, but the sun was shining in at a sharp angle through the rear window of the Range Rover and he was dazzled. At the same time, the traffic lights had changed to green. The truck had caught up with him now and blasted its horn again to get him moving.

  It took no more than three or four minutes for them to reach Glendale View, a terrace of eleven small houses, each of which stood at the top of a steeply sloping front garden. All the houses were painted different colours – pink, raspberry, green and grey, although two or three of them still displayed their original sandy-coloured pebbledash. Most of the gardens were crowded with green recycling bins and discarded building materials, but there were one or two small rockeries, and fibreglass plant pots, and even a concrete fountain like a cherub, although it dripped rather than splashed and its head was covered with a sinister blindfold of green slime.

  ‘You know where to park,’ said the woman.

  When they reached the end of the terrace, Mânios Dumitrescu turned into a narrow alleyway and drove up to a small courtyard of dilapidated lock-up garages.

  ‘So what do you want me to do now?’ he asked. He switched off the Range Rover’s engine and sat in the driver’s seat without moving. ‘I only believe that you have a gun because you tell me you have a gun, and I am always cautious when it comes to taking risk with my life. But maybe you don’t have a gun.’

  ‘You want to try to run away, and find out if I am lying to you or not?’

  ‘I would prefer to beat the cacat out of you.’

  ‘Try whichever one you like.’

  Mânios Dumitrescu didn’t have an answer for that. He sniffed, and then he gave an unexpectedly girlish sneeze.

  ‘Right,’ said the woman, ‘I am going to get out of the car now. I will stand back a little distance. Then – when I make the signal to you, you will get out of the car. Once you have shut the door you will drop your keys on to the ground. Then you will start to walk down the path and around the corner to number fourteen.’

  Mânios Dumitrescu started to say something, but then he must have realized the futility of saying anything, whether the woman had a gun or not, because all he managed to come out with was, ‘How do I—?’

  ‘You will let yourself into number fourteen. The door is on the latch, not locked, if that is what you were going to ask me. You will go straight up to the big bedroom which is on the left at the top of the stairs. I will be very close behind you. You will go into that bedroom and stand by the window. Then I will tell you what I want you to do next.’

  The woman opened her door and was about to step down from the Range Rover when Mânios Dumitrescu said, ‘So – are you going to tell me what you want me from me? I don’t even know who the fuck you are. Is this kidnap? You want money from my family? We are not rich people. You waste your time.’

  ‘It is not money I am looking for,’ said the woman. ‘You will find out.’

  ‘Is it drugs? If it is drugs, then what is all this circus for? I can get you all of the drugs you ever heard of, and I can get you some you never heard of.’

  ‘I am not interested in your drugs.’

  ‘Did you ever take LucY? I will bet money you never took LucY. Once LucY hit your brain, your whole life is change forever. You will fuck anybody, and it does not matter if they are pretty or ugly or thin or fat or nine years old or ninety, you will fuck
them all and every fuck will feel like heaven.’

  ‘Mânios—’

  ‘Hey, why do you think all of the prostitutes take it? From February it was illegal in Ireland but I can get you all the LucY you want.’

  ‘I told you, I am not interested in your drugs.’

  ‘Then what?’ he raged, punching his thighs so that the biscuit crumbs jumped up. ‘I do not understand! You want a piece of my business? That is it, isn’t it? You want a piece of my business! I should of know! It is always the same with you negris! You are too lazy to start a business of your own, so you steal the business of honest people who work fingers down to their bones!’

  ‘Honest people?’ said the woman. ‘Where? I do not see any honest people. I see only you.’

  With that, she climbed down from the Range Rover and walked away from it, at least twenty-five yards, before she eventually turned around and beckoned to him.

  Mânios Dumitrescu hesitated before he opened his door. He didn’t look at her, almost as if he didn’t want to acknowledge that she existed. For her part, she waited patiently, while the large white cumulus clouds slowly rolled overhead and the hooded crows soared around and around in leisurely circles, as unflustered as she was.

