A Smaller Hell Page 7

  The pair cackled and steadied themselves against each other. The smell of vodka filled the room.

  ‘Is there any room at the inn?’

  ‘We were just leaving,’ I said, still pointing the sword in their direction.

  ‘I do hope we didn't interrupt anything?’

  ‘You really ought to be careful where you point that thing.’

  I lowered the sword.

  ‘Not that thing.’

  I covered myself with my shirt amidst the vodka shrieks and PVC squeaks as they fell over each other like doomed seals in an oil slick.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘Business meeting,’ the older hooker said.

  I began gathering up my clothes as Rachel emerged from behind me to do the same.

  ‘Oh, don't leave on our account. Why don't you stay for the show? We won't even charge you,’ the younger one said, winking one of her wet, emerald eyes at me.

  ‘You can watch from the next room through here.’

  The older one loosened and extracted one of the ancient bricks from the wall like a dentist extracting a tooth.

  ‘Maybe you'd like to join us?’ the younger woman said, looking at her companion.

  ‘I don't think they're quite ready for that, Emma. Besides, I think our man here is spent for the night.’

  They locked together in a passionate kiss. Rachel was slack-jawed at the spectacle unfolding before us. I was still sweating and trembling from the adrenaline as I pulled on my clothes. We left the hookers still locked together and pulled the door to behind us. As we began pacing down the freezing corridor, Rachel stopped.

  ‘I want to see.’

  ‘We have no idea who's coming here.’

  Silence.

  ‘I want to see,’ she said, tugging on my hand.

  We heard a car come to a halt outside and the powerful engine grumble at being shut down.

  Rachel pulled me towards the room the hooker had shown us. The only source of light came from the hole in the wall where the stone tooth had been pulled. We closed the door and through the peep-hole, we saw the two women smiling at each other. The elder pushed the younger's hair out of her eyes and stroked her face. They were about to kiss again when the door slammed open and the client prowled into the room: another woman wearing an old wedding dress. Her face was obscured by the veil, but I could see that she was large and walked like a man. I looked at Rachel and circled my temple with my index finger, mouthing the words let's go.

  Ignoring me, Rachel leaned closer in to the cavity. Her eyes twitched, registering every dysfunctional frame of this 2 a.m. matinee. I leaned in closer myself to observe the bride unpacking a small leather case, such as that which a traditionalist doctor might carry. From it she drew a pair of white uniforms similar to those used by the kitchen porters at the department store, finishing off the outfits with a pair of Marigold gloves for each of the hookers.

  It was difficult to gain a clear view through the small hole, especially with Rachel so eager to take it all in. I could only see the bride from the back, but upon closer scrutiny, it was obvious her dress had been altered across the shoulders and that it wasn't a trick of perspective that had caused her to appear much taller than the other women. The bizarre scene ground to a halt once the girls had dressed in the uniforms, Marigolds and had their hairnets in place. They waited in silence, all staring at the ground, resembling the kitchen workers Rachel had been working amongst that day at the store.

  We could not see, but we could hear the footsteps down the cellar staircase, then the door open. The expensive scent that Doyle wore carried through the hole in the wall. Unable to see past the broad, lumbering bride, we could only hear whispers, followed by a chopping sound, some scraping and then two deep, prolonged sniffs. The sound of the bride's clenched Marigold glove connecting with bone and flesh. Quiet sobbing. Now that the bride had moved, we could see the older hooker sprawled face down on the table, holding her mouth. She was ordered to remain silent and still by a voice of broken glass and syrup.

  Rachel mouthed the name Graziano.

  Doyle made her way past him over to the younger whore who was still bent over the table, face down and sobbing. Doyle was wearing a green paper surgical gown and a thick black rubber apron, like a huge glob of tar running down her front. She rustled and squeaked into position and hiked Emma's white jacket up on to her hips.

  Rachel’s grip on my arm tightened as she whispered, ‘Let's go’.

