Nirvana Bites

by Debi Alper

  I even woke up with an idea. I dug out the notes I’d made when I’d trawled through the numbers programmed into Stan’s mobile. Gunther’s number was listed.

  My notes told me I’d been able to glean little from the research call I had made to him. He didn’t even have an answering machine. Instead, a BT answering service had droned at me in a monotone. The area code was in Kent. I checked out an old road atlas. Click: another piece of the puzzle slotted into place. Gunther lived within a few miles of Meacham’s Meat Products.

  On an impulse I picked up the phone and called Directory Enquiries. Then I dialled the number recited by the robotic voice.

  ‘Meacham’s Meat Products, Mandy speaking, how can I help you?’ a girlish voice sang.

  ‘Oh hi,’ I trilled. ‘Is it possible to speak to Gunther please?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ms Enthusiasm replied. ‘Mr Hermann isn’t in today. Can anyone else help?’

  Hermann, huh? I felt a flush of pride in my detecting powers.

  ‘Oh no. Not really. Er – any idea when he’ll be back?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘May I ask who’s calling?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. This is his sister. I’m in the area. I was hoping to see him…’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Another pause. ‘I’m so sorry, but Mr Hermann has taken indefinite leave.’

  Mandy sounded very young and inexperienced. I needed to get chatting to gain her trust.

  ‘Oh damn,’ I replied. ‘I can’t believe it. When did he go?’

  ‘He phoned in yesterday. It was very sudden…’

  I groaned. I had a pretty good idea why he’d taken the time off. So he could concentrate on dealing with me.

  ‘Did he give you any idea why he’s taken the time off?’

  ‘I’m really sorry.’ She was floundering. A couple of GCSEs and two months’ work experience hadn’t prepared her for this diplomatic minefield. ‘I mean, obviously he didn’t tell me anything personally. I – I’ve only been here three weeks.’ Told you. ‘But I heard Mr Meacham telling a client that Mr Hermann had a family crisis. Is it…? I mean…are you…?’

  I leapt in, never one to pass up an opportunity. I gave a strangled sob.

  ‘Yes. It’s awful. I have to see Gunther. I’m sure you understand. But I’ve done something incredibly stupid. I’ve been living abroad, you see. And in all the panic, I’ve left my address book back home. I – I remember his phone number, but I’ve never been to his house. And the address has gone right out of my head.’

  I was on well-dodgy ground here. This was sounding feeble even to my ears, but it was the best I could come up with at short notice. I was banking on her being gullible enough to go for it.

  ‘I phoned him, but he’s got one of those awful BT answering-service things and I can’t get a reply. I was desperately hoping to catch him at work…’ I tailed off, sniffing a bit for good measure.

  ‘Oh,’ a tiny voice trembled. ‘I – I wish I could help. But I’m sure I shouldn’t give out a private address over the phone…’

  Damn. Brighter than I’d hoped.

  ‘I could always check with Mr Meacham…’

  No! My finger hovered over the cut-off button.

  ‘…but he’s in a meeting and said he didn’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the day…’

  Yes! I pulled my finger away.

  ‘…but if I give it to you, I could lose my job…’

  I know. I know. And I’m so sorry. But if the choice is your job or my life…

  ‘If only there was someone to ask…’

  I ground my teeth.

  ‘…but there isn’t…’

  Oh for fuck’s sake. I was beginning to lose patience. I gasped and snuffled down the phone.

  ‘Oh please,’ I gulped. ‘If I don’t get there soon, I’ll miss the funeral,’ I ended on a triumphant flourish.

  That did the trick. I wrote down the address and hung up feeling sick and guilty. I felt like an evil manipulative bitch – perhaps because I was an evil manipulative bitch. But better a live bitch than a dead saint.

  30

  SO. I HAD a full name, an address, a phone number, a place of work, details of his birthplace and parents and a set of photos. Quite an impressive collection. What I didn’t have was the faintest idea of what to do with it.

  I could just hand the whole caboodle to DS Mackay. But when you got right down to it, what did it amount to? Unless the cops had some concrete evidence linking Gunther to Della’s murder – and I had no reason to believe they had – he would still be out and about. And if he’d been pissed off with me before, being hauled in by the cops was hardly likely to improve his mood.

