Papercuts

by Colin Bateman

  Michael said, ‘This is... lovely. But I have to ask – if you live here, why are you working for Mr Crilly in his car wash?’

  Navar smiled round at him: ‘And what makes you think it’s his car wash?’

  ‘I, uh, just presumed. And the way he orders you about and he collects the money and seems to come and go as he pleases...’

  As he waited for the kettle to boil, Navar stood against the sink with his arms folded. He had a slight smile on his face. ‘I’m afraid, Michael, that you have the wrong end of the stick. I own the car wash. Mr Crilly works for me.’

  ‘He... are you sure? I mean, it doesn’t look like—’

  ‘And that’s deliberate. He talks to the customers and he collects the money – you see, in towns like this, people are not comfortable talking to foreigners. They’re not – racist, if you understand, they’re just... shy, perhaps? Afraid of the unfamiliar, even in this day and age. It is not a problem, it is what it is.’

  ‘But your whole family is working there, even your little children...’

  ‘It is good for them to learn the family business.’

  ‘But shouldn’t they be in school or...?’

  ‘They are home-schooled. And they are doing extremely well. We can set our own hours, it works well for us.’

  ‘Gosh. Well. I hadn’t thought of that. And, and, the car wash... pays for all of this?’ Michael waved his arm around the kitchen, but meant the house and the car and the big televisions.

  The kettle had boiled and Navar slipped two teabags into sturdy mugs. ‘Michael – people here will not wash their own cars. If they are willing to throw their money around, it would be remiss of me not to catch it. But – to answer your question – does that car wash pay for all of this? No, it does not. It pays for some of it.’

  ‘And if you don’t mind me asking...?’

  ‘Where does the rest come from? Not at all. I am not hiding anything or doing anything illegal. It comes from the other twelve car washes I own, in towns all over your beautiful country. All of them employing local people, I might add, and all of them – very successful.’

  Navar brought the tea across to the table, then returned for milk from the fridge and a small bowl of sugar. As he set them down, Michael said, ‘You know, this is wonderful, and it’s exactly the kind of story my boss would love to run. A real good-news story. He’s always banging on about us sending out a positive message, this’ll be right up his street. Do you think you would—?’

  Navar gave a little shrug. ‘I do not think it will do any harm. But tell me, this newspaper of yours... Is it lucrative?’

  Michael gave an involuntary laugh. ‘You joking? It’s dying on its feet!’

  *

  Right up until five minutes before Alix’s master plan swung into action Rob was still saying no, no, no, there was no way on earth he was doing that. It was ridiculous.

  ‘There’s no one else, Rob. You think Pete would do it...?’

  ‘No, of course he wouldn’t because he’s not a mug like—’

  ‘I wouldn’t even ask him because, for one, he’d have a hernia if he ever had to move out from behind his desk, and for two, he’s a big chicken, we both know that. He’s not a reporter like you, he’s a desk jockey. This is your chance to get back out there, to bring this story home. You’ll be the one picking up the awards for this, not me.’

  They were in Alix’s car, parked about fifty metres down from the house of sin. Sean was in the back.

  ‘Thanks for the pep talk, Alix,’ said Rob. ‘But you forget, I’m the editor of the paper, if anyone’s going to be a desk jockey, then it’s me, I’m not supposed to—’

  ‘Supposed to? Is there a book of rules? Seriously, Rob – it’s not asking that much. I know you can do it. Come on. I’d suggest Michael but he’s too young, he melts when ordinary women talk to him, he’d disappear completely if he was put in there with—’

  ‘I’d go,’ said Sean, ‘but you know...’ and he held up his camera.

  Alix suddenly pointed up the road ahead of them. ‘And there he is...!’

  There was a run-down terraced house about a hundred metres away, which Marja had identified as the latest incarnation of Rory’s brothel. They only had his forename, and without a surname even Pete was a bit stuck. Now he was standing just outside the closed front door, talking on his phone. He was a tall man with long curly hair and a goatee beard. According to Marja, Rory ran his business from a similar series of largely anonymous houses across the country that he rented out on short leases. He constantly moved location so that neighbours wouldn’t become overly suspicious and call in the law. This latest house, and where they were parked, was on Victoria Road, overlooking the harbour. It was close to but just outside the town centre. There was a car park about fifty metres away, which meant there wasn’t a constant stream of cars stopping outside.

