Asking For Trouble (31 page)

‘But then where do they go?’ I demanded. ‘Are they for armed robbers? Or . . . or terrorists? Or what? Where?’

Ilya sipped his black tea and grimaced. ‘Everyone wants to be tooled up these days,’ he replied. ‘Best not to ask too many questions.’

I didn’t know if he meant best for me or best for him. Or both.

‘Jesus, don’t you have any scruples?’ I asked, accidentally ripping the sachet and scattering white sugar granules everywhere.

Ilya smiled. ‘Not one of my strong points, no.’

I didn’t return the smile. We fell silent and I just stared
out of the window, beyond the quiet shingle beach to the washed-out sky. It looked like it had been coated with those paints you can buy: white with a hint of apple or peach. The sky that day was white with a hint of misery.

The summer season’s coming to a close, I thought. The tourists have gone home; the kids are back at school; the Victorian merry-go-round is all wrapped up in green canvas, showing only its stripy top. A lot of the seafront souvenir shops and ice-cream bars have closed, and so have a fair amount of cafés. Along the arches there are more metal shutters than open doors. Some café owners keep on determinedly putting tables and chairs outside, but there’s no one sitting there.

Brighton at this time of year has a very melancholy feel; it’s like a clown with no friends.

I dropped my teabag into the ashtray and turned back to Ilya. ‘So how do you get the . . . the things into Britain? I asked. ‘Are they hidden inside other stuff?’

Ilya lit a cigarette. ‘Kind of,’ he murmured. ‘You can stash crates in with legit freight.’

‘Well, what sort of legit freight?’

He dashed a knuckle across the bridge of his nose. ‘Anything, really. Depends who I’m working with, how we’re organising it. Perishables are good, you know, fruit, flowers. It gets taped up, has to travel fast, so customs don’t poke around too much. Or it might be timber or . . . like the next run, it’s a big consignment and we’re shipping it in with machine parts.’

‘Christ,’ I said softly. ‘I just, I can’t get my head round it all. It’s . . . There’s suddenly so much metal in my life. And my life isn’t like that. My life is, is softer. And this is Brighton. I know the town’s not all candyfloss and doughnuts but . . .’

My words petered out.

‘I didn’t want my life to be like this,’ said Ilya testily. ‘It’s not easy, you know, always having to look over your shoulder, trusting no one except yourself, wondering if
today’s going to be the day your luck runs out. It’s a fucking pain. But it’s not something you can just walk away from. And the pickings are good. I make a lot of money. Trouble is it’s all tied up in property and deals at the moment. I haven’t got thirty grand to spare.’

A troubled silence thickened between us.

Ilya drew heavily on his cigarette, then said, ‘Look, Beth, I know I said I’d be straight with you, but it’s probably best if you don’t know too many details. For your safety and for mine.’

‘I’m just curious,’ I said sullenly. ‘And since I’m caught up in this mess, I reckon I deserve something of an insight. I mean, what you’re asking me to do is pretty heavy-going.’

‘Yeah, fair enough,’ conceded Ilya. ‘Sorry.’

‘So are you going to move back into your flat?’ I asked, trying to steer away from the subject. ‘Now Tony’s tracked you down, there’s not much point staying in some B and B, is there?’

‘Yeah, but I reckon I’m safer there,’ he replied. ‘It’s more public. Anyway, my flat’s too close to yours. I’d hate Tony to burst in with one of his little reminders when you’re with me.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t visit your flat. You could come to mine.’

Ilya shrugged. ‘Tony’d find out. He always does.’

‘Well, are you going to move back in when this is all finished? I asked. ‘And what about your stuff? Are you paying rent? You could store it at my –’

‘Beth, please,’ said Ilya, with a hint of exasperation. ‘I’m not thinking more than a few days ahead at the moment. Anyway, there’s hardly anything worth having in my flat. I took what I needed when I left for Prague.’ He smiled. ‘The TV and video were the best things there. Oh, and the
Anal Virgin
cassette, of course.’

‘Where is it?’ I asked wearily. ‘Has Tony got it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Ilya. ‘But don’t worry. When I’m in a
better position, I’ll get it back. Or I’ll get someone else to get it back.’

At length, after mentally toying with the worst question of all, I whispered: ‘So have you ever shot anyone? Killed anyone?’

‘Nah, too much hassle,’ he replied in a cloud of smoke. ‘I’m better off low profile. I mean, if I wanted someone dead, I could hire a guy to do it. But not me personally. I wouldn’t do it. And before you ask, no, I don’t want Tony dead. It wouldn’t solve a thing.’

