Asking For Trouble (28 page)

For some reason, the fairy-castle foolishness of the place cheered me. And when I saw the Palace Pier’s garish lights, winking and swooping at the bottom of the road, I felt a frisson of childish excitement.

I suddenly wanted to run to Ilya’s place, throw my arms round him and tumble into a strange bed. I didn’t want to liaise and persuade while Luke stood there like a lemon. I didn’t want to rebel against Ilya’s wrath or refusal.

I just wanted things to be good between us. We could continue having lots of sex – dirty, brash, sluttish sex – but underlying our games there’d be something new: a
mutual trust and understanding, a shared sense of what we were doing and where we were going. We’d stop trying to outdo each other and, instead, we’d be equals who were equally committed, equally honest.

But the cheery indifference of Ilya’s phone call suggested he wanted to go backward rather than forward. Well, I thought, maybe I could give it a go.

As we turned into St James Street, brighter and busier, my resolve strengthened. I started to feel the aura of sleaze, both brazen and stealthy. The zing of the gay scene infected me. Not so much the vibrancy of its clubs and bars: more thoughts of easy pick-ups, tatty saunas and all the cottaging rumoured to go on in the seafront toilets.

I started to anticipate my first experience of some hot boy-on-boy action in a seamy bed and breakfast. If Ilya wanted to rewind, then fine. But I was calling the shots tonight. He could take it or leave it.

‘This is going to be fun,’ I said, squeezing Luke round the waist. ‘You’ll like Ilya, once you get used to him. Promise.’

I burbled on in a similar fashion, feeding Luke with encouragement, lies and a little bit of smutty talk to get him in the mood.

We passed dingy sidestreets full of cheap hotels with shallow ironwork balconies; and I thought of how, years ago, when sex was difficult, people would book into those places as Mr and Mrs Smith. The night just seemed full of lust: clandestine and forbidden, anonymous and raw – as if it had all layered up over the decades.

‘Somewhere down here,’ I said, spotting our side street.

‘Ugh,’ said Luke, adding a little nervous laugh.

And he was right: ugh.

The narrow road was shadowy and grim, lined with squashed seaside houses in greys and grimy pastels. Street lamps spaced too far apart gave off a feeble white
haze, and illuminated guesthouse signs jutted out at random.

I eyed an unlit bay window, grubby net curtains stretched behind it. Handwritten signs taped to the glass advertised the price of rooms. Please, Ilya, let it be one of the better ones.

I fumbled with my slip of paper, looking around at names and door numbers, then, relieved, we moved on.

Ilya’s B and B didn’t look too bad: it was bigger, squarer and slightly sprucer-looking than most – but then that wasn’t too difficult.

The door wasn’t open, though, and we had to press a bell. A man in a beige jumper with face and hair to match answered.

‘We’ve come to see someone in room nine,’ I said.

The beige man just sighed and nodded us into a small lobby, which, for all its tawdry splendour of gilt-framed mirrors, two delicate little tables and an overbearing chandelier, was pretty low-watt and gloomy.

Luke and I, following the man’s directions, made our way up a narrow stairway, its red carpet threadbare where too many feet had trudged. The air was metallic with the tang of polish – chemical pine needles – but nothing really shone; it was more as if someone had sprayed the stuff around like air-freshener.

The unfamiliarity of the place excited me, as did the prospect of seeing Ilya. And when we reached door number nine, I was buzzing with nerves and horniness.

‘It’s Beth,’ I announced, knocking.

‘Yeah, it’s OK,’ came Ilya’s steady voice. ‘Come on in.’

Hearing him made my emotions dance, but I was determined to play it cool.

I opened the door, took a step into the room, then froze. My heart slammed to a halt. My vision went muzzy.

‘Oh, fuck,’ I breathed, as my stalled heartbeats tumbled.

‘Oh fuck,’ came Luke’s quiet voice at my shoulder. Then he added softly: ‘You bitch.’

I reached back to clutch at his wrist, scared he might run. It was the only movement I could make. In petrified disbelief, I surveyed the cigarette-hazy room as it swam back into focus.

The walls were papered in mock-Regency stripes and I felt as if I were standing at the entrance to a cage – a cage full of beasts. There were six men in all, but, in the small space, it seemed more like twenty. It didn’t take a genius to work out that they weren’t the most savoury of characters.

They were scattered here and there, drinking and smoking: three were on wooden-framed armchairs, sitting around a low circular table which was strewn with playing cards; one was on the bed, reclining against the teak, wall-set headboard, his legs sprawling comfortably; another, bull-necked and thuggish like a nightclub bouncer, sat incongruously on a white and gilt dressing table; and there was Ilya, leaning near the floor-to-ceiling curtains of the big bay window, his arms crossed, his face stony and grim.