  I had no qualms about leaving even before I heard the scream. It made the hairs on my neck stand up as I stopped in my tracks.

  ‘We can’t just leave her,’ I said.

  I shook free of Rachel's grip and wrapped my hand in my belt to protect it from the damage Graziano's granite head might inflict. The Captain’s sword caught my eye from the corner of the room. I imagined the steel tearing Graziano's skin, puncturing his hot organs, making his body gurgle and shudder and felt damned just thinking about it. I looked down at my leather-wrapped fist and reasoned that one more broken nose wasn’t going to send me to Hell.

  I told Rachel to stay and hide, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

  ‘No. Let's just go,’ she said.

  ‘We can’t just leave her.’

  ‘She’s getting paid for this. It’s her job.’

  As I tried to move away from her, we both stumbled and knocked an empty steel keg, which created an unmistakable gong in the darkness, making our decision for us. We both scrambled up the cellar staircase as quickly as the rotten wood allowed. Just as we reached the last step, the door burst open and a tornado of lace came storming up the stairs, each thunderous footfall threatening to collapse the entire building. I readied my improvised knuckleduster, hiding round the corner, waiting for Graziano. Rachel was already unlocking her car. The squeaking of nails and the groaning of breaking wood became a crash as the stair case collapsed. I peered over the edge to see Graziano up to his waist in rotted wood, looking like a dropped ice cream; the wedding dress mushroomed about his chest. Trying to free himself, he let out a cry of frustration and smashed his fists into the wooden boards around him until they began to splinter and break. The surgeon emerged from the room in the black apron, which was steaming with some kind of bodily fluid. I said a silent prayer for forgiveness as I heard Rachel start the car and sprinted through the pub to escape the clutches of the demons emerging from the cellar.

  Porcelain

  It was a bitter morning, despite the flawless blue skies and the bright, low sun making every building in town monumental. Even the blackened red brick of the terraced houses on the outskirts seemed more quaint than dilapidated in the sunrise. The trainers slung over the telephone lines swayed in the breeze like sacrificial offerings to the gods of the street, while its cobbles sparkled like potatoes in a farmer's cart on my way into town.

  I sat outside a café, cradling a hot coffee. The warmth brought my fingers back to life as I sat at one of the outdoor tables to observe the natives edging about in the wintry sun. The dark nectar stuck in my throat as my eyes fell upon one who looked wounded.

  ‘Emma?’

  It was the hooker who had been haunting my nightmares since that night in the Captain's Rest. She was barely recognisable as the girl who had teased me in the cellar of the pub a few days before. She limped through the amber concrete of the precinct, head down to avoid catching anyone’s eye.

  ‘Emma!’

  She turned to survey me with the one good eye she had left and said nothing as she hobbled over to my table, keeping her eye fixed on me as she approached. I felt her body tremble under the burden of her injuries as I helped her into the chair. She was dressed like any other teenage girl out shopping, except that she was wearing a baseball cap to conceal her face.

  ‘Can I get you something?’

  She flinched as I rested my hand on hers.

  ‘What would you like?’ I asked her.

  ‘Something soft,’ she mumbled, her swol
len jaw impeding her speech.

  I bought her a large cappuccino and the biggest, most chocolatey muffin I could find. I saw a hint of a smile as I placed them in front of her.

  ‘I'm sorry I didn’t stop it,’ I said.

  ‘You’re the only reason I’m still breathing,’ she said in a voice that was tired and gentle, a far cry from her coke-fuelled jabbering the other night. She broke the muffin up in her fingers and fed herself tiny morsels. ‘I can’t find Tina. No-one's seen her since.’

  ‘Is there no-one you can contact? Did she have any family?’

  Emma shook her head and continued gumming her muffin like a child consoling herself with sweets. ‘I was her only family.’

  ‘Could she have got away?’ I asked.

  She shook her head and started to cry. ‘I don’t know.’