  ‘You’re sure it’s—?’ Rob asked.

  ‘The hair and beard, I’d say he fits Marja’s description. And I’d say that looks like a punter.’

  There was a second man, this one sandy-haired, somewhat rotund and wearing a smart-looking black business suit, walking briskly along Victoria Road, but he slowed as he approached the brothel. He nervously touched his tie, and then checked his back pocket, presumably for his wallet, before peering more closely at the numbers on the houses. He actually walked past the brothel, perhaps unnerved by Rory standing outside, but then he turned, clearly took a deep breath, literally girded his loins and marched back towards the front door. He reached for the doorbell, but before he could press it Rory spoke to him. There was a brief exchange, and then they both stepped inside. Rory reappeared less than a minute later, closing the door after him and taking up the same position.

  ‘See,’ said Alix, ‘easy as that.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  Rob took a deep breath. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this.’ He swallowed. ‘Who am I again?’

  ‘You’re John Grant. All set up by text. You’re booked in at 6 p.m., so you better get your skates on. And don’t forget your money, all nicely pilfered from petty cash. You can ask for a receipt if you like... What can possibly go wrong?’

  ‘Don’t even say that. We don’t even know for sure, she’s in there.’

  ‘We’re pretty sure, and even if she isn’t, you’re still getting to see the inside of a brothel. Unless of course you already—’

  ‘No, I don’t...’

  ‘Single man...’

  ‘Please...’

  ‘I’m not the one with a red face.’

  ‘I can’t help having a red face. It’s blood pressure.’

  ‘Or guilt...’

  ‘Alix, I—’

  ‘Relax, I’m only winding you up.’

  ‘Okay, well, it’s not—’

  ‘Unless I’m not, and you really do...’

  ‘Oh, for Christ sake... Right, here I go...’

  And he was out of the car then and striding towards Rory’s brothel, which, for at least the first few paces, seemed like the more comfortable option. It wasn’t that he had actually been to one before – he really hadn’t – he just hated looking so guilty in front of Alix. And Sean, of course. He couldn’t help it if he coloured easily. If someone had accused him of assassinating President Kennedy, he would have turned scarlet just as quickly.

  Rory was still on the phone, or pretending to be; Rob suspected it was his routine for appraising punters, as if he could somehow check if they were either cops or psychopaths. As he approached the front door Rob deliberately avoided making eye contact, but before he could ring the bell Rory snapped out: ‘Help you there, mate?’

  ‘Oh – no, no thanks – I’ve an... old friend...’

  ‘I know why you’re here.’ There was a scowl. Up close he looked to be in his mid-forties, his skin heavily tanned, his brow corrugated. ‘What’s the name?’

  ‘Rob Cullen...’ Rob realized his mistake almost before he said it, but he couldn’t stop
it from coming out. Rory’s eyes flitted down to his phone, and then up again to Rob. ‘...Sorry, sorry,’ Rob said quickly, ‘it’s John... John Grant... Sorry, I was using a...’

  Rory didn’t look surprised or annoyed. ‘Don’t worry, everyone does it. This past week alone I’ve had George Best and Vladimir Putin. It’s just a way of keeping the appointments straight, so as long as you have the cash you’re good to go.’

  ‘I have the cash okay,’ said Rob, reaching into his jacket, ‘a hundred and—’

  ‘Not out here.’ Rory produced a key and opened the front door. Once inside, in a hall that smelled of Pine Fresh and was bare save for a telephone table stacked with unopened bills, he clicked his fingers and said, ‘Now I’ll be taking that hundred and fifty.’

  Rob handed it over. As he did, and Rory began to count it out, he noticed a faded paramilitary tattoo on the brothel- keeper’s forearm.

