Death & the City Book Two (38 page)

"She's a brand temp from London, like Austin," Elaine tells me. "They have a certain look and image that the company wants to utilize, when opening a venue, to attract all the beautiful people in. Then after about three to six months they'll get a local licensee in - hopefully one with a clean record, and some good accounting and legal contacts in the area, who doesn't drink too much of the stock or shag too many of the staff - and abandon the place as it slides back down to the level of the rest of town. Stacie was a Harley Street plastic surgery receptionist, and then a plastic surgery sales rep abroad - Spain, Greece, Thailand, Rio and all places - had a bit of a nightclub doorman fetish. Used it to get into V.I.P. bars and clubs, dated one or two footballers out of it. Then she realised the perks were better as a club manager and licensee, and worked her way up the corporate ladder until she became a company
Face
. The girl is a forty-seven-year-old walking goody-bag hag. I don't think she actually pays for anything in her life ever, except for her Filipino housekeeper, and her Border & Butler's grocery bill. She gets beauty treatment free, liposuction free, cars free, travel free, hotels free - all because of her previous work experience. She's even supposedly been on a date with one of the James Bonds. She was one of those Mystery Girls photographed on a yacht by paparazzi in the Caribbean with him, years ago - while he was on holiday or filming, and suddenly had no eye-bags in his next movie."

It sounds awesome. Elaine has as much gossip on management and company devices, as I get in my job at my level. Elaine could have her own whole To Do list with the amount of information available to her, if corporate backstabbing came with a price attached for upwardly-mobile contract killers to pick up on. She's the kind of woman head office would send Valentine's cards to, hinting that she ought to work for them.

I'd be interested to know if Austin Healy has had time to rummage in Mgr Diane's dodgy chiller in the basement yet, or whether she's moved her gory stash already.

"We should take Charmaine out with us next time we all go to lunch," Elaine suggests, locking the safe finally. "She's ever so sweet. And the Chang sisters are fun too. Sadie was drunk after work yesterday saying Sylvia and Miranda are wasting money on a Law and a Business degree when they'll only end up running their parents' Chinese restaurant, so Miranda talked for half an hour about profit and loss forecasts and economic stability for the next five years in the food markets, while the guys teased Sadie that she's effectively getting forty grand into student debt for three years spent colouring in and gluing sequins. Sadie rang Viv Henson to try and get some sympathy, but apparently he was of the same opinion as the others and teased her even more. So she was in a horrible mood. Why Viv, do you think she's on to what happened with you two, and is up for jumping in your grave?"

"I wouldn't put it past her," I nod, feeling quite objective about it, since my own run-in with Viv earlier. "It sounds fairly typical. Particularly now Jag Nut's off the market. Mind you, it might just be that Viv is the only doorman's number she's got who's working at Pole-Ka-Doodle-Doo, while she knows Joel Hardy is hanging around there after work. She was probably fishing for a sympathy invitation to join them."

"Ah, yes, that sounds likely too. She's a sly one, isn't she? I think she could be a Stacie wannabe in the making. Let's get a staff drink, and see if my new glass-collector has found anything interesting on the floor."

We sit in our usual spot in V.I.P, while Ben quietly writes up reports sitting at the bar on the far side. Both Elaine and I are enjoying a lemonade and lime with no vodka, both of us having felt the effects after last time, and watching more MTV on the plasma screens.

"I think I might be getting over it," she says, glancing at Ben's back from a distance, with a peaceful sort of smile on her pixie-like face.

"What?" I ask, not knowing from which direction this observation is approaching.

"Divorce," she says. "And my fireman fetish, actually. It's just a uniform and a romantic hero image, after all. A stereotype."

"Archetype stereotype," I agree. "Inside every successful woman is a damsel in distress still, waiting to be rescued."

"You've never been in distress," she chuckles. "You're always fine."

I forget frequently that most of my friends don't know about my identity disorder, and therefore have some unknown image of me as a functional person. Likely a sort of independent relationships-counsellor-life-coach-friend-type person. For some of the girls I know, a useful intermediary between them and male door staff, without guessing my compliance in those matters is non-existent, without anything genuine going on to support or defend for them. I'm a social dead-end for that sort of thing. Got enough on my plate, without playing matchmaker to fickle wannabe door WAGs.

"Well," I say, hazarding that a little appropriate vulnerability wouldn't harm the conversation. "A bit of counselling can go a long way."

"That's why I've got you," Elaine grins, and I realise I was right beforehand. I am the sidekick, the wingman to all my friends. She still thinks we're talking about her. But actually, I don't mind. At least I've said it, and she's interpreted it to mean I'm supporting her - not undermining my own social image by showing any shortcomings of my own. Never mind. Probably wouldn't do any good to show a human side. Women only learn that sort of thing about each other through sharing the relationship issues they have, and so far, I haven't had any that would be considered normal to share with my friends.

I feel in my pockets for my phone, wondering if Connor's tried to ring, and recall that I've left it locked in the car.

"Damn, I've just remembered something," I say. Besides that, I'm tired, and meant to be on this wild goose chase with D.J. Crank tomorrow. "Have to go. Enjoy the live entertainment."

I nod towards Ben, currently scribbling on the bar surface, as his biro threatens to run out before completing his paperwork.

"I will." Elaine gives me a hug before I get up. "I'll text you tomorrow."

I let myself out of Crypto's second Fire Exit at the far end of V.I.P, making sure it slams shut behind me, and cross the road into the skate park.

