not as an operation, and he had not offered any instructions for the operation. Weber was probably some sort of imposter. If Melanie had more information, he would be able to confirm it. What he would be able to do about it was another matter.
It was hard to believe Mitchell had committed suicide. Perhaps Weber… perhaps Weber had killed or even tortured him. Richard shuddered. Perhaps that was how Weber had got hold of the codes? Would a professional killer be able to torture and kill someone and have the evidence wiped out by throwing the body under a train somehow? He didn’t know if or how that would be possible, but he knew he would need to be very careful with Weber.
As the taxi drove off, Richard speculated that perhaps he had not brought enough money. He had £500 in twenties in his pocket but he had no idea how much a girl like Melanie would cost. He had an idea that it was a lot though.
He had no particular qualms about what he was doing. It was the capitalist version of an ideal of feminism he’d grown up with. Back in the day, back in the squat in Kelvinside, feminism had been all about freedom. Relationships had been all about free love and one-night stands. But things had changed. Free love was never quite as free as it purported to be. Everyone was jealous of everyone else. Even girls like Line-up-Linda often turned out to be wilder in reputation than reality. Linda liked sex, yes, but as Richard had eventually found out, not quite in the random gung-ho gangbang way that everyone had assumed – or hoped.
This was some sort of throwback to those times. Except that, as Marx predicted, all human relationships had become financial.
Aphrodite’s Secret was in the middle of nowhere, just off the North Circular Road. More precisely, it was in the middle of an industrial estate which was quite deserted at this time of night. There was darkness all around apart from a cosy little scene in an oasis of light.
Included in the oasis of light, just to the right, was a parked Bentley with a personalised number plate. The blank grille of the Bentley’s face neither smiled nor scowled. It was inscrutable. On the left-hand side, an Aston Martin maintained a sickly expression on its visage, as though expressing disgust.
Behind and between the two sports limousines was an impressive red awning adorned with gold trim and tassels. This overhung a plush red carpet. A red carpet that melted beneath Richard’s steps as he approached the entrance. It was as though he had floated there, drawn like a moth.
Thick glass doors emblazoned with decorative gold lettering slid apart effortlessly and Richard drifted through them into the space beyond. Here, the dull thud of music throbbing from the interior quickened the pulsing of his blood. He felt almost faint with anticipation. But he had yet to get through the wrought-iron gate protecting the reception area. Beyond reception, a waterfall gurgled cheerfully down a false cliff, in the middle of which was a not-so-secret, secret door. It was all very snug and reminded Richard of a Santa’s Grotto he had the wide-eyed pleasure of visiting as a child.
A buzzing noise indicated the receptionists had released the electric lock of the wrought-iron gate for him, and he obliged them by opening it and letting himself in.
“Have you been here before?” a blonde receptionist dressed in a clinician’s white coat asked him. It was a genuine white coat that would be worn in a genuine clinic, not a cheap thing that you would wear to a fancy-dress party, and certainly not a “naughty nurse” uniform.
“No,” said Richard.
“The entrance fee is £80. Drinks are free, apart from our bottles of Moet Grand Cru, and the rest is negotiable.”
“OK.”
“What shoe size?”
“Erm. Nine.”
“OK. This is your locker key. Take this bathrobe to change into and wear these sandals after you change.”
Richard wandered to the rustic door dreamily. The dull thumping clarified itself and transformed into proper music as he opened the door. The lighting was intimately dimmed but he was able to see the immediate features of the club quite clearly. There was a wide entrance to changing rooms with lockers just to his right, and directly in front, a raised circular platform on which two stunning girls, naked except for a layer of glistening oil, cavorted within a narrow cone of light.
There were other guys in the changing rooms. Some of them belonged to stag parties and were quite drunk. None of them were alone. Suddenly he felt quite lonely. He changed, gloomily wondering if Melanie would even be here. He hoped she would be.
By now the stunning, oiled-up girls had stopped cavorting and had been replaced by a couple of equally stunning “schoolgirls”. The schoolgirls skilfully carried on the tradition of cavorting. They slunk around, each undressing the other with overacted passion and enthusiasm.
The bar was straight ahead of him, raised above floor level by three shallow steps. He headed off to see if the drinks really would be free. But achieving this goal was not as easy as he had expected. Every few steps another spectacularly sexy, scantily clad woman would approach him.
Each of them seemed eager to know his name, and where he was from. He supplied this information courteously but somewhat warily. Some of the girls thought he had nice hair, others said that he had nice eyes. Many of them were concerned that he looked sad and needed to be cheered up. He politely fended each one off. It wasn’t easy. He made a mental note of several of the girls in case he decided to change his mind, but for now he only wanted to see Melanie, and he had a reason. He could already see though, that nearly all the girls here were quite as pretty as she was and they were all dressed in just underwear or were completely naked. Naked, shaven, some with large fake boobs, some with real ones. Pale white girls, black, brown, blonde, brunette…
“Rum and coke please.” Richard had made it to the bar. From this elevated position, he looked round and surveyed the scene.
It was strange to recall that, from the outside, this building was simply a windowless industrial unit, intended for use as a warehouse or factory; a lot of effort had gone into creating a theatre in which the imagination was encouraged to reign like a decadent potentate.
The main room, in which the bar was situated, was large but partially segmented into more intimate spaces by the arrangement of snug seating areas – opulent, high-backed, curving shapes that lent themselves to being occupied by panther-like females. The openness of the room was also interrupted by tall, highly decorated pillars that pretended to support intricately baroque mouldings that swelled upwards, and swooped and dripped downwards. The restrained lighting enhanced the feeling that intimacy would be protected and private. Men, cosseted in luxurious towelling robes, laughed and joked with their new female friends; some standing, some sprawling on large couches – Roman Emperors at an orgy, surrounded by concubines and both guarded and threatened by the panther women, some prowling, some reclining.
Beyond the bar’s oval-shaped counter, visible through a wide, round archway, a loose web of shadow undulated across the walls slowly and randomly, for the light in that room originated from the sapphire depths of a small pool. In this mysterious domain a naked girl relaxed, or perhaps simply displayed her wares, by floating with her long black hair spread into inky tendrils on the water’s gently rippling surface.
That she was holding her arms out, as though crucified, further enhanced the sensation of something ethereal, something beyond even the realm of magic, being demonstrated. She was performing a miracle. Richard could see the miracle – her perfect body suspended in a column of light.
He looked around to try to see Melanie. Perhaps she isn’t here! Loneliness suddenly stabbed at his heart and seeped through him like a hollow pain. What was he getting so upset about? He was surrounded by beautiful