  I – we – a bunch of us – could go over to Gunther’s address and… And what? Shout at him a bit? Tell him off? Try to reason with him? Er… I don’t think so.

  That left – bugger-all. By my reckoning, the only way out was to get some incontrovertible evidence of our own linking Gunther with the attack on Della. And there was only one way I could think of to get that. All roads, as usual, led to one place. Stan. And if it had been impossible to get any information out of him when he’d been staying with me, it went without saying that it was hardly going to be a doddle now we didn’t have the faintest idea where the fuck he was.

  A banging on the street door shook me from my trance. I leapt to the window and peeped out. A Post Office van was parked outside, and the driver was standing on my path clutching a clipboard and a large brown envelope.

  The postie was young and plump with an eruption of spots testifying to a high-grease diet. He lurched back a step as he saw my face. It took him a moment to regain his composure. He held out the envelope, his eyes swivelling in their sockets as he battled the urge to stare.

  ‘Um. Parcel for Jenny Stern. You need to sign…’

  He couldn’t get away fast enough. This must be what people who are permanently disfigured have to put up with all the time.

  I took the envelope back upstairs. Inside was a sheaf of A4 posters. I caught my breath as Della’s face gazed out and met my eyes. Underneath the photo was her name and the dates of her too-short life, followed by details of her funeral, which was scheduled for two weeks’ time.

  There was a covering letter from Philip, thanking me for my support and asking me to distribute the posters as agreed. He also said he’d be grateful for help in arranging her funeral. I liked the posters. They were tasteful and minimalist. Della’s lifestyle was anything but minimalist, but I think she would have approved of the posters. It was my responsibility to ensure her funeral would also have been to her taste. If I lived that long myself.

  The realisation that this was not a foregone conclusion galvanised me. I would go round the clubs and deliver the posters that night. It would be good to be doing something practical. I knew that Gunther’s attack had traumatised me to my core, but I couldn’t afford to enter into that yet. When this crisis was over – if I was still around – I’d allow myself the luxury of freaking out.

  Remembering my last foray into the S&M world, I made careful preparations. I cooked a thick soup which I swallowed with care, avoiding chewing as it sent jolts of pain through the right side of my head. Then I had a hot bath and spent an hour doing my make up, layering on concealer and foundation with a trowel in an effort to cover the bruising. I couldn’t do anything to disguise the vast swelling round my eye. I dug out a pair of black shades. I’ve always hated posers who wear shades at night. I was about to become one of them.

  I planned my targets. The Torture Palace in Waterloo where I used to work. Slutz in Soho – mainstream and full of sexual tourists. Tallulah’s in Islington. Happy Harry’s in Hackney. Temptation in Deptford – an unlikely scenario but a decent club. Sinthia’s in Catford. The Triple X in Brixton too – if I could remain conscious in there long enough to hand over the poster… There were others, but word travels fast on the Scene. If I covered them, plus Della’s local shops and pubs, I’d have done a good job
.

  There was no way I could deliver them all in one night. I decided to head east to start with, to Temptation and Sinthia’s. If I had time and energy left I’d cross back west to the Triple X. I poured myself back into my leather gear, clamped the handcuffs on to the loop on the shoulder of my jacket and pushed my feet into DMs – it would be hard enough cycling in a mini-skirt without adding stilettos to the equation. After a careful check of the street, I pushed my bike out into the darkness. I couldn’t use cabs to club-crawl and the bike would enable me to leave as and when I wanted. I wasn’t intending to hang around, just deliver the posters and move on. The best laid plans of mice and crazy women…

  I cycled to Deptford with the shades balanced on top of my head. It was difficult enough seeing in the darkness with only one functioning eye. The club was smack in the middle of a not-yet-trendy part of Deptford. The word TEMPTATION was painted in jagged silver letters above an anonymous-looking black door.

  Temptation had a reputation for funky music, decent beer and a wicked cabaret. I chained my bike to a lamppost, pulled down the shades and pushed through the door, into the smoke and noise you’d expect in any club.

