Captives (4 page)

    

    The room was small.

    Less than fifteen feet square, its full extent was slowly revealed as lights were turned on one by one. Puddles of light filled the gloom, each one scarcely strong enough to fight off the blackness that shrouded the six occupants.

    Doctor Robert Dexter stroked his chin thoughtfully as the light above him came on, bathing him in its cold white glow. He scanned the faces of the others in the room, listening to the soft click as each successive spot lamp was illuminated.

    He was joined a moment later by a slightly older man who cleared his throat self-consciously, aware of the silence and apparently anxious not to disturb it. He pulled a chair closer to Dexter, wincing when it scraped the wooden floor noisily. He sat down and pulled nervously at the sleeve of his jacket.

    The room was windowless, the only brightness inside provided by the spotlamps set in the high ceiling. Each one was aimed at the four other occupants of the room who sat in a line facing Dexter and his companion.

    He looked along the line, pausing for a moment on each face as if trying to commit it to memory. In fact he knew each one well. Like a painter trying to decide on a subject, he moved his glance carefully from face to face, met only once by eyes that held his gaze.

    And it was always those eyes.

    Every day during the session they would begin the same way, in darkness. Then Doctor Andrew Colston would switch the lights on one by one and Dexter would look at those same four faces.

    And, always, he would be met by those eyes.

    Dexter held the gaze for a moment longer, then glanced down at the clipboard on his lap. He matched each name to the four faces before him.

    Colston shuffled his feet, as if anxious to begin. He too was eyeing the other occupants of the room but it wasn't their faces he was looking at.

    It was the stout leather restraining straps that kept each of them firmly secured to the heavy wooden chairs.

    Dexter glanced once more at the line of faces, aware, again, of the last of them and the incessant stare that seemed to bore into him. Once more he met those eyes and found himself unable to hold the stare.

    Was that a sign of weakness?

    Or fear?

    'Who's going to start today?' he asked, his voice muted and flat inside the small room.

    Silence.

    There was no response from any of them.

    Just that unflinching stare.

    Dexter shuffled in his seat and smiled. His practised smile. His comforting smile. His reassuring smile.

    'I'm sure one of you has something to say,' he continued, looking at the first of the four seated before him. 'Charles. Will you start today?'

    The man looked at him, his eyes rheumy and red-rimmed. He looked as if he'd been crying. He held Dexter's gaze for a moment, then shook his head crisply.

    The doctor sighed with exaggerated weariness. He raised his hands as if in surrender then looked at each face once more.

    Those eyes still watched him.

    
Leave me alone. I don't want to talk.

    It looked like a puddle of vomit.

    James Scott looked at the remains of the pizza, now cold in the bottom of the box, and shook his head. His stomach rumbled noisily. He'd managed to force down half the pizza but that was all he'd eaten since eight o'clock in the morning. He glanced at his watch and saw that the time was nearly nine-thirty P.M.

    'If you won't speak to me voluntarily then I'll have to ask you questions,' he told them all.

    There was a thud and Colston looked across in alarm.

    One of them had brought a fist thudding down on the arm of the chair.

    Colston was grateful for the restraining straps.

    'Silence is bad,' Dexter said. 'You shouldn't bottle up your feelings. Let them out. Imagine they're a river. Let your thoughts flow out. Speak.'

    
The rivers have dried up,
thought Colston, using one hand to hide the slight smile which flickered on his lips. It vanished as he saw those eyes gazing momentarily at him.

    'Very well,' said Dexter, turning over a sheet on the clipboard. 'We'll begin with Jonathan.' He sat forward in his chair. 'Tell us why you cut off your mother's head.'

    

    

    Beyond the confines of his office Scott could hear music thudding away and the occasional shout. He sighed and ran a hand through his brown hair, pausing to stretch his shoulders, hearing the joints pop. He muttered something under his breath and peered round the office.

    Framed photos of girls, some of them performers at the club, stared back at him, pouting, smiling, licking their lips. Scott regarded them indifferently, his gaze flickering around the room to the calendar. That also featured girls, naked and half-naked. All shapes, all sizes, he thought, smiling humourlessly. Beneath the calendar, tacked to a bright red notice-board, was the rota. On it he had written, in his neatest script, the working hours for the barmen, the doormen and the hostesses. He had eleven people working for him, although one of the girls was only part-time. They were pretty reliable, most of his staff. They did their work, did what they were paid for and didn't cause him much trouble.

    He'd been manager of 'Loveshow' for over three years now. The club was in Great Windmill Street, almost opposite the old Raymond Revue Bar. From his office window Scott could see into the street below, out onto the flashing neon and the rubbish that littered the road, some of it stacked up in large plastic bags and dumped on the pavements. He watched as pedestrians walked round it as if it were some massive dog turd. Others wandered in and out of the other clubs and bookshops that clogged the thoroughfare, each of them peddling the same merchandise. Books, magazines. Live shows. Scott remained at the window for a moment longer, then returned to his desk. He glanced at the portable TV set perched on one corner of it, thought about turning it on, then realised there was still work to be done.

    He reached into his desk drawer for the drinks inventory. Time to re-order. Scott pulled off his jacket and hung it carefully on the back of his chair, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal thick, hairy forearms. Despite a life spent behind desks (or at least the last six years) Scott was stocky and bore only the smallest of unwanted podges. He looked down for a moment at the flesh straining just that little bit too tightly against his shirt and shook his head. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, watching his stomach retract, smiling briefly before he released the breath and his belly flopped back into place. Flopped. He was hardly obese, he told himself. A few weeks working out in a gym would turn that irritating flab into muscle again. It wasn't too late. It was too early for middle-age spread. He was only thirty-two, for Christ's sake.