My skin broke out in sudden heat, then sweat started to prickle.

All eyes were on us. It was patently obvious we were expected – or, more likely, I was. Ilya had really excelled himself this time.

Nervously, I looked at the bed again. The guy lounging there was holding the biggest, blackest dildo I have ever seen. It was surely a joke sex toy. He was bouncing the thing, tick-tock fashion, from palm to palm. He returned my gaze, a malevolent leer on his cruel, sharp face, then he pointed the dildo at Luke.

‘Who’s the pretty one?’ he asked.

I could have kneed him in the balls for that, except my legs wouldn’t have carried me.

I swallowed, trying to lubricate my dry throat, and addressed Ilya.

‘What’s going on?’ I croaked.

Ilya walked towards me and, despite my fear, the sight of his dark, rough-hewn beauty made me melt – heart and sex. We’d been apart far too long.

‘Get rid of him, Beth,’ he said gently.

I shook my head, tightening my grip on Luke’s wrist as he tried to withdraw.

‘What’s going on?’ I repeated.

Ilya stood close. I could smell him; I could feel the heat from his body; I could see the faintest yellow tinge on his cheekbone, the last vestige of a bruise.

He gazed down at me, his blue-jade eyes softly pleading.

‘I need you,’ he said in a tormented whisper. ‘Please, Beth. Help me out.’

His fingertips brushed fleetingly against my own.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he murmured. Then, nodding at Luke, he said, ‘I’m afraid your journey’s been wasted, mate. You’re surplus to requirements.’

In a daze, I released my hold on Luke’s wrist.

‘Beth,’ hissed Luke, as if he were trying to recall me to my senses.

‘Nice try though, Beth,’ added Ilya, giving me a lame smile.

In the room behind Ilya, conversations were rolling, jocular and animated, like they were all down the pub.

‘Tell me what’s going on,’ I said, quiet and numb. ‘Who are they?’

‘Lose the friend,’ insisted Ilya.

I paused, moistening my lips. My heart was hammering so wildly I half fancied it might break out of my ribcage.

‘Go, Luke,’ I said, without turning to him. ‘Just go.’

‘But, Beth,’ he protested. ‘You might –’

‘Please,’ I said sternly. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. I can handle it. I’m OK. Just leave.’

After several silent seconds, floorboards creaked behind me and Luke retreated.

Ilya closed the door. The chatter died down.

‘Pretend it’s fantasy,’ murmured Ilya, ushering me deeper into the dull-lit, stripy room.

If I hadn’t been so frightened, I might have laughed at that.

‘Okaaay,’ said the bed-man in decisive, sing-song drawl. ‘Let’s have a look at her, Travis.’ Briskly, he swung his feet to the ground and stood.

He looked like an elongated pixie: tall and sinewy, with a smidgen of a sandy beard and wavy hair caught back in a ponytail. His lips were thin and cold.

He jerked his head towards the bed. ‘Get her on there,’ he said to Ilya. ‘And spread her open so I can take a gander.’

‘You can go fuck yourself,’ I said. The words came out louder than I’d intended. I’d just wanted to breathe them to myself – a small act of defiance while I waited for guidance from Ilya.

‘Oooo,’ jeered pixie-face, as gruff laughter crackled and wheezed. ‘Bolshy little bitch, isn’t she? Well, Travis? Are you going to fill her in or am I?’

The laughter spluttered up again. ‘I’m second,’ said a youngish guy with slicked-back hair and a silver hoop in one ear.

‘No, you’re not, you dirty bastard,’ guffawed the bouncer-thug. ‘I’m not touching anything you’ve had your dick in.’

‘An orderly queue if you please,’ mocked another voice.

My rage simmered up as the moronic banter continued, interspersed with bawdy laughter. Ilya, standing a little way behind me, said nothing.

‘Nice company you keep,’ I said tartly, turning my head a fraction.

‘I didn’t fucking choose them,’ came Ilya’s clenched-teeth reply.

Pixie-face approached me, rangy and snake-hipped. There was an air of louche threat and incipient violence about him.

‘You see, Beth,’ he began jauntily. ‘It goes like this: your friend Ilya needs to buy himself some more time. He’s not coming up with the goods and I’m not happy. So I thought to myself, Well, Tony, what could Ilya do to keep you sweet for a while? And I thought, Well, maybe I’ll have a go at his girlfriend. She looks all right to me.’