  His door clicked open and he stepped down from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Keys,’ she called out.

  It was only then that he raised his eyes and looked at her. She was an ebony-skinned young black woman, no more than twenty-three or twenty-four years old, with her hair shaved up on either side of her head and a tangled topknot of corkscrew curls. She wasn’t tall, no more than five foot six inches, but she was broad-shouldered, with large breasts and narrow hips and proportionately long legs.

  She was wearing black drainpipe jeans and black boots and a black T-shirt, with a sleeveless black leather waistcoat slung over it. Around her neck she was wearing a necklace made of beads and shells and claws, and both of her wrists were decorated with silver bracelets.

  ‘So – who are you?’ demanded Mânios Dumitrescu. He narrowed his eyes, but she was wearing huge wraparound sunglasses that hid most of her face and reflected the sunlight in two dazzling stars.

  ‘Keys,’ she repeated.

  ‘I don’t see no gun,’ Mânios Dumitrescu challenged her. ‘Where is this famous gun you say you got?’

  ‘You really don’t believe me?’

  ‘Ha! I believe my eyes, that is all. If my own mother said that she was the one who gave birth to me, I would not believe her, either.’

  The young woman reached into the right-hand pocket of her waistcoat and tugged out a flat grey pistol, not much larger than an iPhone 5.

  Mânios Dumitrescu lifted up both hands and said, ‘You joke me. That is toy.’

  ‘Try me,’ said the young woman.

  Mânios Dumitrescu took two or three moonwalking steps back, jingling his keys as if he were taunting the young woman to shoot him – that’s if she really could shoot him with a gun so small.

  She held the pistol up in both hands and pointed it at his midriff.

  ‘Keys,’ she said. ‘I am not the best of shots but I will try to blow off your dick.’

  There was a long moment of high tension. Mânios Dumitrescu stopped jingling his keys and stood absolutely still. He could have been one of the human statues who pose outside Brown Thomas in Patrick Street while passers-by pull faces at them, trying to break their concentration.

  The young woman remained motionless, too, keeping her pistol aimed between his legs.

  After almost a quarter of a minute, Mânios Dumitrescu dropped his heavy bunch of keys on to the concrete.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I play your game. What do you want me to do now?’

  ‘I told you. Walk slowly to number fourteen. Go inside. The door is not locked. Go upstairs to the main bedroom.’

  Mânios Dumitrescu reluctantly did as he was told, walking in a jerky, stumbling marionette way that betrayed how angry and frustrated he really felt, even though he was trying to give the young woman the impression that she didn’t bother him at all.

  Years ago, the front garden of number fourteen must have been the homeowner’s pride and joy. There were two flowerbeds, with borders made of terracotta rope-top tiles, and a large concrete gnome in each of them. Now, however, the garden was overgrown with bindweed and all the red and blue paint had been weathered from the gnomes, so that they looked like two lepers.

  The front door had originally been painted lime-green, but all that paint was blistering and peeling. It juddered on its hinges when Mânios Dumitrescu pushed it open and stepped inside.

  Once he was standing in the hallway, he called out, ‘Bridget! Rodika! Miski!’

  ‘You are wasting your breath, Mânios,’ the young woman told him. ‘Your girls have all gone out for the day.’

  Mânios Dumitrescu stared at her, and now he was really astounded. ‘They have gone out? Where? Who the fuck said that they could go out? They are not allowed to go out! They are supposed to be working! What has happened to their clients? Those girls can’t go out!’

  ‘They can and they have and all their appointments for today have been cancelled.’

  ‘What! You can’t fucking do this to me. This is my business, scorpie! This is my bread and butter!’

  ‘I know,’ said the young woman. ‘Why do you think I am here? Now, get upstairs.’

  There was another moment of tension. Mânios Dumitrescu stood with his hand on the banister, breathing deeply and evenly to control himself. The tense feeling was accentuated by the narrow, claustrophobic hallway, with its faded floral wallpaper and the bead curtain hanging over the kitchen doorway to try and give it the atmosphere of a brothel. A dried-up yucca plant crouched in a planter at the foot of the stairs, as if a huge dead crab had suddenly dropped down from the landing above.

