Surrender

by Malane, Donna

  Gemma’s voice had gone up an octave as she searched for a convincingly aggrieved, indignant tone. She was pushing her luck and she would have known it. I imagined I could hear the faint, fast beat of her heart, but it could have been my own pulse racing.

  I imagined Sean listening to all this from the car nearby. Tense, alert, hand on the door handle. Ready to respond as soon as she gave the signal. I bet he was swearing at Gemma under his breath, at the risk she was taking in pushing Snow that hard, and maybe regretting he’d agreed to be part of this. I’d heard him mumble and swear like that often enough when he was frustrated with me. The memory made me smile.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what wasn’t in the papers.’ Snow’s voice boomed out as he moved his lips so close to the microphone I could hear the sibilant click and pop of spit against his teeth. Gemma’s wire would have been attached near her collar. I could picture Snow’s lips and teeth, feel his breath hot and moist on her neck. ‘I stuck that bitch with a knife right between the shoulder blades. I thought she’d die pretty much straight away but it took eight minutes. Eight fucking minutes. I timed it. Jesus, there was enough time for an ad break! I thought about sticking her again, get it over with, but it was kind of interesting to watch. She fought it. That chick really did not want to die.’

  My hands were shaking so badly the coffee was spilling. I placed my mug on the floor. The room was retreating and expanding like lungs. There was just Snow’s voice. Nothing but his voice. Bile rose in my throat.

  ‘And you know what? I thought of doing her in those eight minutes. I got her dress hitched up, and I was all good to go, but she was wearing these panties — like kids’ panties with fucking puppies and balloons or something on them. Well, I may be some things, but I’m not a pervert. Those little kids’ panties put me right off.’

  Wolf yelped in pain. I was clutching the roll at the back of his neck so hard I’d hurt him. I didn’t want to hear any more. I tried to stand but my legs wouldn’t support me. Snow hadn’t finished. He laughed. A thin, unlikely laugh for such a huge man.

  ‘By the time I’d ripped them off her and was ready to go again, she was dead. I thought about doing her anyway but …’ Snow was still laughing as I staggered across the room and slammed down the laptop lid, shutting him up.

  The room had retreated entirely, leaving me in a black void. There was a roaring in my head and I was pretty sure it wasn’t the beating of angels’ wings the nuns used to talk about. I took deep breaths, willing myself not to pass out. That film director had been right: the bear-man’s girlfriend should never, ever listen to the sound of her loved one being mauled.

  Rabbits. On her underwear. When Niki was five she went through a phase of what’s now called obsessive compulsive disorder, shorthanded by the familiar to OCD. Dad had yet another new live-in girlfriend who found his youngest child ‘difficult’ and there were murmurings that perhaps Niki should spend some time getting ‘the kind of help she deserves’. In other words, Dad’s girlfriend thought life would be a lot more fun without this creepy kid hanging around touching everything three times and counting her footsteps and generally being a pain in the arse and an embarrassment at dinner parties. Even I could see that unless Niki stopped doing that shit she was going to be locked up and therapied to hell.

  She’d become obsessed with the idea of luck. Good luck, bad luck, how arbitrarily it was handed out. Not that she talked about it like that at five years old, but it’s how I later came to think about it. Back then, at eleven, all I knew was that I had to stop her walking three times one way, then three times the other way around every lamp post between home and school. If I let her, by the time we got to school it was time to turn back around and come home again. That happened a couple of times, which led to the live-in girlfriend suggesting Dad get Niki ‘twenty-four hour quality care’.

  I knew that meant ‘lock her up and throw away the key’ so I used every trick I could think of to keep Niki from circling lamp posts. I’d hold her hand all the way from home to school to stop her crossing her fingers over each other, which she did once for twenty-four hours, crippling her hands so badly she couldn’t hold a pencil or her knife and fork for a fortnight. And I worked hard at distracting her from her compulsion to touch every piece of wood between our home and the school gates, to go in search of black cats, cross her eyes, walk backwards, you name it.

