by Joseph Knox
The Bug’s stage name was more than just an alter ego for him. He put on an entirely different personality with the make-up. Demanded they be treated as two separate entities. They agreed on nothing and the Bug was generally the more reasonable of the two. It was technically December second, but only the early hours of it, and the show still went on.
I joined the line behind a shivering middle-aged man in stilettos and a miniskirt. We moved fast, a few of the blank-faced men suddenly remembering appointments, disappearing off into the street.
I caught my reflection in the door. Dried sweat and matted blood sent my hair out in wild directions. The handcuffs made me fit right in, though. I handed a fiver to one of the 300-pound he–she’s and was waved inside without a second glance. I felt dizzy, light-headed. Electric. I went through the door, where a shrunken, evil-looking old man in pinstripes stamped my hand. A lightning bolt.
I’d found receipts for the club in Glen Smithson, the barman’s flat. I needed to talk to him, badly. Aside from his connection with Laskey, he had given me the letter that led to Joanna Greenlaw’s body. It raised more questions than it answered.
I needed an explanation.
I went through to a poorly lit hallway on a thin, squelching-wet carpet. The cloakroom was down here, along the hall, and there was another diverse queue. I walked through some hostile looks, up a flight of stairs to the main room. The city treated them like outsiders and this was where they came afterwards. At best I was a tourist. At worst I was trouble. I pushed through double doors at the top of the stairs.
The smell of stale booze and bleach burned my eyes. The room was a mass of people, moving in crazy light. Two or three hundred, crammed into enough space for half that, going backwards, forwards, with the music.
The heat was a wall.
I could feel drops of condensation, falling from the ceiling. The gender balance was hard to speak on. Men, women and everyone in between. Kissing couples and threesomes in every conceivable combination. Although about a third of the room wore theatrical, Rocky Horror get-up, most were in their street clothes. This was their real life.
Everyone was screaming, sweating, swaying forward, towards the stage. There was an illustrated backdrop:
Daddy Longlegs and the Delicious Little Titbits.
I went right, through the crowd, towards the bar. A pretty, young post-op was serving and I ordered three large bourbons. Two neat and one with ice. I drank the neats at the bar, taking a look of gentle reproach from the girl. She touched my hand and said ‘Easy, tiger,’ over the music. I nodded, turned towards the stage with my remaining drink.
Daddy Longlegs wailed into the mic, gyrating against the stand. Three large black drag queens, The Titbits, accompanied him, acting as his backing singers. Longlegs wore elbow-length black leather gloves and a burlesque outfit modified to look like a Nazi SS uniform. By the time I’d fought my way to the front, he was on his closing number, bending over to the crowd, miming a sex act with a dildo the size of a fire hose.
He was singing a lounge version of ‘Moon River’.
When the song ended the crowd went insane and glitter bombs exploded on stage. Longlegs and his backing band were doused in pink sparkling confetti. Someone threw a bouquet of black flowers wrapped in barbed wire and Longlegs picked them up, pressed them to his chest. He bent to take a bow, sweeping a half-empty bottle of champagne off the floor as he did so. He threw back his head, took in a mouthful then showered the front row with it. He bowed again, holding hands with the backing singers, and left the stage. The crowd started to disperse almost immediately. They would already be moving on to the next place.
I followed a rotten hallway, backstage, down a flight of stairs to the dressing room. There was a star on the door:
Daddy written in the centre.
I could hear a conversation going on. It stopped abruptly when I knocked. There were footsteps and then the door opened a crack.
‘Yeah?’ said one of the Titbits. He was dressed casually, in street clothes, and dominated the doorway.
‘Can I talk to him?’
‘Daddy’s taking his face off,’ he said, low and smooth. ‘No calls right now.’
‘Tell him it’s Waits.’
He frowned. ‘The kind you lift?’
‘No,’ said a voice from inside the room. ‘The kind that drag you down. Come on in, Aidan.’