  There was the usual smattering of leather, PVC, rubber and piercings, but the atmosphere was light and good-natured. S&M was fun here. Temptation was for people who didn’t take their pain too seriously. Bendy Wendy and Horatio were on stage. They were the guys who owned the club and compèred the cabaret. Horatio did all the talking, entertaining the punters with his particular brand of camp smut. Wendy meanwhile set out to prove she didn’t have a bone in her androgynous body as she folded her supple form into a range of impossible contortions.

  Everyone was watching the performance, so no one took any notice of me as I eased my way up to the bar. A young spiky-haired woman grinned at me. It was like looking into a mirror. She could have been me, except she had two working eyes.

  I asked for an orange juice, pulled out one of the posters and handed it to her. ‘Could you put one of these up behind the bar?’

  Her eyes widened with shock as she focused on Della’s face. Tears welled up and rolled down her cheeks. Suddenly she didn’t look anything at all like me.

  ‘Della?’ she breathed in an Australian accent. ‘Oh Jesus. She’s dead? What – what happened?’

  ‘She was murdered,’ I retorted. I felt impatient with this lachrymose woman to whom tears came so easily. ‘Can you put the poster up?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes of course. I’m sure Horatio and Wendy would agree. Oh, sweet Jesus. I just can’t believe it. Just about everyone here knows Della. They’re all gonna be gutted.’

  I swallowed my orange juice, forestalling any further questions, and strode out. I didn’t want to be there to watch everyone being gutted.

  I cycled through the night to Catford, passing under the monstrous black cat which loomed over the market entrance like a giant predator. Sinthia’s was in a back street, in an end-of-terrace house with blacked-out windows. They must have had very understanding neighbours. Sinthia’s was an unlicensed club. The cops must have known about it but never gave any hassle. Rumour had it that some of the top brass from the local nick were regular visitors, their identities hidden, as so many were.

  I pushed the button on the entryphone and looked into the camera positioned above the door. The catch clicked and I let myself in. Sinthia’s operated on three floors. On the ground floor was the bar, with comfy chairs and a wide-screen TV showing porn videos. It was almost cosy – like your front room but shared with thirty or so strangers. On the first floor Fast Eddie, the resident DJ, spun mixes that seemed impossible in theory, but sounded sublime. The basement was known as the Dungeon: individual cells with iron-bar entrances where people were free to watch. Each cell was kitted out with all the equipment you would expect to find in your average medieval torture chamber.

  The club was run by Big Ron and his partner, the eponymous Sinthia. Ron was an ex-body builder. His muscle had gone to flab, which hung in rolls under a skin covered with intricate tattoos covering every inch of his body, including the dome of his bald head. Sinthia was a roly-poly peroxide blonde with an almost maternal manner. Sinthia favoured red satin and black lace – more Barbara Cartland than Marquis de Sade.

  I made my way to the bar. Ron rolled over to me, his flesh wobbling in the gap between his leather waistcoat and the belt of his skin-tight leather shorts. He peered at me as he handed me my orange juice.

  ‘Ere, don’t I know you?’ he asked in his strange squeaky voice. I suppose if you look like Ron, the chances are no one’s going to take the piss out of your voice. ‘Ard to tell with them shades on, but I never forget a face. Ones I get to see anyway,’ Ron giggled. He looked round the room. Of the thirty or so people there, propping up the bar or lounging on the settees, at least six wore masks of one sort or another. ‘Yeah. Ang on a minute. Didn’t you used to work the bar at the Palace?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s me. Jenny.’ I shook his massive hand. It felt like a slab of moist concrete. ‘Actually, I’ve come to ask a favour.’

  I pulled out the posters.

  ‘Could you put one of these up behind the bar?’

  Ron goggled at the poster.

  ‘Oh my gawd. Sin. Sin, come and look at this.’

  Sinthia appeared at his shoulder. Her bright red gash of a mouth trembled as she followed Ron’s pudgy finger to Della’s picture gazing up from the poster.

  ‘Oh, Ron,’ she breathed. ‘I can’t believe it. I’m a witch, Ron. I’m a witch.’

  Ron put a comforting arm round her plump shoulders.

