‘Cheer up,’ Forsyth said brightly as they followed the driver to the car. ‘Now we’ll see what sort of fanny they’ve got at the Blue Cat.’
12
It was a place without a sign, like everywhere else, but the Blue Cat lacked a front too. The car halted at what appeared to be a darkened industrial warehouse; a high brick building with unlit windows in a part of town so desolate and anonymous that Forsyth, voicing the unease of all three recruits, said, ‘Is this it?’
‘Just go and ring the bell,’ the driver told them, pointing to a closed and featureless entrance.
Forsyth, sitting in front, opened his door. ‘Will you be waiting here for us?’
‘No,’ said the driver.
‘Then how do we get back?’ asked Harvey.
‘Everything’s arranged.’
Robert said, ‘I don’t like this.’ Harvey and Forsyth turned to him; the driver continued staring impassively forward into the empty road his beams illuminated, the car engine rattling. ‘This place is deserted. I don’t …’
He tailed off; the driver looked round. ‘Happy fucking, boys, but I need to be off.’
‘Come on, you poofters,’ said Forsyth. ‘Party time.’
The others had no choice; they got out and all three went to the black door. It was Robert who rang the bell, and soon it was answered by a bald, heavily built man in a dark suit and tie. ‘Evening, gentlemen.’ He gave a nod past them to the car, which rolled away.
The entrance led straight down a flight of stone steps that bent at the bottom, taking the visitors into a large basement bar lit by blue neon tubes; a noisy, convivial place where most of the tables were occupied by groups of men – laughing, drinking, talking – and a few women too. Music played from loudspeakers somewhere, and an empty stage at the far end was set up for a band. The atmosphere was that of any lively city pub, a lot more welcoming than the sleepy boozer they’d been in earlier.
‘Place is heaving,’ Forsyth said approvingly above the hubbub. All the tables in the sunken central area were occupied; around the indigo-coloured walls, a series of booths separated by tall wooden partitions offered more hope of free space. Scanning them, Robert saw the miniskirted rump of a stooping waitress serving drinks to elderly cigar-smoking men; and it was only when she turned with her empty tray that he recognized Dora, the woman he had met at the College. She saw him too; then in a moment she was lost among the crowd.
‘There’s an empty one near the stage,’ Forsyth shouted. ‘Let’s get us a sit-down and work out whose round it is.’ He led them in a snaking procession through standing drinkers until they reached their goal, each recruit taking one side of the continuous bench, upholstered in imitation black leather, which surrounded three sides of the large square table.
Harvey unbuttoned his greatcoat and glanced round the busy room. ‘You don’t think this one’s reserved, do you?’
Forsyth jeered. ‘No fucking sign on it, is there? Your shout, I reckon, college boy. Mine’s a Victory.’
Robert could see customers standing at the brightly lit bar counter, and was about to go and order when a waitress came to their table.
‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ She was blonde, pale-skinned and smiled broadly, though all three men found their gaze resting on her uplifted bosom rather than her yellow teeth.
‘You can help me any day, pet,’ said Forsyth, ‘but how about bringing us three Victories first?’
Her glance fell on the coat he had deposited beside him. ‘Weren’t you asked to check that in?’
Forsyth couldn’t see why it should matter. ‘Never know, might feel like wrapping up later. So it’s three large – our man here’s paying. And, eh, where do we go for extras?’
The waitress was still perplexed by the unchecked coats. ‘Did you reserve this table for dining?’
‘It’s oats we’re thinking of, pet, if you get my drift.’
She was stony-faced. ‘This table’s reserved for Daddy, you know that, don’t you?’
Forsyth gave a bemused laugh and looked to the other two for help. ‘I’ll be your daddy, love.’
‘You didn’t check in, did you?’ she said accusingly.
‘All we’re after is a drink,’ Forsyth told her with growing exasperation, ‘and a wee bit adult entertainment, seeing as they all say this is a knocking shop.’
‘Excuse me.’
The waitress retreated, and Harvey muttered, ‘I knew we shouldn’t have sat here.’
