Paul Murray - The Mark and the Void

‘Don’ tell me about blood on the streets, mate,’ James Harper says. ‘Oran, you put on a bulletproof vest before you get off the plane.’

I turn again. ‘I thought the unrest hadn’t reached Oran.’

‘They keep it ou’ of the papers, don’ they. But the las’ time I was over there, they’d ’anged a load of revolutionaries across the road from my ’otel. Eleven geezers lined up along the street like We Are Fackin’ Dead FC. Fackin’ dogs barkin’ all night, tryin’ to chew their shoes off.’

‘Terrorists?’

‘Some bunch of ragheads comin’ ou’ of the deser’. You know the type, Koran in one ’and, AK in the uvver. Makin’ a big bleedin’ hullaballoo that the Caliph’s a blasphemer and not a proper caliph and all tha’.’

‘But he’s got things under control?’

‘’ E’s got nuffink to worry about. Seen ’is bleedin’ Imperial Guard? Fifty fackin’ sand niggers seven foot tall that can kill a man wiv one blow. ’ E’s all right. It’s every uvver cunt who’s shittin’ it.’ He shifts his weight, making his buttocks squeak against the vinyl. ‘Once Wawter’s got this wall finished, it’ll be easier. ’Opefully the Gaffer can keep a lid on fings till then.’

As he speaks, we pull up at our destination; the suddenly sombre mood is lifted by the other Tordale delegates, who haul their leader from the cab with the happy news that they mooned a policeman en route. James Harper brightens immediately.

Two bald, Puffa-jacketed sentinels are guarding a stairwell. Over their heads, a neon sign spells out VELVET DREAM’S. A deep, pulmonary thrum issues from the subterranean entrance; the four brilliantined visitors hasten boisterously down the steps towards it. Following after them, Ish momentarily catches my eye; I give her a sympathetic pat on the elbow.

At the door we are met by a svelte girl wearing a kind of heart-shaped velvet bustier that covers half of her breasts and some legal minimum of her genitals. She leads us to a table; Chris Kane conspicuously passes her a credit card, and our guests, as if at a signal, start shouting drinks orders. Around us, girls glide constantly through the red-tinged murk. Some carry trays of drinks, others plastic gourds, which they shake like tambourines, soliciting ‘tips for the dancers’; others carry nothing at all, but bend in close to the men on the banquettes and whisper in their ears. Now and then one will get to his feet, as if he’s been fingered by the thought police, and be led away into the darkness. At the top of the room is a stage, where a girl with long blonde hair and enormous, unreal breasts is spinning around a pole in metallic hot pants; as she pivots, faster and faster, hair and pants become interweaving rings of light, like some electrical phenomenon.

‘Busy,’ Chris Kane observes.

‘Recession-proof, innit?’ one of the hobbits says. ‘People’ll always want to watch a fit bird get her ganny out, good times and bad.’

‘Structurally, sex industry’s very robust,’ another hobbit agrees.

‘Look at the flamin’ structure on that,’ the third hobbit says, nodding at a statuesque girl in a thong who has arrived at our table. Her vampish maquillage and stupendous bosom cannot quite counteract a callow, bumpkin quality — perhaps it is in the way she stands, her shoulders squared as if ready to carry a hay bale.

‘Myou vont privet dents?’ she inquires.

The Tordale delegation crack up. ‘You wot, darlin’?’

‘Privet dents?’ the girl repeats, shifting uncertainly. Ersatz gemstones glitter blankly from her thong.

‘A privet dance?’

‘You got a musical bush, love?’

She is blushing now, the colour visible even in the degraded light.

‘Only teasin’ yer, sweetheart.’ The youngest hobbit pats her hand. ‘I’d love a dents.’

The girl smiles uncertainly and performs a clumsy back step as the hobbit gets to his feet. Chris Kane hurriedly passes him the credit card; the hobbit takes it without even looking at him. As she leads him away, he gives his comrades a rascally grin. ‘I’m goin’ to put a great big dent in ’er privates!’

‘No touchin’, mate,’ his colleague reminds him. ‘Remember Birmingham.’

Howie and James Harper are at one end of the banquette, deep in talk. Jurgen begins telling us how many Weissbiers on the market are strictly speaking not Weissbiers. One of the hobbits slides over to Ish. ‘Ow’igh’?’ he says.

A famous banker once said that the key to gaining a client is to become his friend. People give their business to people they like; in banking, where what we actually do with the money becomes ever harder to explain — indeed, where a client half-expects his own bank to rip him off — a strong bond between you and your account is paramount. Hence the fortunes spent on ‘entertaining’: the rugby matches and Grand Prix and golf tournaments, the lavish dinners and premiers crus and trips to Venice, the girls who appear at the door of your client’s hotel bedroom at 2 a.m. just in case he needs anything. Obviously, the system turned into a racket long ago; nowadays the best salesman is the one who can make his client believe that he is his friend in spite of the ostentatious gifts and luxuries he bears.

For me this has always been a lie too far: at these events I usually limit myself to making sure the glasses stay full. Looking for a waitress, I see that a fresh dancer has come onstage. She has long dark hair and a tawny complexion and looks enough like Ariadne that I experience a pang; as she cavorts naked around the pole, I clothe her in a black Airtex T-shirt and jeans, give her a tray, and a smile, and a smudge of cinnamon on her apron …

Then something else catches my eye: a silhouette at one of the tables girdling the stage. I stare at it without knowing why; then I realize who it belongs to. ‘Excuse me one moment,’ I say to our guests.

He is alone, gazing up at the stage, so fixed on the dancer’s performance he doesn’t notice me until I tap his shoulder. He turns; I see the drowsy swim and swoon of his pupils as his eyes attempt to focus, then recognition dawns at last and an expression of horror crosses his face. He springs or rather staggers to his feet, staying upright for only a moment before falling backwards over his stool, from which position he warns me not to try anything.

‘I’m not going to try anything,’ I say.

‘That’s good,’ Paul says, pulling himself back on to his stool. ‘For you.’ He lifts a shot glass from the table and brings it to his lips, not seeming to notice that it is empty. The dancer smacks her buttock, leaving a bright pink handprint glowing on her skin.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him.

‘What are you doing here?’ he retorts, eyes trained on the dancer, who has stalked over to the end of the stage so that another solitary spectator can tuck a note into her G-string, which has evidently remained on for that purpose. ‘If you’re looking for an apology, you’re wasting your time.’

‘I’m not looking for an apology.’

‘Oh, you want to have me arrested, is that it? Well, go right ahead. There’s not a judge in the land who’d convict me. They’d probably give me a medal.’

‘I don’t want to have you arrested.’

‘Well, what do you want, so?’

I am at a loss. I came over on impulse, without thinking why; only now does it occur to me that we have nothing to say to one another. Onstage, the dancer shucks down her knickers to reveal a finger of carefully trimmed pubic hair, then reaches between her legs to spread her labia. To a rising chorus of hoots, wolf whistles, catcalls, she slowly begins to arch her torso backwards.