    
Forget your figure and get on with your fucking work,
a voice inside his head told him. He nodded as if in answer to the silent beration and picked up his pen.

    The office door opened and he looked up in surprise.

    The girl was naked apart from a pair of stockings, a tiny pair of G-string knickers and a black basque.

    'Fucking bastard,' hissed the girl, striding towards Scott's desk and lifting one leg onto it. 'Look,' she snapped.

    'What's the matter, Zena?' he said wearily, inspecting her leg but seeing nothing untoward.

    'Useless bastard shot his load all over my new stockings,' Zena Murray told him angrily. 'Look.' She jabbed a false fingernail towards a slick of slippery fluid on her thigh. 'Now he won't pay,' she continued.

    'What happened?' asked Scott, getting to his feet.

    'He bought a drink, bought me a drink. We talked, well, I talked for a few minutes then he pulled it out and asked me to wank him. I told him it'd cost him extra but he said that was okay.' She shook her head indignantly. 'So, what happens, I put one finger on it and he shoots, doesn't he? All over my…'

    'New stockings,' Scott said, completing the sentence. 'So what's the problem?'

    'They were new,' she yelled at him.

    'Jesus Christ, take some money out of petty cash for another pair. They're only fucking stockings,' Scott said, exasperated.

    'It's not just that. He says he won't pay now.'

    'So what are you bothering me for? Get Rick to throw him out,' Scott told her.

    'Rick's not here,' she told him scornfully.

    'All right, come on,' Scott said, pushing her in front of him.

    They left his office and walked along a short corridor, passing two doors marked 'Private' and another which bore the word L A DIE S in white plastic letters. Beneath that someone had blue-tacked a piece of paper which bore the legend: NO PISSING ON THE TOILET SEATS.

    The corridor smelt of stale urine and cheap perfume. It was a smell Scott had come to know well in the last few years.

    'Where the fuck is Rick, anyway?' Scott wanted to know. 'This is the second time this week he hasn't come in. I've got better things to do than argue the toss with punters.' He smiled at his unintentional joke. Zena didn't see the humour in the remark. She raised her eyebrows indignantly and pushed open the door which led into the main area of 'Loveshow' and stalked in, Scott following.

    The music that had been a dull thud in his office now enveloped him, roaring from the speakers mounted on the wall.

    
'… Our love is a bed of nails.

    
Love hurts good on a bed of nails.

    
I'll lay you down and when all else fails,

    
I'll drive you like a hammer on a bed of nails…'

    Zena grabbed Scott's arm and pointed with one long finger towards a balding man sitting in a corner, hidden for the most part by shadows.

    'That's him,' she snarled.

    'Okay,' murmured Scott, nodding. 'I'll handle it now.'

    'Don't forget about my stockings,' Zena bellowed after him, shouting to make herself heard above the roar of the music.

    
What are you going to do, sunshine?
thought Scott as he approached the balding man.
Get mouthy? Get scared?

    
Let's see.

    

    

    The floor show in the club couldn't have been more aptly named.

    It consisted of a large double bed raised up slightly on a platform no more than six inches high. On two sides of the bed were nine or ten armchairs, each one faded and, in places, threadbare on the arms. Facing the bed, three sofas had been placed end to end. One was leather but the material was so cracked and worn it might as well have been draylon like the others. There were low coffee tables in front of each seat. The carpet, also worn, was dark brown to hide stains more easily. The walls were only slightly lighter and these were decorated with more framed pictures of girls, older than the ones in Scott's office. One or two were yellowed at the corners; one had even come free of the frame and a corner was turning up slowly. Customers were presumably supposed to be excited by the prospect that the girls in the pictures would actually be performing for them but, as one of the pictures featured Marilyn Monroe, that wish was at least a little vain.

    The balding man was sitting in an armchair beneath a photograph of a girl holding a kitten. He didn't seem to notice Scott approaching him; he was too busy looking around.

    There were about six other customers dotted around the place, drinking the warm beer and the grossly overpriced shorts. One man was in conversation with a hostess; she talked animatedly to him while sipping a Coke cradled in one hand and, with her other hand, trying to free the material of her knickers from the cleft of her backside.

    On the bed in the centre of the room two young women writhed in the throes of practised pleasure, chatting to each other as they rubbed vibrators across each other's breasts, their voices drowned by the music.

    A man in his early twenties, a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, sat staring raptly at the two girls on the bed, his right hand, jammed into the pocket of his jeans, moving beneath the material.

    Scott glanced across at the goings-on for a second then turned his full attention to the balding man, who had finally spotted him. Zena sat down beside the man and glared at him.

    'You owe the lady some money,' said Scott, his face expressionless.

    'Why?' said the man, looking first at Zena then at Scott.

    'Because you bought me a drink, then you did that,' she rasped, jabbing her nail in the direction of the semen.

    'I paid for the drink,' the man protested.

    'You didn't pay for my conversation, or for anything else,' Zena told him.

    'Conversation? What are you talking about?' the man said indignantly.

    Scott snatched up one of the menus that lay on the coffee table and flipped it open.

    'Buying the hostess a drink signifies agreement to pay the hostess fee,' he quoted, as if he were reading some point of law. Then he dropped the menu back on the table. 'You owe her sixty pounds.'

    'Sixty pounds?' the man said, getting to his feet. 'Forget it.'

    He tried to step around Scott but Zena pushed the table with her foot, blocking his way.

    'Come on, pay up,' Scott demanded sharply.

    The man raised a hand to push past him. Scott grabbed him by the wrist and shoved him away.

    'Sixty,' he hissed, a glint in his eye visible even in the dull light of the room.

    'I haven't got it,' said the man, swallowing hard.