  ‘Only half hour ago, Sin says to me she ain’t seen Della for ages and she hoped nothing bad had happened to her. Now look…’ He shook his head in wonder, though whether at Della’s fate or his wife’s uncanny powers, it was hard to tell. I felt absurdly guilty at having been the instrument to fulfil this woman’s prophecy, as if it was my fault somehow.

  ‘Oh, Ron. Do you think Stan knows? They was ever so close,’ Sin whimpered. ‘It was seeing him what made me think of Della.’

  I was on to her like a park goose spotting a punter with a bread bag.

  ‘You saw Stan? Tonight? Where?’ I demanded.

  ‘Well ere of course, love,’ Sin said, like it was obvious. Which I suppose it was. ‘E’s downstairs right now, in’t he, Ron? E’s in the Dungeon.’

  I thought I’d stopped breathing. The room faded into a blur of light and noise. I grabbed the edge of the bar to steady myself.

  ‘Who’s he with?’ I rasped.

  ‘E’s with Lola. Ere, you all right, love? You look a bit peaky.’

  I mumbled reassurance. I couldn’t believe my luck. Lola was a Glaswegian dominatrix who did the occasional floor show at the Torture Palace. She, Cathy and I had made an outrageous threesome, up for anything and always game for a laugh.

  I gulped down my orange juice and headed for the basement stairs. Before I went down, I used the payphone to call Ali. The angels were on our side tonight all right. Ali was home. I told him what I needed him to do. He didn’t ask any questions. In the past I’d been frustrated at his apparent lack of curiosity, but now I had every reason to be grateful for it. If I’d had to explain what I had in mind it would have sounded so outrageous, even to my own ears, I don’t think I would have been able to go ahead. I hung up and tiptoed down the stone steps.

  The walls of the Dungeon were covered in stone cladding, punctuated at intervals by iron candle holders from which flickered the only light. I could barely see, and pushed the shades up on to the top of my head. Grunts, groans and the occasional scream cut through the cold, musty atmosphere.

  Three of the six cells were in use. In the first a naked, middle-aged man grovelled on the floor, his neck held in position by a stiletto heel belonging to a statuesque transvestite who winked at me through the bars. In the second, two women with strap-on dildoes sandwiched a third woman who was suspended by her wrists from a hook in the low ceiling. Her head was thrown back, her
hair lank with sweat.

  In the third cell a man was spread-eagled against the wall, chained by his wrists and ankles. His masked face was pressed against the stone. He was dressed in skin-tight black leather cut away round his buttocks. The man was Stan. Lola stood behind him, taking teasing swipes at his arse with a cat o’ nine tails.

  I hissed at her and she turned to face me. She squinted at me in the shadows and then her sharp features broke into a broad grin as she recognised me. I put my finger to my lips in an urgent warning. She frowned a question at me but made no sound. She walked over and pulled my chin round to scrutinise my ravaged face, miming concern. I shook my head and indicated what I wanted. She looked dubious. I put my hands together.

  ‘Please!’ I mouthed at her.

  She shrugged and nodded. She kissed me on my undamaged cheek, handed me the whip and retreated back upstairs. Now that’s what I call a good mate.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Stan whined, his voice muffled by the mask. ‘Lola?’

  In reply I gave a playful swish of the cat o’ nine tails across his bare buttocks. Stan sighed with pleasure and wiggled his arse a little. I paused for a moment then raised my arm and brought the whip crashing down with all my strength. Stan shrieked, but before he had a chance to recover I brought the whip down again. And again.

  ‘Basta! Basta!’ Stan screamed. This must have been his safe word. He was telling me to stop, that he’d had enough. But we were playing by my rules now.

  I dropped the whip and grabbed his head, grinding it against the wall.

  ‘I’ll give you basta, you bastard. I’ll give you fucking basta.’

  ‘Jenny?’ he whimpered. ‘Oh please, Jenny. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me.’

  Then, when I didn’t show any signs of relieving the pressure, he started yelling for help. I barked a mirthless laugh. This was the one place where no one would dream of reacting to a cry for help or a scream of pain. Still, I couldn’t take too many chances.

  On a shelf, the tools of the torturer’s trade were laid out. I picked up a huge black rubber dildo. After only a moment’s hesitation, I brought it crashing down on to the back of Stan’s head. His body sagged, held in position by the chains.