the empties. But he knew that he wouldn't tolerate anyone taking something that belonged to him, whether he wanted it himself or not.
It troubled him that he couldn't get it up at will these days. The Viagra helped, but he felt it shouldn't be like this, and he believed his manhood was leaking away. It took more to arouse him now and he was aware that inflicting pain on a woman and seeing the fear in her dilated pupils – that turned him on. Trouble was, he was piss scared that his body was failing him and that people were no longer frightened of his authority. The thoughts sat on him like a brooding bird which one day might fly off altogether, leaving him an empty shell.
1.50 a.m.
Brett pulled up outside the Cherry Ripe, one of his favourite clubs. It was situated in King Street in the central business district, where investors had commenced converting warehouses into clubs and bars offering adult entertainment. Some of the clubs in this area stuck to the letter of the Law, such as Goldsmith’s nightclub, The Underground, but the Cherry Ripe was at the sleazier end of the spectrum. It was located in the same street as The Underground, and only about 80 yards away from it, but the two clubs had little in common. The Cherry Ripe was a watering hole open well into the morning hours, with scantily clad waitresses who were rumoured to perform other duties as well, while The Underground was not even rumoured to be of any ill-repute.
As Brett walked in, he took note of who dropped their gaze and who edged away. Steve the barman knew him and gave him free drinks, but you wouldn't call him a friend, He didn't have any real friends, Brett’s thoughts muttered to him. He nursed his beer at the counter and watched a repeat of a boxing match on the TV behind the bar. He felt the match was staged and that he could have taken on either of the boxers involved and laid them out without difficulty.
His grandmother used to say that misery needs company. Rubbish, he thought. Company would just make you even more miserable – maybe that's what they're trying to say. Sometimes he chatted to Steve or whichever barman was on, but tonight he couldn't be stuffed doing it. Steve was good that way. He didn't speak to you unless you spoke to him first.
There were few people in the club at this hour and only one scrawny, scantily clad waitress. Brett looked across at the wreck drinking at the other end of the bar, whose face looked familiar. He vaguely recalled a list of petty crimes and drunkenness. The derelict was dressed in rags and had probably slept under a bridge though Brett imagined the bum was not as old as he looked.
The man sidled over towards him and was obviously pickled, and Brett knew if he let the fool talk, then it would be a temporary diversion from his own maudlin thoughts. The world wouldn't miss this wreck, but he wasn't going to be the guy that took him out.
By now the alcohol had weighed his own thoughts further down. He decided to buy the guy a few beers and what happened after that was no longer his responsibility.
The remnants of a man had layers of face folded over each other and giving in to gravity. His ugly mug was just asking for a fist to come smashing into it, but Brett decided it wouldn’t be his. He had often reflected that it was fortunate people couldn’t be charged for their thoughts; otherwise we’d all be in the clink. The stench from the swill of beer, sweat, vomit and cigarette fumes insulted Brett’s nostrils. He felt really pissed off. Just one guy looking the wrong way at him and he’d let him have it. If it didn't happen here or in the street later, then it would happen at home. He felt tempted to go for a screw in the brothel and get it out of his system, but in one of his better decisions he convinced himself to go home, remembering he had an early morning shift the next day. One more beer and he would bomb out the moment he hit the sack.
Thursday, 21 January 1988
8.30 a.m.
Having cut short her meeting with Brett, sending him home during the early hours of the morning, Deborah was able to get a few hours of light sleep. She carefully concealed the circles under her eyes and painted on her dark red lipstick.
This morning she was to meet with Peter Owen, the owner of a well-known private gallery, which he founded in the mid 1970s after retiring from business. Telling Brett to leave early, without any explanation, had freed up time for an earlier arrival at Peter’s gallery and allowing her more time to meet with its owner. However, she knew she could have arranged this meeting on another day, remembering how it had thrown Brett off balance when she told him he would have to leave and a puzzled, hesitant veil had spread over his features as he had done what was asked of him.
Exercising control over Brett and creating uncertainty was the stock of her trade. She had surmised that with people like Brett, it was safer to have them feeling unsure of themselves-to be reacting rather than initiating. It was a skill honed over many years. These days, she ensured she stayed in control, believing this reduced the risk of someone catching her unawares and hurting her.
9.57 a.m.
Deborah entered the Owen Gallery and seated herself to one side and towards the back, a strategic position where she could observe and not be particularly noticeable. This wish for anonymity seemed at odds with her presentation. Even in her early sixties, one could hardly fail to notice her. The high cheekbones and bright blue eyes, in a face framed by auburn hair, and a taut, slender figure that belied her age, made heads turn as she entered the room. She was comfortable with letting them look, feeling that at the end of the day they would know little more.
Peter Owen was a wealthy benefactor of the Union, having lived in the commune when younger, and then deciding to leave and make his mark in the world when he was in his mid-twenties. Deborah had been comfortable with his decision at the time, as she needed people of influence on the outside as well as the more pliable followers on the inside.
Peter was now married for the second time. After twenty-five years of marriage and two children, he had felt the need for change and new challenges in his life. He had achieved his financial goals as a land developer and investor, and as his marriage punctured and started to feel flat, he sought an injection of excitement. He lived alone for a year until in his late fifties he married a woman half his age. Their initial contact was made through an online agency with the not too subtle title of sweetdaddy.com, where attractive young women could make contact with very wealthy, older men.
Lilli, a young Chinese woman who was living in Hong Kong and had recently graduated from the University there, majoring in politics and economics, responded to Peter’s advertisement and was happily chosen. She ran Peter’s gallery proficiently, having entered into the marriage in the same manner, meeting both their needs. She had not been briefed about Peter’s past connection with Deborah, but seemed wary of her, sensing that Peter's friendship with Deborah was something that she needed to keep an eye on.
Today she and Deborah had nodded their heads in greeting without the wish to chat further.
The gallery space had been filled with temporary seating for an art lecture, which was a monthly fixture at the Owen gallery. Deborah had come partly out of interest, but primarily to enlist Peter’s financial help. The Union depended on benefactors for sustenance, as the group did not generate any significant income of its own.
Rather like a religious order, Deborah chuckled to herself, but we are more creative in our bookkeeping.
At the conclusion of the lecture, Deborah intended to follow Peter into his study for a brief meeting without Lilli, which she and Peter had prearranged. They could have met privately in a coffee lounge or wherever, but she enjoyed the thought of taunting Lilli, as well as publically promoting her image as a person of culture and learning.
Like herself, Peter was a physically striking man, over 6'1" in height, and