‘Jesus,’ I said, and we lapsed into silence once again.

I’d always known Ilya and I belonged to very different worlds, but I’d never imagined anything on this scale. The enormity of the gap between us was overwhelming. He could talk quite calmly about getting people to kill people. I kill spiders. Hardly comparable.

‘So this next thing, this run,’ I began, ‘when that’s all cleared, then Tony’ll be off your back?’

‘Yeah, no problem,’ he said lightly. ‘But, like I said before, Tony’s nobody. He’s just some fucking nutter who collects debts for other people. And right now, I can’t pay. So he’s making the most of it, turning the heat up because that’s how he gets his kicks. And I’ve just got to see it through until the money comes in.’ He ended with a resigned shrug.

‘
We’ve
got to see it through,’ I corrected.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ he breathed, his black lashes sweeping down.

‘And supposing it goes wrong?’ I said. ‘What if it’s discovered? Are you going to end up in jail?’

Ilya shook his head. ‘I’ve got friends in high places.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll get a tip-off. That’s why I left Teesside. Intelligence were sniffing around. We needed a fresh base. I had contacts down here – Brighton, London, Southampton. It wasn’t really to escape the debts. I was planning to level it eventually. You leave people smiling in this game. But all the shit up north made it tricky.’

‘But if it goes wrong,’ I protested, ‘then Tony’ll still be on your back.’

‘So I just move somewhere else,’ he said indifferently. ‘Keep on running till I don’t need to. But this time I won’t tell a soul. There’ll be no one to blab.’

That, I thought, included me. He would simply go and I’d never hear from him again. I couldn’t bear it.

‘And if I refuse to do this thing for Tony, then what?’

‘Maybe I’d dodge him,’ replied Ilya. ‘Get out of town. Or stay and take the beatings. Check out the food in the local infirmary.’ He smiled weakly. ‘I really appreciate this,’ he continued. ‘Are you sure about it?’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘You know I’m not. It’s fucking embarrassing – putting on a show that could seriously offend, getting on stage in front of a crowd I know. And I’m probably going to have to pay my performers double. And I’ll never be able to walk down a street in Brighton without blushing to the roots of my hair. The whole thing stinks and I loathe and detest Tony for actually –’

‘Hey,’ cut in Ilya. ‘You don’t have to do it.’

It was true; I didn’t have to do it. But the alternatives – Ilya taking shit from Tony and his boys or just disappearing – were much worse. In the scheme of things, what was being asked of me was pretty small. And to keep Ilya that little bit longer, I was prepared to make sacrifices.

Ilya clasped my fingertips across the table. He looked levelly into my eyes as if he were about to propose marriage or declare his undying love.

‘But you make a great little slut.’ He grinned. ‘The gig’ll be fantastic.’

I tried a smile. ‘I’m still sore,’ I complained. ‘I could hardly walk yesterday.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ilya gently. ‘But you were great. And you loved every minute of it, didn’t you?’

‘What?’ I said flatly. ‘Being gang-banged by a load of
hoods? Yeah, fantastic, thanks. The most fun I’ve had in ages.’

‘Oh, come on,’ countered Ilya. ‘Don’t pretend –’

‘Tony’s too scary,’ I replied. ‘And that bouncer thug is rotten. And I hated that guy who chewed gum and kept calling me slag and cow and –’

‘Hey, he’s harmless,’ said Ilya. ‘Just doesn’t know how to handle it, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, well I’m not sure I do either,’ I murmured. ‘Not when it’s on someone else’s terms. I’d rather be a great little slut on my terms.’

Ilya smiled sympathetically. ‘So what did lover boy say about it all?’

‘Luke?’ I said with a small laugh. ‘I told him it was a surprise get-together. Some people I hadn’t seen in a while. Don’t think he was convinced. But he says I’m odd anyway. Secretive.’

Ilya squeezed my fingertips.

‘So after this gig,’ I said, ‘then you promise that’ll be it? Tony’ll leave you alone until this, this deal is sorted?’

‘Yeah,’ said Ilya. ‘No problem.’

I knew he was lying but I didn’t care. I’d started to prefer his lies.

The room was small, hot and crowded. Coloured lights from the mirror-ball glided over the punters, and I leant against the bar, swigging from my bottle of Becks, searching for Ilya.