The man stepped back from the doorway, revealing a neat dressing room where Daddy Longlegs sat with his back to me. He was in front of an old-style showbiz vanity mirror, lined with light bulbs. He went on removing his make-up and didn’t turn around.
‘You after an autograph or just some lipstick on your collar?’
I held up my hands.
Rattled the cuffs.
‘Thought if anyone could get me out of these, it’s you.’ I saw him frown into the mirror, then he turned around. He actually looked surprised. ‘I need a favour,’ I said.
‘Lewis,’ Longlegs monotoned, not taking his eyes off me. ‘Could you give us a minute?’
2
I gave him my story. What I understood of it.
He’d taken the make-up off but still wore his costume. He was sitting cross-legged on a chair opposite me, twirling the handcuffs round his index finger. He’d had a key for them in his handbag.
I stopped talking, but he carried on playing with the cuffs, twirling them until they caught his attention. He shook his head sadly.
‘Hiatts …’ he squinted at them ‘… 2103s. Where’s the craft ?’
‘Have you been listening to me?’
He gave me a hateful look. I couldn’t tell if he was play-acting or really meant it. ‘Why should I help you, Aidan?’
‘I can get you money.’
‘I can get me money. Why should I help you?’
‘I thought that was your friend there at Sycamore Way?’
‘My buddy,’ he said with a smile. It faded and he went on. ‘They wouldn’t let me see him, before he …’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Meaningless, coming from you. Sorry ’s been your default setting since you were a kid. You should let someone at you with a screwdriver. Open you up and have a play.’
‘Another time.’
‘You still haven’t told me why I, of all people, should help you.’
‘There’s nowhere else I can go,’ I said. I meant it. ‘I don’t believe all this shit about you, this act. You looked out for me once.’ He didn’t say anything. ‘You could call the police now and turn me in. It’d be one way to end all this.’
‘What’s the other?’
‘There are drug dealers involved. Police. Politicians.’ I closed my eyes. ‘If you help me, we could ruin a lot of lives.’ When I looked at him, he was staring at me, absolutely expressionless. Then a flicker at the corner of his mouth.
Then another.
Then he burst out laughing, hysterical and delighted. He leaned forward, touched my knee and gave me an affectionate smile. He shook his head, cocked it to one side and leaned back in his chair.
‘You always know the right thing to say.’
3
The Bug drove. He’d changed out of his Daddy Longlegs outfit and into street clothes. I sat low in the passenger seat. We went through backstreets and alleyways, towards the lock-up where I’d left my old life. Where I’d left the five grand that Carver had given me. I tried to tell myself that going to the Bug was smart. An unpredictable, off-radar move. The truth is that without him I don’t know where I would have gone. There were as few friends in my old life as my new one.
I didn’t know what the scale of the search for me was, or if it had even kicked in yet. Laskey had needed me out of that building badly, while he hid or spun or obfuscated what was going on. I’d been dragged to headquarters after hours. Never officially booked in. Legally, I’d been free to leave whenever I wanted.
The assault made things different, but how Laskey might explain that, and to who, was anyone’s guess. I tho
ught he’d try to keep it between himself and Riggs until he could eliminate all traces of his ties with Carver, or until Riggs finally cracked.
I hoped that gave me a day.
‘Are we there yet?’ said the Bug.
‘Left here.’
He’d borrowed the car, a dark, puttering compact, from Lewis, one of the Titbits. The Bug’s own car was a white Cadillac we decided might not blend in. The most noticeable difference between this and his other persona was the mess of twitches and tics that seemed to itch his whole body. He smoked, almost literally, constantly because:
‘Daddy hates it.’
When he had changed out of the leathers and into a smart-casual, crumpled black suit, he’d become immediately bad-tempered about the prospect of helping me. I’d reminded him about the money. Past a certain point, all these compromises seemed of equal value. I wondered what the next one would be.
‘Tell me about Neil, the barman,’ I said, going through the motions.