  I figured she wasn’t so much trying to attract good luck as warding off the bad. If I worked at it and stayed attentive, Niki was pretty much okay with me, but as soon as I went to my own classroom or left her alone in the house for more than five minutes, she reverted to those maddening, obsessive-compulsive behaviours.

  Things were looking bad for Niki and I was losing ground with her. Then one day as I admired a blue sparkly nail polish in the $2 Shop, I spotted a ‘Good Luck Specials’ bin full of tubes of nylon panties. The panties were emblazoned with rabbits holding bunches of balloons that read Good Luk! With only the briefest glance of regret towards the nail polish, I used all my pocket money to buy them. I told Niki they were magical good-luck knickers but that they would only work if she kept them secret and stopped doing all that other weird shit. I told her all those other things would reverse the good-luck charm. I did a good job on her and she bought it. Yeah, okay, I admit it’s pretty easy to bullshit a five year old, but I was only eleven.

  Niki secretly wore the good-luck panties and stopped all the weird crap, and after a couple of months she seemed to have forgotten about the whole thing. I’d forgotten about it anyway until just over a year ago. Last year, I spotted the same knickers in the $2 Shop. Bizarrely, they had SW size complete with bunnies holding Good Luk! balloons. I gave them to Niki for Christmas. I thought she’d laugh and either throw them at me or spend the rest of the day wearing them on her head — a party favourite with both of us. When she first unwrapped them, she grinned at me, maybe expecting them to explode or something, but then her face changed as the memories began to surface.

  And then to my horror I realised she was crying. I told her I was sorry, it was just a joke, something I thought she’d remember and laugh about. She did laugh then, but it was strained and fake and made me feel like shit. I tried again to apologise, suggested we swap presents because hers to me was actually very cool — a six-inch-tall ‘Dolly Surprise’ with waist-length hair that retracted into a hole in her head when you cranked her arm like a windmill — but Niki wouldn’t swap. She plunged those stupid damn knickers into her purse. She said she was keeping them. She said she was sure they’d bring her luck. Maybe even luk!

  Two weeks later she was murdered.

  My legs gave up the effort to keep me standing. I slumped to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. I heard great howling sobs come out of me, sobs that must have been lodged somewhere deep in my stomach ever since I’d been told Niki was dead. So, that’s where the grief had been hiding for the last twelve months. It was a relief to let it go. Warm, comforting and awful, like wetting the bed when you’re a kid.

  Wolf whimpered and I turned to him. He was sitting bolt upright with the lead hanging from his mouth, head cocked in that inimitable Disney cartoon way. That’s another great thing about dogs: they do their best to be sympathetic to us, caught up as we are in the ugliness of being human, but they never lose sight of their own priorities. It was time for a walk.

  I dressed, hunched myself into my walking jacket, and went in search of Wolf’s collar. I forced myself to think dispassionately about what I’d learnt from the recording. Gemma had edited the original and all I’d heard was the damning bit — the five minutes before the cavalry, aka Sean, arrived and dragged Snow out of there. Not that I needed to hear any more, that was for sure. Snow had done it all right. He’d killed Niki. But I already knew that: his confession was just confirmation of what I’d known for a long time.

  I looped the collar around Wolf’s head and strung the lead over the back of my neck. I never actually use the lead on Wolf but I do like t
he feel of the cold chain on my neck. That little quirk is something I don’t share with many people.

  What I’d learned from the recording was that killing Niki was a paid job. Snow had said he didn’t do personal and he didn’t do freebies, and so, bizarre as it seemed, someone must have ordered a hit on her. Who would have paid Snow to kill Niki? Had Niki got deeper into the seedy world of strip clubs and prostitution than I’d thought? Did she know too much about the workings of the club — the money laundering, the drugs? Was there someone at the club who didn’t want her breaking out of their control? The club’s owner, maybe?

  I hadn’t taken up Niki’s invitation to watch her dance. I’d never been inside the doors of the club, though sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d park across the road from it and watch the men enter and exit. I’d looked out for her all her life and it was a hard habit to break. Sometimes I’d see her leave, waving a girlish goodbye to the security guys on the door. Watching from across the street was the closest I’d got to the place. I had no idea who Niki worked with or for.