  Satisfied, Rory said: ‘The girls are in the lounge at the top of the stairs. You take your pick. You have twenty minutes. Show some respect, no rough stuff, you want longer or any extras, you pay the girl, she knows the prices.’ Rory nodded up the stairs. ‘So, have a nice day.’

  Rob swallowed involuntarily.

  ‘First time?’

  ‘Ahm, yes it is...’

  ‘Well, nothing to worry about. They’re very good, and they’ve seen it all before, whether you’re hung like a bull or a squirrel. Relax, enjoy and I guarantee – you’ll be back for more.’

  He gave Rob a theatrical wink before slipping back outside to resume his role checking on arriving punters. He was also guarding the exit – in case someone tried to rough up a girl or make off without paying for extras, or perhaps, Rob reflected as he hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, he was waiting to hammer any undercover reporter that tried to screw with his lucrative business.

  Rob’s eyes were drawn to the mail stacked on the telephone stand. The top letter was clearly an electric bill, and addressed to one Rory McBride. Well, if nothing else, at least the mystery of his name was solved. He could back out now and still come out ahead. Minus, of course, the £150 from petty cash. As he began to mount the stairs Rob deliberately flooded his mind with ideas about how he was going to explain the missing money to Gerry, mostly so that he wouldn’t have to think about what was waiting at the top. But it was no use. When he stepped out onto the landing and was confronted by three girls sitting on a chaise longue and clad only in black lingerie, he was even redder of face and grinning like an idiot.

  The girls, blonde-brunette-blonde, all said ‘Hi!’ together, like the Andrews Sisters, but also, not like the Andrews Sisters.

  Rob said, ‘Hi!’ right back at them, although in a voice high-pitched and cracked. The light in the hall was not particularly good, which was probably on purpose. The three girls all stood up, but it was the middle one, with the darker hair, who came forward. Perhaps it was her turn, or she was in charge – the madam, or maybe that was a term he’d picked up from bad TV. He was still grinning, he couldn’t help it. His shirt was sticking to his back. She said, ‘Hello, sir – you have come for good time?’

  Up close, she was forty-five if she was a day. Too old for the girl he was looking for. He glanced over her shoulder at the other two – one looked to be of similar age, buxom, the other, a skinny wee thing with a pockmarked face, who was more likely in her twenties.

  ‘I was – told to ask for Anya.’

  There was a slight rolling of the eyes in response – a kind of bored resignation – before she turned on her very high heels and guldered up at the ceiling, ‘Anya – another one for you!’

  The woman returned to her seat. Out of sight, a door opened above them, there came the clip-clip of heels on a bare wooden floor, and then again as they descended a short flight of stairs. Then a small, almost cherubic-looking face peered over a bannister opposite the chaise longue, and a single finger indicated for Rob to follow. Rob cleared his throat, then did as he was told. As he walked past the three women, he said ‘Ladies’, and then began to mount the steps. Looking up, Anya’s black lacy bottom was just at his eye level. He swallowed.

  There was a door at the top, which led into an attic room with a slanting roof and a foot-square view of the darkening sky. Before him there was a double bed with a quilt hanging off one side. A half bottle of vodka and a saucer brim-full of ash sat on a small locker. There were magazines and assorted shoes and underwear scattered on the floor. Anya was standing in a small en suite bathroom, checking herself in the mirror. She was undeniably pretty, with short brown hair. When she stepped back into the room and he saw her properly for the first time, he realized that she didn’t look any older than seventeen. She was already reaching to unhook her bra when Rob said ‘No – please... don’t...’ but it was already too late.

  *

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea,’ said Alix, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel. ‘Maybe we should just have walked up and confronted him. Rob’s been gone for ever.’

  ‘He’s been gone about two minutes,’ said Sean.

  ‘Well, it feels like for ever.’

  ‘I know. Imagine sending your boyfriend into a—’

  ‘Shut up! He’s not my... Don’t you ever say—’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on...’

  ‘Well, he’s absolutely not...’

  ‘Although it is the sort of reaction you’d get if you were trying to keep it secret and he really was...’

  ‘Sean!’

  ‘Just saying...’

  ‘Well, don’t.’