Maybe close friends are meant to have secrets from each other, stuff they keep private, I think. Aware of a lingering hung-over type feeling and headache as my brain registers I'm done for the night, and on my homeward bound routine. I cover a yawn, force of habit, even though as far as I know nobody's watching. Maybe getting overloaded by talkative histrionic types who apparently have no social discretion, or inhibitions, isn't the best example of how relationships between friends are conducted. Meaning those are the extraordinary ones, not the norm. Maybe normal daylight denizens are more conservative in their socializing and sharing.

A breeze whistles through the arcs and architecture of the ramps and half-pipes in the park, and the newly-flourished leaves on the trees scatter fragmented shadows against the graffiti, from the infrequent street lamps along the main pathways. The breeze has an icy snap to it, making my eyes stream as it hits the side of my face. I wipe the aggravated tears from one cheek, and the wind-speed suddenly doubles, yanking my coat hem from around my knees and whipping it against my legs.

There is a sudden rushing noise in my ears and a thump in the middle of my back, my left arm pulled around behind me as if grabbed from the side. I see my elongated shadow on the ground in front of me stumble, inexplicably alone, as if dragged into a
Freddy's Nightmare
of haunted darkness.

The next invisible blow comes from the front, and I grab whatever hits me and throw, using its own momentum. I feel the vibration of the ramp nearest me as it lands heavily, and through the cold-smarting tears see the white human outline in the graffiti, like a 1940's Chicago gangster crime scene.

My ears ring from a third blow to the side of the head, and as I go down onto the tarmac, all I can think is, What have I eaten today that would do that?

Adam Grayson's face isn't the one I would have chosen to be the first I saw as my waking view, but at least it's in my preferred context inside an ambulance, not from the viewpoint of lying in an open grave in a cemetery, or tied to his bed with his current girlfriend, about to make my first and last porn movie debut.

"Hello there," he says, seeing my eyes open. "I want you to look at this light and follow it."

"Ow," I react automatically, as the bright light shines in my eyes, and I blink, but do as instructed.

"Can you tell me your name?" he asks me.

"Yes," I say guardedly, not entirely sure who it's appropriate I should wake up as.

"Do you remember where you were last?" he continues. I see him scrawl something on the back of his glove, but I'm lying at the wrong angle to read it.

"Skate park opposite Crypto," I reply promptly.

He nods.

"Looks like you've had a seizure," he says. "Are you on any medication for epilepsy?"

"I'm not epileptic - not as far as I know," I reply. "I had one before as a reaction to medication when I was sectioned - Largactyl and Melleril. Never told anyone, I was alone in the ward at the time. One moment I'm getting thrown across the room by the Invisible Man, the next I woke up on the floor and got back into bed, went back to sleep."

"Could be a short circuit, a flashback," he says. "How long ago?"

"About eighteen years."

"Hmph." He grunts non-committally. "Have you ever taken cocaine?"

"Had cocaine solution after sinus surgery in hospital to stop haemorrhage, followed by Temazepam or Diazepam to counteract psychotropic effect."

"How long ago?"

"Sixteen years."

"Narcolepsy?"

"Sounds like a criminal offence," I say, making an attempt at humour. "No, I've never had it."

"Any chest pains or breathing difficulties?"

"No."

"Are you drinking?"

"She got drunk last night," a familiar voice cuts in. "With me. Other than that, rarely."

Adam moves aside and I see Connor standing behind him, watching me lying on the stretcher. His arms are folded and he's biting his thumbnail, in thought.

"Right," Adam nods, and looks back at me. "How's your sleep patterns?"

"Crap," I reply.

He makes a note on the back of his purple glove.

"Any strange feelings before it happened, out-of-character feelings, like talking to strangers or disinhibited behaviour?" he asks me. "Meaning out of your normal range of personality variables."

I shake my head.

"Done anything unusual today, eaten anything new, let anybody buy you a drink?" he continues.

"How long have you got?" I ask. "It's been a long day."

"Are you on the Pill?"

"Dianette sometimes, for my skin. Been on the most recent prescription about three months."

"Taking your thyroxin regularly, and having it checked?"

"Yes."

"Taking any other medication or drugs?"

"Only aspirin and Superflu, recently."

"Okay. Your eyes look fine but they're not synchronized in dilation, which could be either an infected sinus congestion, over-tiredness, thyroxin malabsorption, or a knock on the head when you collapsed, so I'm sending you in for tests tonight," he says, looking at the time on his watch and making another note. "Just to be on the safe side. You should try going to the gym or swimming instead of taking Superflu next time, the exercise mobilizes the lymphatic system and shifts infection out of the body quicker. I always go for a run. Works with a hangover too. Connor said he'll drive you over to A&E if you're awake, and fully
compus mentus
. How do you feel about that?"

I glance past him at Connor, who nods reassuringly.

"Yeah, fine," I confirm.

"I'll call it in, they'll be expecting you," he says, and turns to Connor. "Is that okay? Might take a few hours of your time."

"Yeah, we've got plenty of staff on duty tonight. What about you, are you on Taylor watch?"

"Yeah, more babysitting. About time they cracked down on staff lock-ins - those things can cause all sorts of trouble."

"She wouldn't know - never hangs around long enough after work," Connor remarks. "Come on, Missy. I'm driving you in your car, otherwise you'll get clamped in the morning - better give me the keys."

He gives me his hand as I sit up from the stretcher, and helps me step down from the ambulance as well. Adam just says goodnight, and hauls the steps back inside, slamming the door.