Christopher Fowler - Disturbia

'Seriously, I don't want you going back there no matter how good you reckon your constitution is.'

'Heaven must be missing an angel, Eric.'

'Fuck heaven, dear. They've got quite enough of my friends already. Listen, I'm going on now, so what do you need?'

'I was supposed to meet this bloke just before it happened, and I need to find him again. It was a big deal.'

'Oh you and your deals, you're always just "meeting a bloke". You know I don't approve. I wonder what your missus thinks. Well, he won't be there now, not with the lights up and the plods swarming. Is there anything else?'

'I've got no cash on me. Can you lend us a tenner?'

Eric shoved a coatstand of sequinned gowns and feather boas to one side and blew away a dune of face powder in order to make some space on his desk top. On this he upturned the contents of his evening bag. Among the mound of seventies' colour cosmetics he found a ten-pound note, clamped it between coral nails and passed it across.

'You haven't got a coat I can borrow, have you?'

'Fucking hell, take the shirt off my back, you will,' complained Eric. 'Have a look in the alcove. You might find something that fits you. Don't put any pressure on that wound or you'll end up in hospital. Wait till you see the gorgeous cross-stitching I've done on your tummy. It's not surgery, it's art. Hang on.' He emptied some small white pills from a tin on the desk. 'If you insist on staying up all night you'd better take a couple of these every three hours. The stitches will hurt like buffalo after the pain-killers wear off, but these'll get you through.'

Outside the crowd were starting to slow-clap in unison. Eric dug out a heavy navy-blue Schott jacket that had belonged to a former lover and had somehow migrated into the troupe's wardrobe hamper.

'Go on, then, take it, but I want it back. Got sentimental value, has that, seeing as the owner, a man very dear to my heart, is no longer with us.'

'Did he die?' asked Wentworth, checking the sleeves for length.

'Good God, no, he's in jail in Singapore for soliciting. Go on, bugger off and let me do my act.'

'What is it tonight?'

'Tarts medley, Madonna and Child sketch, bad disco medley, drunk Liza Minelli sketch, anti-Tory medley, Michael Portillo in drag. They'll love us. This crowd is so pissed David Mellor could come on and strip down to a g-string and still get a round of applause. Oh, hello, who's this nice young man?'

Vince stood uncomfortably in the doorway, his fist poised to knock on the half-open door.

'Come inside, dear, don't be strange.'

Vince entered the cramped dressing room and nearly choked on the overpowering scent of hairspray. Wentworth looked terrible. His face was the colour of stale dough.

'Vince, how'd you find me, man?'

'I brought him over.' Betty stepped around them and found a place to perch. She had changed into a short black skirt, boots and a white T-shirt. Vince felt an alarming stirring in his jeans as he studied her.

'Here, I've still got your letter, man.' He tried to twist around in the wicker chair, but the stitches in his stomach tightened and stung. Vince reached behind him and felt inside the jacket, extracting the crumpled page. It had only broken into quarters. He could tell by the discoloration of the paper that some sheets had been less chemically treated than others.

'Just don't burst them stitches or Mother will be very fucking angry with you,' admonished Eric. He tucked a ratty blanket around Wentworth and eyed Vince lasciviously. 'Now you must let this poor boy get some rest. Surely there's something Betty can find for you to do upstairs. Come on, get your arses out of the fucking way and let an artiste get to the stage before they start chucking beer bottles.' Eric had disappeared, his character superseded by a more waspish persona, an alter-ego that regarded the punters through cynical spangled eyes for a moment before slipping between the mouldy red velvet curtains and acknowledging the entrance music to the roar of an appreciative crowd.

Vince looked back at Wentworth, curled in the wicker chair, to find that he had already fallen asleep.

'We should do as he says,' said Betty. 'Eric's suggestions are usually for the best.' She took his hand and led him from the claustrophobic cell to a narrow staircase covered in a dozen layers of black paint. It led behind the stage to a dingy linoleum-floored corridor above the bar.

'Follow me.'

'Where are we going?' he asked, although he already had a pretty good idea. She pushed open the first of the doors they reached and led him inside, backing him against the far wall of a tiny bedroom lit by a single red bulb. The sleet that drifted against the cracked window above the bed was turning into rain. Water leaked through the bottom of the casement and dripped from a black fungal patch in the corner of the ceiling, yet the room felt inviting and warm, like a gypsy caravan. Coloured scarves of every hue hung from the walls and formed a crumpled quilt on the bed.

Betty placed her hands against the wall, on either side of his head.

'People say I'm too aggressive. Do you think I'm too aggressive?'

'No.' Vince swallowed. 'If you want something, you should go out and get it.'

'Well, I don't normally have to do that. It usually comes here, sent up those stairs. But there are nights. Bad weather slows some people down. Not me.'

Her tongue flickered hotly in his mouth, her citrus-scented hair enveloping his neck. She undressed him quickly, clipping open the belt of his jeans with practised ease, and sat him naked on the corner of the bed while she disrobed. Vince had no illusions about the profession of his new-found friend. As she freed her breasts from her T-shirt and shivered out of her panties to lay beside him, he could only marvel at her libidinous grin, her shameless touch, her miraculous body and her spectacularly inappropriate sense of timing.

NIGHT-TIME LONDON had entered a new phase now, a temporal no-man's-land between departing clubbers and arriving cleaners. The sky, if not exactly dark, was becoming less reflective. By five it would be as deep as ink. There was still plenty of life on the streets, in coffee bars, at night-bus stops, but it was more subdued, less optimistic, less reputable, wearier and warier. Down by the river, the plangent tone of Big Ben tolled the half-hour. On the other side of the turpid waters, Vince was back on the street and the phone, sheltering from an elemental downpour. Ahead of him, the last of the night's traffic straggled across the rain-misted bridge towards the city.

'What was the next one on the list?' Harold Masters asked.

'Fleury,' said Vince, trying to read the decimated shards of paper in his hand. 'I've only got about three quarters of an hour left before my cut-off time,' he added guiltily.

'Bear with us – we're writing them down. How are your batteries holding up?'

'Oh, they're great now,' he was about to say, until he realised that the doctor was referring to his mobile phone. Physically he felt – what was the word – re-energised, with freshly pumped-up voltage, prepared to face the vicissitudes of the remaining dark hours. After their lovemaking, Betty had dried the sweat on his chest and smiled a crooked, knowing smile at him. Holding a silencing finger to her crescent lips, she had slipped back into her clothes and vanished into the crowded pub downstairs. She wasn't the kind of girl who said goodbye, because she knew he'd come calling again; he still had her card, memories of her thighs, the small of her back, her opal eyes.

Vince checked the power level on the phone. 'They're all right at the moment, but I've not much change for public boxes. I'm low on money and nowhere near a cashpoint, and there are still four challenges to complete.'