  People had begun to stare, so I picked up our coffee and food and put an arm around her to lead her away. As soon as I touched her, she put her arms round me and wouldn't let go. The murmuring of the diners was halted by the chime of a jingle bell as the café's door opened. In walked Rachel, who looked shocked.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said, glaring at Emma before pushing past us and striding back out of the café and disappearing into the crowds.

  Red Light

  The black cab drove us through the wasteland between the docks and the ghost estate. On this side of the no-man's-land were cranes, vats, tunnels, bridges and overhead walkways. On the other was razor wire, smashed glass, burnt out windows, anti-Thatcher sentiments sprayed on corrugated iron and huge piles of ash on which were strewn mattresses and prams. Upon closer inspection, the braver archaeologist would find smaller relics in the form of discarded needles, contraceptives, underwear and crack pipes. Some of the syringes were huge, harking back to the golden brown days of the eighties.

  The cab dropped us off in an apartment block forecourt that looked like an Audi dealership. Emma hobbled through the foyer and over to the lift, pressing the illuminated arrow with her shaking hand tipped with broken fingernails. I watched her hunched over in the glow of the lift panel, trembling and breathing like an old woman. When the lift arrived, she pushed the button for the penthouse.

  The apartment was well-furnished and decorated, but looked like it had been abused by a teenager home alone. Skimpy outfits lay strewn about the furniture, the PVC and Lycra at odds with the fine leather of the three-piece suite.

  ‘Would you like to watch TV?’ she asked, picking up the remote for the huge plasma TV lurking in the corner.

  She tried to tidy up, staggering about with piles of her work clothes gathered up from the couch.

  ‘I really should be going, anyway.’

  ‘Please stay. I have something I need to show you,’ she mumbled, turning away to limp into another room.

  The penthouse smelled of vodka, coconut skin cream and takeaway food, above the expensive herbs and spices in kitchen racks.

  ‘Are you a cook, then? You've got some good stuff here,’ I shouted to her.

  ‘Tina’s the cook. You should try her dolphin nose potatoes.’

  I picked up a pouch of saffron and sniffed it, before inspecting the kitchenware.

  ‘Would you come and help me with something, please?’ she called from another room.

  I put down the colander and followed Emma's voice.

  ‘In here.’

  I pushed open the door to what looked like a bedroom. Incense smoke curled and wafted about the room, which was dimly lit with candles. On the bed, Emma beckoned in black lingerie, having positioned her hair to hide her bruises. It tumbled over her sculpted, petal white shoulders and led my gaze down to her chest, her belly button piercing, to the flawless skin of her thighs and hips.

  ‘You don't have to look at my face,’ she mumbled through her bruised mouth and black hair, which was draped over her blackest eye. I could feel the blood thudding through my body as I turned away and took off my heavy Crombie jacket to cover her with it.

  ‘Don't you want me?’ Emma asked me with her dewy, bruised eyes.

  ‘Part of me does,’ I said.

  ‘Can I guess which part?’ she said, reaching for my belt.

  I pulled her hand away and held it. I stood over her, looking at her hair splashed all over the pillow like a Rorschach inkblot. ‘I'm in love with someone else.’

  ‘So was I,’ she said, pulling her hand away from mine.

  The candles crackled as the wind howled at the window.

  ‘Can I come and live with you?’ she asked.

  I looked around the plush apartment. ‘You’d change your mind as soon as you opened the ... There isn't even a front door.’

  Emma pulled the Crombie around her and sat up on the bed. ‘Do you want to come and live here?’

  I was tired of hiding in that house; tired of fending off rats from my bedding and tired of having to wait until getting into work to use the bathroom.

  ‘How much is the rent?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing. It's mine.’

  ‘How ...?’

  Emma got up off the bed and beckoned me into the hallway, where she stopped and pointed to a picture of an old man leaning on a cane. He had a white beard and kind eyes, which smiled along with his whole face, despite its gaunt, hollow appearance.

  ‘He left me the apartment … In return for something.’

  I looked at her, urging her to elaborate.

  ‘I'd rather not say.’