  The whole house smelled of damp and musky perfume and stale sweat and bleach. Through the wall, they could hear the muffled sound of a television comedy from next door, with occasional waves of canned laughter.

  Eventually, Mânios Dumitrescu began to climb slowly up the stairs, with the young woman only three or four steps behind him. When he reached the landing he hesitated again, but then he turned into the main bedroom on the left-hand side and she followed him.

  ‘Now what?’ he said.

  Although the curtains were drawn, they were of cream-coloured loose weave and so the sunlight filtered in. Most of the bedroom was taken up by a king-sized bed, covered with a shiny pink satin quilt which had innumerable stains on it. On the ceiling above the bed was a mirror with smudges and fingerprints on it, and on the bedside table stood three dildoes of different sizes – one maroon one, which was gigantic, almost the size of a man’s forearm with its fist clenched, and two thinner ones, with a fourth dildo curled around them, which was long and snake-like and double-ended. There were also several bottles of Durex Play lubricant and a pack of baby-wipes, a lamp with a pink frilly shade, and a clock.

  On the wall facing the bed hung a framed Jack Vettriano poster of a nude woman. Something was smeared across her face, which could have been chocolate.

  Mânios Dumitrescu looked around. ‘So what happen now?’ he demanded. ‘Why did you want to come with me here? I come here anyway. But my girls, I have to get them back. Every hour they don’t work, it cost me money. It cost them money, too. Ten appointments a day, at least, that is the rule.’

  ‘How old is Miski?’ asked the young woman.

  ‘What? Young, of course. Who is going to want to fuck some old granny? But how should I know?’

  ‘Miski is fifteen years old.’

  ‘And? So? She likes what she does. She is good at it! Best gobble-job in Cork, that is what they say! And what else could she do? She cannot read. She cannot write. She cannot add up number! So what are you? Some friend of Miski?’

  ‘Take off your clothes,’ said the young woman.

  ‘What? Are you crazy?’

  She pointed that small grey gun
at him again, directly at his face this time.

  ‘Take off your clothes, Mânios. All of them.’

  Ten

  Mânios Dumitrescu turned away, one hand lifted, shaking his head.

  ‘You think I would take off my clothes just because you ask me? Like I say, you’re crazy.’

  ‘No, Mânios, I am not asking you. I am telling you.’

  ‘Oh, you with your toy gun? Well, the answer is of course no. You can go and fuck yourself. I have enough of this game now. I want to know where my girls are and I want you to go. Enough of this cacat. Look—’

  He reached into his pocket, took out a flick-knife and sprung it open. ‘What is it to be? Huh?’ he said, circling it around and around, loose-wristed, like somebody used to fighting with knives. ‘I think real knife beat toy gun, how about you?’

  The young woman lifted up her sunglasses and tucked them into her corkscrew curls. She had strikingly unusual looks, with high cheekbones and wide-apart brown eyes. Her nose was short and straight and she had a strong, prominent chin, as if she had a very slight underbite. Even though he was so angry and so irritated, Mânios Dumitrescu could recognize an exceptionally attractive woman when he saw one.

  ‘Hey …’ he said, suddenly grinning his rat-like grin. ‘Why don’t we just say quits, yes? You go, you get out of here, and we will leave it like that. No hard feeling either side. How about that?’

  ‘Don’t come any closer,’ she warned him.

  ‘Oh yes? And you are really going to stop me, are you, with that pea-shooter?’

  The young woman reached into the left-hand pocket of her waistcoat and produced a slim black shotgun shell. She held it up and said, ‘You must know what this is.’

  Mânios Dumitrescu stared at it without saying anything.

  ‘Maybe you have not heard of these guns,’ the young woman told him. ‘They are called personal protection pistols and they take just one of these shotgun shells. But one is enough if you are standing in the way when one of them is fired, which you will be.’