  I had two options: front up to the people at the club and find out about Niki’s life there before she was murdered, or go undercover, get myself hired as an ‘exotic’ dancer and find out what I could that way. I checked out my body in the hallway mirror. The Doc Martens boots, faded jeans and dog-hair-covered hoodie didn’t make for a hot look, and the chain over my neck added a decidedly punk touch, but I knew the twenty-eight-year-old body beneath wasn’t in too bad a shape. At around five foot eight, I was always picked for the netball and basketball teams and my height gives me a leggy look. The actual legs are pretty good too, particularly if I remember to shave them. Wide hips, long torso, flat stomach, and breasts which, though not large, always looked alert and ready for action. I couldn’t claim to be a great dancer but if I held on to that pole like I’d seen them do on TV, I reckoned I’d be able to shake and roll my body around it okay.

  I’d just convinced myself that undercover was the way to go when I caught sight of my scowling face. As long as I can remember, well-meaning friends, elderly relatives, colleagues, boyfriends, husbands — they’ve all told me I’d look ‘nice’ if I’d just stop frowning. The more positive tried the ‘You look so nice when you smile’ version. Neither approach worked. I’ve never wanted to be nice and it’s too late to change the set of my face now. I suspect I’m okay looking, but my habitual glower is undoubtedly a man turn-off for all but the most intrepid. And I doubt that men who have to pay girls to take their clothes off are intrepid types but that may just be a prejudice of mine. Unless I was prepared to wear a paper bag over my head while I danced, or — more difficult option — actually smile at the punters, undercover probably wasn’t going to work.

  I whistled Wolf out the door, letting it slam behind me. Immediately I felt better. There’s nothing like being outdoors with a dog trotting along in front of you to lighten your mood. Okay, I decided, I’d just have to front up to the strip club and suss it out that way. Wolf lifted his leg and let out a long, satisfying stream against the lamp post. I stopped with him, admiring, as I’m sure he did, the way the steam swirled into the cool, early morning air.

  I’d been so caught up thinking about Snow killing Niki that I’d forgotten the most recent development: Snow’s death. Snow had killed Niki by knifing her in the back. Now it looked like Snow had been murdered in the same way. Although I had no wish to bring his killer to justice, in fact I’d be tempted to shake the hand of the guy who did it, there was no doubt Snow’s death and Niki’s were inextricably linked.

  It was no use going to the club until late at night, so that gave me the whole day to finish the report on my last missing person’s job, and fire off the invoice so I could pay the mortgage and fill the fridge. Only one serious problem remained. What the hell does a girl wear to a strip club?

  CHAPTER 4

  I settled on what I hoped was a sophisticated look: black silk trousers, open-necked, white silk blouse nipped at the waist with a three-inch-wide, Mediterranean-blue belt. I don’t do heels, partly because of my height but mostly because I like to be able to run if I need to. Checking myself out in the hallway mirror, I was pretty sure I’d achieved the look of a liquorice all-sort rather than one of sophistication but it would have to do. Anyway, it seemed unlikely with naked women dancing around the place that there would be many looks in my direction. What I couldn’t understand was why I felt so nervous about going to the club. What was I afraid of — being hit by flying pussy?

  I found a TV park outside, locked the car and headed towards the neon lights of the unoriginally named Pussy Galore. Two imposing men in fine charcoal-grey suits stood guard at the door, hands clasped in front of their groins and legs slightly apart, the way they must be trained to at security guard school. Actually, I reminded myself, they probably learnt it at karate school and I should wipe the smart-arse sneer off my face. Samoan, well over six feet, broad-shouldered and flashing wide smiles of perfect white teeth, they made the kind of handsome pair I could, after six months of abstinence, happily imagine as bookends — with me as the book.

  As I passed between them into the entrance alcove I made a real effort to erase my scowl. I even attempted a smile. One of the Bookends, surprisingly quick for a guy of his size, slipped ahead of me, barring the interior glass door with his arm. I’m pretty sure my scowl returned.

  ‘I have to stamp your hand first,’ he said, indicating my clenched fist. ‘Then I’ll buzz you in.’

