dully spied the jar and attempted the mental arithmetic to deduce how much it contained. It wouldn’t be enough to go on the run with, not by a long shot, though it was not an untidy sum. It was dirty money sure, but no matter the conditions under which it was earned, she would spend it like it was made decently.
Again she stared back at the mirror. A falseness gazed back with dead eyes and sullen lips, moving this way and that thanks to the bevy of drinks needed to be at peace with her work.
And her employer.
Misu carefully applied mascara to her lashes, willing her hand steady for just a moment to get the job done.
The reflection mocked her with a sly giggle.
‘Silly, stupid girl,’ it whispered, ‘you’re a rabbit in a foxes’ den.’
Ignoring it, she traced a rose shade of lipstick over her lips, pressing them together to ensure coverage before it slipped from her fingers and skimmed around the dry sink. She glanced up to her accuser.
‘Do tell me what concord you have made to ensure you are free of their jaws? For foxes are the hungriest of creatures and rabbits are the tastiest of things. How did you manage to outrun the fox? Tell me.’
Misu knew it was the drink talking – that much was for certain. Or was she? Maybe she was going mad with this preposterous juggling act. Next she grasped the ornate perfume bottle and squeezed a couple of puffs on her skin. It was considerably pungent, not her choice of course.
‘Tell me,’ the reflection demanded more sternly as it banged against its prison. Misu jumped in alarm. She hesitated for a moment before reaching for the powder, dabbing it onto her cheeks. The reflection turned from snarl to smile.
‘Oh I forgot. You didn’t need to outrun the fox, did you? You just had to outrun everyone else.’
Misu clenched her free fist into a ball, the nails biting into her skin. Simply ignoring her conscience wasn’t working. Not this time.
‘How easy it was to trade their lives for yours?’
With a clatter, the powder brush was slammed down, wood striking wood – enough to draw the attention of anybody present. But there was nobody. Her anger was enough to warrant throwing a punch at the mirror, enough for her to scream and shriek and spit her justifications but there was nobody to justify them to.
‘Misu!’ someone called aloud, searching for the woman in urgency. ‘Misu, where in tarnation are you hiding this time? Get out here now!’
She said nothing and checked her appearance for any faults. It was as flawless as ever, from the outset at least, dare anyone brush aside the reams of make-up that she used as a cover.
The reflection watched silently as from behind the trolleys of costumes and props, a flush-faced man searched the dressing room. Eventually he noticed the woman who made no effort to make herself apparent. He paced the floor in his impeccable grey shoes, which matched the ashen lounge suit and the tie that was pinned to his stocky frame.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Putting up my hair,’ Misu replied, slowly easing a pair of lacquered sticks into the inky curl-dripping bun. Her lack of urgency was downright frustrating, she knew. It was only now that she noticed the music playing from outside, the slow drone of a lone trumpet that was soon accompanied with others in its family.
‘I’m getting plenty tired of having to chase you around this joint,’ he grumbled. ‘Now get the hell out there before I drag you out myself.’
Misu sighed and waved a hand in dismissal.
The mirror copied this perfectly.
‘You wouldn’t dare touch me, you stupid little cretin.’
He puffed his cheeks out in annoyance, much like a fish would. ‘Give me one good reason –’ he began but was immediately interrupted.
‘Because you and I both know that Wilheim would break your fingers.’ Misu examined her eyes, batting her lashes over and over. ‘Then your hands. Then your arms. Then your legs. And every other little piece of you that wasn’t busted, he would set upon, simply to ensure that you understood that I am not like any of the women beneath him. Now get away because you bore me.’
With another beat of the lashes, Misu adorned herself with a fake smile. It had been worn for as long as she could remember, a staple of her trade and her most treasured gimmick. The illusion was now complete. Skin resembled porcelain, her eyes subdued like steady rivers.
He folded his arms, meeting her forked tongue with his own. ‘Then you can answer to Mister Fort himself. He’s been asking for you personally. Don’t think that these little attention-seeking displays haven’t gone unnoticed. Some day he will tire of your silly ways and get rid of you. You’re not special. You’re not unique. You’re just another under his employ who he will brush aside when he finds you of no use.’
Misu rose from her stool and checked her dress for any marks or imperfections. There were none. There never were. She took to the floor in her heels and made her way out.
‘Best you accompany me then, little man.’ Her heels clicked across the floorboards though she checked the mirror one last time on her exit.
The visage had moved for a better view of her other, decorated with an oh-so-amused smile.
‘Run along now little rabbit,’ the reflection mocked with a parting wave, ‘the foxes need to feed.’
* * *
The Lavender Club was an exotic establishment where people of all backgrounds could congregate and let their hair down after a hard day’s toil. From the outside the club resembled a place of revelry no different to any other in the city. Through its doors, though, it was quite a different tale. Close to its entrance the bar was regularly heaving – seeing that the drink was cheap, the crowd was mostly made up of labourers who craved more booze for their buck. They formed a rowdy throng running from the entrance, past the public bar, all the way to the steps down into the first tier – but then no further.
The first tier had a number of long and round tables, favourites of those who frequented the club and performed their dealings audaciously out in the open. Wilheim’s club accommodated those of a criminal nature as long as they had sworn loyalty and paid tribute. These were the moneymen, the ringleaders, the gang runners of Windberg, who underpinned Wilheim’s shady dealings. They enforced his power. They were the fingers of his reach. As drinks were poured, deals were made, and dangerous strategies were discussed. It was a hive of the dangerous. It was, for Wilheim, perfect.
The second tier led down to the open floor space before the stage. Star-covered black curtains flanked the stage itself, illuminated by a bevy of lights at its lip. Normally this would be accessible to the thugs and the terrible, but not tonight. Tonight was the weekly performance that was enforced with strict rules and even stricter muscle. Nobody would dare misbehave, nor speak about what they had seen. Everybody was familiar with the routine. Everyone was acquainted with the threats. One could venture past the burly men who flanked the stairways to the second tier only if you were part of Wilheim’s special clientele.
These mighty individuals were welcomed personally