  She blew a kiss to the photograph and went to the kitchen and clinked about in the fridge before emerging with a bottle of Stoli. Having poured us both large measures, she sank hers and poured another.

  ‘It was what he wanted. I tried to talk him out of it,’ she spoke into the glass before taking a gulp.

  The silence was broken only by the hum of traffic in the distance. Emma's minimalist Christmas decorations consisted of a string of red fairy lights twinkling around the large window in the living room. The light refracted through the ice in our tumblers, illuminating our faces as if we were contemplating our respective hells from a distance.

  ‘So ... will you stay?’

  Boiled Cupid

  Sitting with Rachel in the store’s restaurant, I tried to explain what had been going on.

  ‘I couldn't stay where I was.’

  ‘Of all people to move in with, though,’ Rachel said, trying to keep her voice down in the store’s restaurant.

  ‘I realise it’s … She's not that bad, you know.’

  ‘You were there stood right next to me in the Captain's Rest, weren't you?’

  ‘Only because you wanted to stay.’

  I knew this was a mistake as soon as the words escaped my lips. A hard slap stung my cheek and the cutlery clattered on the table as she stood up and ran out of the restaurant, sobbing. In the silence that fell over the whole restaurant, I could hear the screams of Cupid being boiled alive until Doyle’s voice summoned me over the speaker system.

  It’s Rude to Point

  ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ Doyle said, leafing through documents on her desk. ‘But we can't have performances like that in front of customers, can we?’

  I didn’t answer.

  She tapped her expensive pen against her expensive teeth. ‘I think we should get Miss Mackenzie in here just to make sure there's no repeat performance.’

  She pushed a button on her desk phone, summoned Rachel and smiled at me, giving nothing away about the night at The Captain’s Rest. Finally, the huge oak door creaked open and I heard Rachel's delicate steps on the polished wood of the office floor. I glanced outside, noticing that the sky had become stuffed with great black balls of cotton wool blocking out the sun, filling the precinct below with ice and misery. Rachel sat in the chair next to mine, refusing to look at me.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Mackenzie. I’ll assume that you know why you are here,’ Doyle said, lighting up a cigarette. The fire crackled and gusts of wind spat hail at the window. I had begun to sweat into the
fine suit that Miss Allister had given me.

  ‘I'll take that as a yes, Miss Mackenzie. I'd advise you to be more co-operative on this matter. You're not indispensable, even this close to Christmas.’

  Cracklecrackle. Rattattatat.

  ‘I see. In that case, henceforth, you are forbidden from consorting with each other on the premises of this store until your contracts expire. At this point they will be reviewed with consideration of your conduct, which is less than satisfactory so far.’

  Commander Clarence was looking directly at me. Waiting. Expecting. I swallowed my trepidation and spoke up. ‘What about your conduct?’

  Doyle's eyes widened in mock surprise. ‘You two are quite the couple. Have you forgotten our little agreement, Mr. Black?’

  ‘I never agreed to this,’ I said, pointing at Doyle. ‘You’re out of your mind.’

  As I stood up, Graziano entered and took up his customary position in the huge leather-bound armchair in the shadows. Commander Clarence's gaze was now fixed downward; his shoulders slumped, exuding an air of defeat.

  ‘Don't you know it's rude to point?’ Doyle said, smirking in the glow of the flames while Rachel gasped through her hands.

  Let It Snow

  I was assigned to Toys for the remainder of the week. It was still dark and icy outside, making the glow of the baubles and the fairy lights in the department all the more homely and inviting. The most terrible customers came to find shelter for their expensive hairdos rather than shop, choosing me as their target for their pointless inquiries and never buying anything.

  Across the store, I could see Rachel, who was still on Cosmetics. She was being inspected and preened by Doyle's minions; the ones who had ridiculed me within thirty seconds of arriving for my job interview. She looked humiliated, her dignity ebbing away with each warbled platitude, twist of her hair, daub of make-up.

  Robinson whispered in my ear. ‘You should just leave.’