  He manoeuvred his bulk behind a little plywood island and I felt like a five year old holding out the back of my hand. He applied the stamp with a studied concentration, throwing me a shy smile as he let me go. Sheesh! I’d been expecting scowls, sneers and crass gestures. Instead I was being treated with deference and a polite but low-key welcome. It made me uneasy.

  ‘It’s ladies’ night,’ he smiled, as if that explained everything.

  A button was hit somewhere and the opaque glass doors etched with reclining pussy cats slid apart. My Bookend lifted his eyebrows in the time-honoured Pacific gesture, and motioned with his head that I could enter. I glanced back at the guy still on the street and in that moment a look, maybe a signal, passed between them. I stepped into the club and the pussy-etched doors slid closed behind me.

  My first thought was that the place was on fire. After the cool evening air, the blast of heat was like stepping from a plane on to the tarmac in the tropics. Roils of smoke swirled around me and flame-red horizontal LED lights flickered and spun directly into my eyes. The bass was so loud my teeth buzzed with the vibration. I took a step forward and could make out a dozen or so semi-naked girls seated around a catwalk the size of a gangplank. Perched on stools in chattering groups of two and three, the girls resembled a flock of Easter chicks fluffed up in pretty, pastel feathers. Faux-harem silks wafted dreamily in the warm air of the industrial blow heaters. The occasional pussy-cat tail was absentmindedly swirled like a skipping rope.

  I circumvented the gangplank, smiling at girls who looked back at me with blank disinterest. If any were wondering why a single woman was at a strip club, they kept their interest well hidden, but my appearance did seem to set off a domino effect of languid movement. Several of the girls slid off their stools and began shifting their weight from one foot to the other. They might have been dancing or just trying to get their circulation back after sitting for too long. For the first time in my life I felt overdressed.

  I made my way to the back of the room where two tomato-red vinyl sofas were installed at right angles to each other. A girl appeared at my elbow. She was naked except for tiny lace knickers that glowed the startling greenish white of a skeleton in a ghost train ride.

  ‘Hi, I’m Chloe, I’ll take that for you,’ she offered, draping my coat over her arm. She looked about seventeen, wore dramatic Egyptian-style eye make-up to complement her sunbed-bronzed skin. Her hair was held off her face by an Alice band made incongruous by the enormous metal ring with flashing st
ars pierced through her right nipple. I winced, clasping my hands to keep from cupping my own breast in sympathy.

  ‘Thanks. And could I have a drink?’ I asked, reaching for my wallet.

  She flashed her teeth which, like her knickers, radiated a startling, ghoulish green-white. ‘Sure. You want to buy me one too?’

  I’d been wondering how I was going to get to talk to the girls about Niki but at this rate it might be easier than I thought.

  ‘Okay.’ I hoped I wasn’t making some ghastly blunder. For all I knew, agreeing to buy her a drink was a euphemism for an all-night orgy.

  ‘I’ll just take a swipe of your credit card now, and then at the end of the night I’ll give you a receipt. You don’t have to worry about anything while you’re here, because it’s all taken care of.’ She voiced exactly my suspicions. Misinterpreting my hesitation she added, ‘Don’t worry, everything you spend here will appear on your bank statement as a donation to the Feline Protection Services.’

  ‘Great. I’ll have a red wine and yeah, sure, you order what you want for yourself.’ I shrugged and passed her my credit card, mentally adding up my credit balance and hoping for the best.

  As Chloe clicked off towards the bar the music changed to a deep, throbbing, sexual rhythm. I glanced behind me at the DJ who sported a brilliant red pubic-like strip of hair down the centre of his otherwise butt-naked pate. I followed the direction of his gaze. A short, tidily dressed Asian man was leaning towards one of the girls on the stools, a proprietary hand on the back of her neck. She was looking away as he spoke, but then obediently slid off the stool and clambered up on to the catwalk. She took custody of the pole and began swaying around it, her tiny hot pants and lace bra so luminous a diffuse halo outlined her body. She walked four steps to the pole at the other end and swayed some more. I had a horrible suspicion it was my entrance that had set this enervated movement in motion.