Robert could see her go to a small counter they had walked past on entering, which he now realized was a coatcheck desk. The waitress conferred with the grey-haired woman seated there; both looked towards the volunteers’ table. There was a shaking of heads, an exchange of words, and the ladies were soon joined by the burly doorman offering his own opinion about the anomaly.
‘I think we’re going to get flung out,’ Robert said when the waitress began making her way back towards them.
‘Don’t talk pish, we only parked our fucking arses in the wrong place.’
She reached them and said, ‘It’s all right for you to keep your coats if you want. Or I’ll take them for you.’
‘So we can stay here?’ Harvey asked doubtfully.
‘Certainly. What drinks do you want?’
‘Three Victories,’ Forsyth reminded her cheerfully, his mood reverting with the swiftness of a child’s.
‘People here usually prefer the German beers, they’re stronger.’
‘You’ve got foreign beer?’ Harvey asked incredulously.
‘We’ve got pretty much everything.’
The waitress recited a Teutonic list like something out of the poetry book Robert had thumbed in the library, and Forsyth ended it by saying, ‘Aye, three of those.’ When she left, he grinned broadly. ‘We’re in, lads. Reckon she’s a hoor?’
Harvey was unimpressed. ‘Who’s Daddy, that’s what I want to know.’
Robert continued to look round the low-ceilinged cellar, searching for familiar faces. There was no sign of Rosalind, but at the far side of the room he saw some young men he thought he recognized from the College, seated round a table, talking earnestly. And coming down the steps he saw Professor Vine, who went to join the debaters.
‘Your drinks, gentlemen.’ The waitress positioned three tall glasses on circular beer mats.
‘Didn’t know Jerries drank out of flower vases,’ Forsyth said sceptically.
Robert brought out his voucher book. ‘How much?’
‘We settle bills at the end.’
‘And what if Daddy shows up?’ asked Harvey.
The waitress stared at the three of them and smiled. ‘You really don’t know very much about this place, do you?’
‘There’s one thing we know, pet. Not only drinks for sale, eh?’
‘You’ll have to wait,’ she told him. ‘No access without authorization.’ Then with a wink she left to serve another table.
Forsyth was stupefied with delight. ‘Hear that?’ he said, lifting his glass. ‘I’m having her, no mistake. Soon as Daddy comes and signs our forms.’
Getting a woman here was like borrowing a library book. How many date stamps did Dora have, Robert wondered, seeing her with two bottles of wine, a large jug of water and several glasses held high on a tray she delivered through the crowd without incident; a heavy load for her to bear after a long day serving tea and coffee at the College. It was to Vine’s table that she went; for there, in full progress now that he had joined his students, was the night school the professor had spoken of. One of the physicists was jotting something in a notebook while the others huddled round to see; all ignored the waitress distributing refreshments among them.
Harvey noticed the music striking up on the PA; a slow ballad meant to create an atmosphere of sophistication. ‘This is an old one,’ he said.
Forsyth quaffed his beer. ‘I can’t stand that shite.’ Somehow goaded by the music’s gentle pace, he quickly emptied his glass, then declared himself ready for
a slash and got up to find the toilet.
Harvey moved round the table to sit next to Robert. ‘My mum loves this song.’
Robert imagined her leaning over a small record player, drawing comfort from the vapid melody. ‘I hope you manage to get her rehoused,’ he said, though Robert knew it would never happen; his two fellow recruits were experimental controls whose bodies were simply the right size and weight.
‘You know what I said to you today, about Rosalind? Forget all of that, will you?’
‘Let’s not even mention it again.’
‘That idea I had, about her beaming signals into our heads …’
‘Don’t worry, it could never happen.’ Robert looked towards the entrance and saw who was coming down the steps now. ‘Here’s Daddy.’
Davis and Willoughby were being greeted by a red-haired waitress who supervised the checking of their coats and then began to lead them through the crowd. So Willoughby had changed his mind about retiring early, Robert thought; or else had been brought here at Davis’s behest, like the recruits. They arrived at the table just as Forsyth returned from the lavatory; the volunteers shuffled together so that the overweight academician could be comfortably accommodated.
