Shaun Hutson: Captives

'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.

EIGHT

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.

Scared, eh?

'Well, fucking find it,' hissed Scott through clenched teeth.

The man tried to push past him again.

Scott pressed a large hand into the man's chest and shoved him back.

'You find that fucking money now. Sixty quid.'

He could see the fear on the man's face. Flabby white face, glasses. Suit, tie. A respectable type.

'You think you can walk in here and do what you fucking tyke.' Scott was breathing heavily now, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw throbbing angrily. 'Get your money out.'

'Don't hurt me. Please.'

Scott almost smiled.

There was the fear again. Christ, he was beginning to enjoy this.

The balding man tried once more to get past.

'I told you not to push me,' Scott snapped.

'I didn't push you.'

His voice was wavering. He looked as if he was ready to burst into tears.

'Sixty quid or I'll push your fucking teeth so far down your throat you'll have to eat through your arsehole.'

The man fumbled for his wallet, pulled out three twenties and shoved them into Scott's hand. This time, when he tried to pass, the younger man let him. The man made for the narrow flight of stairs that would take him up out of the viewing area. As he was leaving another man was about to take a seat. The balding man muttered something to him and glared at Zena. She immediately scurried across and aimed a kick at the back of his legs.

'Fuck off,' she yelled at him as he disappeared up the steps.

Scott shoved the sixty into his pocket and headed back to the door marked STAFF ONLY.

'What about my stockings?' Zena said. He dug in his trousers and found a couple of pound coins. He tossed them to her. She caught them and smiled at him.

'You're a real charmer, Scotty,' she said.

He made his way back to the office, his breathing gradually slowing down. The sort of incident with the balding man wasn't unusual in clip joints like 'Loveshow' but Scott didn't think it was his job to deal with them. He'd done enough of that when he worked as a bouncer. Eight years ago. Ten. It seemed like an eternity. The scar on his left forearm was a reminder of it. At a disco one night he'd been ejecting a couple of piss-heads when one of them had cut him with a sharpened steel comb, opening his arm almost to the bone with the razor-sharp prongs; Scott had broken his jaw and three of his ribs before tossing him into the street.

Now he closed the door of his office, relegating the music behind him once again to nothing but a dull thud. He walked across to the window and peered out again into the street. It was raining heavily now; the street and pavements were wet. The sparkling neon reflected up off the slick concrete. It looked as if someone had spilled fluorescent paint on the thoroughfare. Across the street, in the doorway of an empty shop, a man was sitting, wrapped in a dirty coat, sipping from a bottle of spirits. When it was empty he hurled it into the street, where it shattered in front of a passing car… The driver slammed on the brakes, leapt out and ran across to the man, kicking him twice as he shouted his annoyance.

Scott returned to his desk and sat down, pulling the drinks inventory towards him, scanning the columns of figures.

They bought in bottles of whisky and vodka for about three pounds each. They sold them for seventy. He had one of the menus on his desk and he flipped it open, looking at the prices.

Five pounds for a coke. Ten pounds for a pint of lager. Then there was the list of cocktails. A screwdriver was thirty pounds. It went as high as eighty for a Tequila Sunrise.

Beneath the list was a line which read: ALL COCKTAILS ARE DE-ALCOHOLISED.

You didn't get drunk but you pissed a lot.

If you chose to have the company of a hostess it cost you thirty pounds for a conversation with her. Anything beyond conversation was negotiable, but Scott knew the girls had their own price list for their services. Thirty for a hand job. Fifty for a straight fuck. Eighty for one without a rubber. One hundred quid could even get you a blow job without a rubber. Risky, these days, but then money was money, wasn't it? The entrepreneur always had to take a few risks.