I couldn’t see him anywhere. Maybe he’s just gone for a piss, I thought. Or maybe everything’s been sorted and he’s gone back to his B and B. Perhaps Tony can’t make it, and I don’t have to go through with this after all.

Tears stung my eyes but I turned to the low stage and I didn’t let them spill.

A woman with chemical-red hair, dressed in purple latex, was sitting spread-legged on a chair. She was
plunging the haft of a multi-tailed whip into her vagina. Leather thongs spewed from her open thighs like entrails.

Some of the audience seemed to like this. They were clapping and cheering. Others were visibly shocked. Nobody had warned them that, tonight, Hot Sex had got to be seriously hot.

And all for Ilya because, if I didn’t do this, Tony would get nasty and Ilya would then suffer or run.

It was blackmail, clear and simple. And it came about because Tony liked me. Because Tony wanted me. Because Tony got a kick from the power he had over Ilya and consequently over me. Because I, stupidly, still cared for Ilya.

It’s the way Tony works, Ilya had said. That’s why he does what he does. He could never be a hit man who takes someone out with a single shot because he revels in tormenting people. He likes to make them squirm, sometimes physically, sometimes mentally. He’s a cruel sadist. A moral blank. And the state of his mental health is up for debate.

The thought made me shudder with fear.

I couldn’t speak to Ilya during the gig. He knew that. I’d told him to keep away because, whatever his behaviour, he was bound to make me lose it. If he acted sympathetic and reassuring, I might crumble into a heap of tears; if he was jokey and encouraging I’d probably want to thump him.

Better, I’d said, if you just blend in with the audience. Be anonymous to me. I want to feel detached from this mess, to concentrate on being a pro.

I wondered if it had disturbed him when I so obviously left the room with Luke in order to go and fuck in my office. Doubtful. He’d never been jealous yet. He’d probably thought, Ah, Beth’s gone to grab a cheap loveless fuck from her toy-boy in order to get into character and dilute the intensity of ‘us’.

And he’d be right. I’d also felt horny. Would he have appreciated the simplicity of that?

Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to do it. Maybe it puts me at the top of a slippery slope and Tony’s going to push it and push it until Ilya coughs up the money.

On stage, the woman – who performs under the name of Mistress Zed, but who I know as Debbie – was making one of the black guys suck on her pussy-wet whip handle. It was all quite feisty stuff, but then that’s what my female dancers do. They’ll strip, they’ll strut, they’ll flaunt; but invariably they’ll up the dominatrix tempo, and their male dancers will have to grovel at their feet or feel the sting of their whip.

The guys – Mikey, Leo and Skitz – will do anything for the money. They’re complete whores, lucky them.

I didn’t think Tony would be too keen on it – if he ever arrived. But then it was me he wanted to watch. Me he wanted to see squirm.

Well, I wasn’t going to let him. I’d get on that stage, no matter how hellish I was feeling, and I’d make it seem as if I were loving it.

I wondered how many people would recognise me. I’d be wearing a gold half-mask to cover most of my face. My lips are pretty distinctive though, but then the lights were low and ever-changing. Maybe I’d get away with it.

If I didn’t know anyone, it wouldn’t be quite so bad. But I was on speaking terms with at least half my audience.

Martin was in the crowd. Would he suss it was me? Jenny knew – not quite everything but she knew it was serious. And she thought I was stupid – not because I was doing it but because I was doing it for Ilya, who, as far as she was concerned, was a complete shit and never in a million years would he do something similar for my sake. She’s probably right.

I felt someone nudging, trying to get to the bar. I
moved slightly, then, from behind, a voice cooed in my ear, ‘Queenie, I’ve missed you so much,’ and a hand stole in to cup my groin through my jeans.

Tony’s here. It’s now. It’s happening. The nightmare has begun.

An inward tremor quivers through me but I don’t flinch. Instead I take a carefully judged step back as I turn, and the heel of my trainer presses squarely on the toe of his shoe. If only I wore stilettos.

Tony doesn’t flinch either. He merely slips his foot from under mine.

‘Watch your step, queenie,’ he says in a menacingly soft tone, a hand touching my hip.

‘So sorry,’ I reply, giving him a steely smile.

He grins back, those horribly narrow lips pulling tight, then his glassy grey eyes drop to my tits. He steps back a few inches and his scrutinising gaze trawls down my body.

I crane round to see Ilya slipping back into his seat – at the only table in the place to have a reserved sign on it. The bouncer thug is with him. So is the ear-ring guy and someone I haven’t met before.