‘We were unexpectedly delayed,’ Davis, standing beside the waitress, explained to the volunteers, addressing none of them in particular and not really explaining anything at all. ‘What shall we have to drink?’
Robert and Harvey still had most of their beer left; Forsyth stared into his empty glass and said, ‘Same again?’
‘Or how about some wine?’ Davis proposed, describing for Willoughby’s benefit a range which, to the discerning customer, was the Blue Cat’s principal attraction. ‘Medoc, perhaps? They have a very good one.’ Willoughby nodded assent, and Davis instructed the waitress accordingly, adding, ‘Three more beers for our young friends,’ before she departed.
Then he sat down, and although he had one of the square booth’s three sides to himself – Robert and Harvey being opposite him, Forsyth and Willoughby between – and although Davis was a thin man whose sense of physical space and its attendant proprieties appeared keen, nevertheless his presence, his quiet air of authority and control, now made the table feel closed to any further visitors. ‘How very agreeable to see you all again in such relaxed and informal surroundings,’ he said, his cold eyes dwelling on Robert’s face, and when no one spoke, he turned towards Willoughby, saying in a comradely way, ‘Don’t you think the Installation’s scientists have an enviable existence?
‘Certainly,’ Willoughby agreed. ‘I only wish the same opportunities existed for writers.’
Davis laughed. ‘You should suggest it at the next Party Congress: a city of literature. Closed to outsiders, of course.’
Willoughby picked up the joke so eagerly that he almost appeared to take the proposal seriously. ‘We’d have residencies, retreats, a research institute. We’d invite a physicist or mathematician now and again to try and give us some new ideas.’
‘And of course you’d have a Blue Cat of your own,’ Davis added. ‘With all the delights such establishments offer.’ He scanned the recruits’ faces once more. ‘Gentlemen, have you fully explored the facilities yet?’
Forsyth, tearing at his damp beer mat, snickered and said, ‘We’ve been waiting for Daddy.’
Davis smiled knowingly; Willoughby was bemused and asked the commissioner what it meant.
‘Blue Cat slang,’ Davis explained. ‘Daddies are people of Category D. It brings benefits.’
‘So we’re daddies?’ Forsyth said with wonder at the new discovery. ‘That bird only wanted some proof?’
‘I’m all the proof you need,’ Davis said flatly. ‘Who do you want? The redhead, Beth? Here she comes now.’
She was bringing their drinks, and after giving the soldiers their beers and placing empty wine glasses before Davis and Willoughby, she poured a sample from the open bottle for the commissioner to try. He raised it to his thin lips, sipped delicately and rolled the fluid in his mouth, watched by the others who knew that what was really being sampled was the waitress herself.
Davis swallowed and said to Forsyth, ‘Well?’
Forsyth shrugged. ‘Aye, sure.’
‘Or should we send for another?’ The waitress still held the bottle in readiness, and seeing her uncertainty, Davis said to her, ‘Pour.’
She filled both glasses. ‘Anything else?’
‘I don’t think he’s decided yet, Beth.’
Taking his meaning, she turned and stared at Forsyth; a gaze that was simultaneously inviting and contemptuous. ‘Well?’ she said, echoing the commissioner’s challenge.
Forsyth was hesitant. ‘No offence, but I was thinking maybe …’
‘You want another girl?’ she said abruptly.
‘The blonde that was here before.’
She looked to Davis for further instruction, and a nod from him sent her in search. Then he addressed Willoughby again. ‘Brian, perhaps you might like some time alone with one or two of the hostesses.’ Willoughby beamed but shook his head. ‘No need to be shy, Brian, we’re all grown men here, and whatever happens in the Blue Cat goes no further – not even into the rest of the Installation. Not a word. Anyone who comes down those steps becomes a different person, and anything he does here can be forgotten as soon as he leaves. When we come to the Blue Cat we hang up our moral qualms along with our coats. Your wife need never know a thing.’
Willoughby, his curved lips pursed in a suppressed, embarrassed laugh, shook his head again, and in response to Davis’s insistence said by way of excuse, ‘I have already had all the stimulation this evening that a man of my age requires.’ Robert knew at once that he referred to Rosalind. ‘The nimbus of pleasure is not to be evaporated through over-hasty repetition.’