He grinned, that slash of a mouth stretching narrow and white. Then, flopping his hand at the wrist and putting on a high-pitched, girly voice, he said, ‘I want your dick up my arse! Oh Ilya! Yes! Yes! I want your dick up my arse. I want your fucking dick up my fucking arse! Oh! Oh! Give it to me, big boy.’

Laughter erupted, deep, lewd and prolonged. Despair spread through me like an ink stain. In a better frame of mind, I might have spat at him.

‘The video,’ said Ilya in a dull, defeated tone. ‘Sorry. The tape was in the machine.’

My head spun, trying to sort out too much information and too many emotions. They’d seen me. They’d watched me. I wasn’t even embarrassed. Then I felt contempt rise – for them and for Ilya.

‘What?’ I said incredulously. ‘Are you saying . . . are these just a bunch of fucking burglars? Some blokes who nicked your telly? Christ, I assumed –’

‘Oh, no, no, no,’ cut in Tony, giving me a sardonic smile. ‘We didn’t mean to rob the stuff, darling. It just – ooops – slipped into our hands. We were only popping round to say, “Well, hello Ilya. We’ve got your number.” And look what we ended up with: you! A porn star! So do as you’re told, eh?’ He chucked me under the chin. I
recoiled from his bony fingers. ‘You’ll make us all very happy.’

My voice trembled when I spoke. ‘And if I don’t?’

Tony shrugged and, with airy arrogance, said, ‘Then I’ll just have to blow your boyfriend’s kneecaps off, won’t I?’

Icy horror squeezed me.

Tony watched, smug and delighted, waiting for me to react to his vile information.

I had no idea if his threat was hollow or deadly serious, but the sentiment was sufficient to start a wave of sickness sweeping from my guts to my throat. My own knees felt bloated with squeamish sensitivity and my dizzying consciousness reeled with the roundness of knees, with the floatiness of patellas, with splintered bone and blood-splashed pavements, and cartilage, and that fluid that stops the ball and socket joints grinding to dust.

‘I need to sit down,’ I whispered.

‘That’s more like it,’ drawled Tony. He gestured grandly to the bed where the freakishly huge dildo rested on the insipid blue bedspread.

I couldn’t move. My knees would dislocate. I just stood, trancelike, wishing I knew what I was caught up in.

Tony sighed theatrically, shaking his head. ‘Warm her up, Trav,’ he said. ‘I don’t think she likes me.’ Then he sauntered off to light a cigarette.

I stared after him until, from behind, I felt Ilya’s strong arms gently encircle my waist. His nuzzled close to my ear and his teeth pulled softly on the lobe.

‘Hey,’ he whispered, his voice tender and reassuring. ‘It’s OK, babe. He’s bullshitting. It’s not that serious. I swear. If you want to leave, just say the word.’

He nibbled at my ear and kissed my neck, his broad hands rubbing beneath my breasts, moving slow circles over my dress, as if I had stomachache rather than heartache.

The echo of his voice played a refrain in my head: Just say the word. Just say the word.

Was he speaking figuratively? Or did he mean
the
word: cuttlefish?

For one blinding moment of madness, I wondered if this was all some elaborate setup, a variation on one of Ilya’s surprise role-plays that had started somewhere in the past – with the burglary? The bruised face? I didn’t know.

But surely not. While Ilya was damn good at acting – as my arrogant punter or bad-mouthing debaser – I couldn’t imagine he had five friends capable of doing the same.

I rested my head back on his chest. ‘What word?’ I asked hesitantly.

He got my drift at once.

‘No, no,’ he said with an edge of urgency. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant tell me if you want to leave. It won’t be a major problem. I swear. You can go. Or . . . or if you want to say the word, the big one, then . . . sure, I’ll understand.’ His breath was warm against my ear and, when he spoke again, his low blurred voice had a smile to it: ‘But I’d hate to fucking cry in front of these guys.’

Oh God, how I ached for him. He continued caressing me, his hand moving in bigger circles, moving down to stroke over my belly. His groin, pressing against my buttocks, grew larger and, for a while, it was as if we were alone.

Tony and his cronies paid scant attention to us. They just lumbered on with their crass conversations, presumably waiting for the action to hot up.

‘But I thought you’d like it,’ murmured Ilya. ‘Deep down inside, once the shock had worn off. You don’t need to be scared. It’ll be good.’

I wondered if Ilya was acting now. Was he being smoochy and schmaltzy in a bid to win me over? Trying
to save his own skin by telling me these men were OK when really they were vicious hoods?