  ‘I’m only winding you up.’

  ‘Well, you’re not. You’re just being annoying.’

  ‘Youse get on very well.’

  ‘I get on very well with you, it doesn’t mean—’

  ‘Well, I’m open to offers.’

  ‘Oh catch yourself on and concentrate on your job.’

  Sean grinned and raised his telephoto lens again, framing Rory perfectly. ‘That’s the thing about stakeouts,’ he said. ‘Too much time to kill, gets you thinking about who’s doing what to who.’

  ‘To whom.’

  ‘Sure about that?’

  ‘No. Not really. Anyway there’s nothing—’

  ‘She... doth protest too—’

  ‘Shut up!’

  He shut up. For about thirty seconds. Then he said, ‘Do you watch Friends?’

  ‘Everyone watches Friends. There isn’t anything else on.’ Sean nodded. After another twenty seconds of silence: ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Chandler and Monica. They were doing it but trying to keep it quiet. But it always comes out.’

  ‘Jesus. Give it a—’

  ‘Just saying, like.’

  ‘We are not Chandler and Monica.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Another ten seconds. ‘Because he’s older, Rob would be more like Tom Selleck.’

  Alix snorted. ‘If he was anything like Tom Selleck, I would be shagging him. But as it happens I’m—’

  ‘Christ, here we go!’ But Sean wasn’t looking at Alix, he was looking at Rob charging down the road towards them.

  Alix saw him, too. ‘Bloody hell!’

  And then Rory in pursuit. He was about twenty metres back, and running with a very strange, staccato gait, almost as if there were weights attached to his ankles. Alix started the engine. Sean flung open the back door. As Rob reached the car he flung himself into the back seat and, without waiting for a bloody obvious instruction, Alix took off, with the back door swinging in the wind and Rory yelling something incomprehensible after them.

  They got to the end of the road. Alix stopped, checking for traffic and indicating left. She could see Rory in the mirror, still that weird body movement, but bearing down.

  ‘Just go!’ Rob yelled.

  Sean cackled as he fired off a stream of photos out of the back window. Just as Rory was about to catch them Alix pulled out of Victoria Road and sped off towards the town centre, leaving the brothel owner flailing
in her wake. Rob finally managed to grapple the door shut while shouting, ‘Bloody hell! Bloody hell!’

  Sean laughed even harder. ‘What’re we running away for?! There’s three of us!’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say!’ cried Rob. ‘He was swearing all kinds of violence! Bloody hell!’

  ‘What happened?’ Alix demanded, staring at him in the mirror, ‘What bloody happened in there...?!’

  Rob placed his hand on his chest. ‘Wait... wait till I get my... Bloody hell...’ And then he too was laughing. ‘Bloody hell. I’m too old for this. I was always too old for this! Bloody hell!’

  There was a car park at the end of Queen’s Parade. Alix threw the car in there, driving to the emptiest part and screeching to a halt. She swivelled in her seat.

  Rob shook his head. ‘Bloody... hell. Anyway... I give your man the money and he sends me up to the girls. I ask for Anya, she comes down from, like, this attic room and takes me back up to it. Then next thing I know she has her bra off...’

  ‘Yeh-hey!’ exclaimed Sean.

  ‘Sean!’ Alix jabbed a finger at him. ‘This girl is trafficked, a slave...’

  ‘I withdraw my yeh-hey.’

  ‘And her knickers were half—’

  ‘Yeh-hey!’

  ‘Sean!’

  ‘Sorry...!’

  ‘Anyway—’

  ‘Anyway?! She had her clothes off!’

  ‘Okay... Keep calm... I was the one in there...’

  ‘I am calm. Now—’

  ‘I stop her. I tell her to put her bra back on. She must have thought it was some kind of kinky request...’

  ‘Yeh...!’

  ‘Sean,’ said Rob, ‘even I’m saying enough is enough.’ Sean playfully put his hands over his ears. ‘Right – I say as quickly as I can who I am and what I’m doing there, that Marja has sent me... and next thing I know she’s fled out the door screaming blue murder for Rory...’