‘Spoken like a true poet!’ Davis chuckled. ‘But really, you ought to see what’s available here.’ He snapped his fingers at the nearest waitress he could find; a woman who was out of Robert’s view but quickly came at Davis’s bidding. It was Dora.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Can I be of service?’ While she spoke, she never met Robert’s eyes – nor, it seemed to him, those of any other man at the table. Her words were completely impersonal, her actions those of a convincing robot.
‘Hello, Wanda,’ Davis said with confident familiarity, using what was clearly her pseudonym here. ‘My friend Mr Clark would like to see the show – will you take him?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Once more, Willoughby offered polite resistance, but Davis was not to be refused. ‘Please, Mr Clark,’ Davis said to him encouragingly, ‘Wanda will escort you to the peep show next door. It’s highly entertaining – stay as long as you wish. And if you feel like anything else while you’re through there, it’s all on me.’
‘You’re very kind, Commissioner,’ said Willoughby, immediately covering his mouth at what he thought might be a gaffe, and squeezing his weight along the space which Davis, rising, made for him. ‘Sorry if I said something I shouldn’t have.’
‘It’s quite all right, Mr Clark,’ said Davis. ‘There’s no need to be discreet on my behalf. Now go and enjoy the performance – it’s not Shakespeare but it’s totally sincere.’
Davis sat down again, and Dora and Willoughby made their way across the room to what Robert saw to be an inconspicuous yellow door distinguished only by the dark-suited man standing in attendance who opened it, then sealed the pair from view.
There was no music on the PA system now; the only sound was the clatter of glasses and the clash of a hundred voices, but beyond the yellow door, Robert thought, something altogether more single-minded must be happening. Just as he had wondered about Willoughby and Rosalind, he tried to imagine how the Writers’ Union President might be entertained by Dora; but the task was impossible, the cards remained hidden from view.
Soon they were joined again by the first hostess they had seen that evening, her manner transformed. ‘I see you’
ve got your authorization sorted, boys,’ she said teasingly. ‘Want some fun?’
Forsyth needed no further asking; he got up straight away. ‘Take me to heaven, baby.’
Davis nodded approval, then the girl took Forsyth to the same yellow door, not far from where Vine’s night school was still progressing, and when it opened Forsyth turned, looked towards his comrades and gave them a thumbs-up gesture, as if about to climb into the space capsule and disappear forever.
‘And then there were two,’ said Davis, sipping his wine.
There was some activity on the stage; Robert turned to see three men with permed hair and spangled jackets lift the electric guitars resting on steel stands in readiness for their act. A paunchy drummer took his place at the rear and then a tired-looking woman in a long purple dress came to the microphone, unannounced and unnoticed by the crowd. A moment later the band struck up, offering a live version of the same kind of music that had been playing earlier, whose principal aim was to encourage people to talk over it.
‘A fine place, don’t you think?’ Davis said to the recruits. ‘You can see why everyone wants to come here.’
Harvey nodded. ‘Beer’s good.’
‘And not only the beer, of course. There’s also a certain matter of fucking. Most of the people here wouldn’t be allowed so much as a grope of a waitress’s arse – they’d get thrown out at once. But you’re part of the elite, and that brings privileges. The best girls aren’t even on view, they’re all through there.’ He pointed to the yellow door, from which a middle-aged man could be seen leaving, then going to collect his coat. ‘Want me to get you an escort?’
Harvey took a gulp of beer. ‘Still plenty left. Let’s see how it goes.’
The red-haired waitress came to see if they wanted any more drinks. ‘Not yet,’ said Davis, ‘though I really don’t know why that oaf didn’t take you when he had the chance. Harvey, what do you think, beautiful, eh? Wouldn’t you like to screw her?’ Beth gave an oddly modest smile, as if Davis had made no more than a mildly inappropriate but vaguely complimentary comment. ‘Good tits, nice arse. On you go, Harvey, let her make a man of you.’
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