The Bug drove on. ‘Tell you about who? The what?’
‘Neil. He was the bar manager at Rubik’s until recently.’
‘I wouldn’t drink in there if Zain Carver’s blood were on tap.’
‘Neil’s been drinking in the Wiggle Room.’
‘Even Franchise employees can possess good taste, Aidan.’
‘Believe me, he doesn’t.’
‘I can categorically say I’ve never met a Franchise employee by the name of Neil.’
‘Used to go by the name Glen …’
‘Well then, that’s another story,’ he said, amused, happy to spill the beans. ‘Oh, Glen and me go way back. We have a few things in common.’ I thought of the barman’s acquittal and it must have shown in my face. ‘Oh, not that, you filthy-minded man-child. He cut bricks from the Franchise for me.’
‘Hang on’ – I actually laughed – ‘you were stealing from Zain Carver?’
‘Good, eh?’
‘It’s something. How’d it work?’
‘Everything went through Glen, or Neil, or whatever. Once the Eight was delivered to Rubik’s, he’d shave some off and pass it to me at a healthy discount.’
I thought of Glen. Neil. The barman.
His calculating eyes. He was at the centre of so many things. Laskey had sabotaged a court case against him. He’d been in some sort of relationship with Isabelle Rossiter. Possibly supplied her with drugs. He’d been the fulcrum of Carver’s Franchise operation. He’d betrayed them for the Burnsiders, and been betrayed himself in turn. He’d known where Joanna Greenlaw’s body was hidden. And now it turned out he’d been playing everyone, selling on Eight shavings to the Bug.
I thought again of flushing his drugs in Rubik’s.
Sending him underground.
I thought of him standing outside my flat, gleaming knife in hand. The same one he’d pressed into my stomach the night that Cath went missing. Why had he come back? Where had he got the idea that Joanna Greenlaw was hidden under the bath? And why had he passed that idea on to me?
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Now you mention it, he might have been to the Wiggle Room …’
‘Did you talk?’
‘We communicated. Things weren’t going well.’
‘Did he want money?’
‘He didn’t want money so much as what it could buy …’
‘Eight?’ I looked at the Bug. He drove on, twitching, smoking, impassive. He nodded. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘Well, he was my source for Eight. I told him he’d got things arse about face. Now,’ he said, ‘in my personal life, that’s how I like it. But business is different.’
‘You say things weren’t going well. Why?’
‘He was nervous. Always looking over his shoulder. Now, in my personal life, I like a boy looking over his shoulder. But business is different.’
‘How’d he look?’
The Bug smirked. ‘Like he had a bad taste in his mouth. Now, in my personal life—’
‘OK …’
‘Luggage under his eyes and beard all messy. I thought the only reason he’d want more Eight was for the spirit in the sky.’
‘And when was this?’
‘He came to Wiggle the week after Sycamore Way.’
That made sense, matched up with the receipts I’d found in his flat.
‘Have you seen him since?’
‘Only the once …’
‘At the Wiggle Room?’
The Bug shifted in his seat. ‘No, he called me.’
‘Did you go to him?’
He nodded. ‘He was at the Royal Infirmary. Needed someone to come and get him.’
The night Cath went missing. His broken leg.
‘Where did you take him?’
‘I’ll show you.’
‘Now.’
‘When you …’ he mumbled something.
‘When I what?’
He threw back his head. ‘SHOW ME THE MONEY!’ He took his hands off the wheel, let out a whooping scream and put his foot down. The car veered to the left and I reached across to steady us. The Bug let me steer for a second, then cleared his throat and took over. ‘Sorry about that, old boy.’
When we arrived at the lock-up, I told him to wait outside. It was a dark, damp space with a few stacked boxes. I had already started moving them aside when I noticed he’d come with me, that he was standing by the door, watching.
‘This is where you put your stuff?’ he said.
‘Yeah.’
He frowned, looked almost sorry for me. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’ I ignored him and found the satchel where I’d hidden Zain Carver’s money. I handed it over and the Bug thumbed through the notes. Pacified, he slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded.
‘Where did you take the barman?’
‘It was quite the tour,’ he said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
We drove back into the city. It was past 3 a.m. and there was barely any traffic on the road. I was confused when we arrived at the Royal Infirmary, but realized we were retracing his journey with the barman.
‘I got here to find him hobbling out on a broken leg with two black eyes.’
‘Did he say what’d happened?’
‘Said he’d run afoul of the Burnsiders. Sheldon White in particular.’
‘He was with a girl who went missing that night – Cath. Did he say anything about her?’
‘No, nothing about a Cath.’ I felt my heart physically sink. ‘Had some choice words on the subject of you, though.’
‘Like?’
‘Said you’d killed Isabelle Rossiter.’
We drove on for a minute. ‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Is it true?’
‘No,’ I said. Just hearing someone say it made me want to take a shower.
‘That’s what I told him,’ said the Bug. ‘No, didn’t say much else. He was exhausted. In a lot of pain. Not making much sense.’
‘Where did you go?’
The Bug twitched. ‘I’ll show you.’ From the direction we drove in, and from the evidence I’d found in the spare room, I thought we were probably heading to the Greenlaw house. The Bug pulled into the kerb and turned the lights off.
Police cars up ahead.
A white forensics tent pitched around the front door.
‘He picked up his things from here. Insisted I go inside with him because he was scared of something. All he had was a holdall. We got it and drove back to my place. I put him up for the night.’
‘Then what?’
The Bug stifled a yawn. ‘In the morning the news said Zain Carver had been arrested. It gave him an idea.’
‘Of what?’
‘Somewhere to stay.’
‘Fairview?’
The Bug shook his head. ‘Some other flat that Carver owns. He used to put his girls up in it. Glen said that, with the Franchise broken up, Carver in prison, his girls missing or dead, it might be a good spot for him to recuperate.’
<
br /> ‘Is this on Fog Lane?’
‘You know it?’
The building where Isabelle Rossiter had died.
‘Yeah, I know it. He still there?’
‘Well,’ the Bug snorted, ‘if he isn’t, he won’t have got far on that leg.’
He started up again and we drove. I could see the building before we got anywhere near it. That brutalist, pockmarked concrete block. When we turned on to the street, the Bug pulled over and killed the lights.
Police cars there too.
I wondered. Were they here by chance, doing street patrols in light of all the drug activity in the area, or had something happened with the barman? I needed to speak to him but I couldn’t argue with the Bug when he started up the car, turned around and drove away.
‘Not tonight,’ he said.
We went back to his house, the converted church beside Alexandra Park, and he put me up in a spare room. My ears were still ringing from every hit I’d taken in the last twenty-four hours, head still spinning from what I had and hadn’t learned.
I slept like the dead.
4
We got up early the next morning. Sleep seemed to have relieved the Bug of some twitches and tics, and I felt better for it too. I’d showered the dried sweat and matted blood out of my hair, and the marks on my wrists from the handcuffs had faded. Looking at myself in the mirror, I wondered for a second if it had really happened.
We drove back out to Fog Lane. I didn’t know what to expect that morning, and I was relieved not to see the police. It was early, though, before nine, and didn’t mean they weren’t around somewhere.
‘Wait here,’ I said, getting out of the car. The Bug sighed and gave a theatrical bow. I crossed the road to that grey, pebble-dashed building and entered beneath the graffiti sign:
FERMEZ LA FUCKING BOUCHE.
Three flights of voices behind doors. Dim, buzzing light bulbs. I crossed the landing. Stopped. Listened. Dreaded it. If the barman was inside, he wasn’t making a sound. I wondered if he was dead as well. I stood with my hand on the door, wondering whether to knock, then thought of Isabelle the night before she died.
I stepped back and kicked the door at the lock. The wood was cheap and light, it broke apart easily. I went inside, closed it behind me.