Grin (8 page)

"How are you?"

Dani said nothing.

"It's been a while. I called and texted, you didn’t reply."

A rage boiled within Dani. Her fingers tightened around her phone, the inactive phone that revealed Ben as an outright liar. The phone squeaked as her fingers threatened to crack the device. "Why are you here?"

"I came to say –"

"–what, you're sorry? Pardon me if I find that hard to believe."

"I am, though. I heard about what happened…" Ben looked at the house, the dull structure that once bustled with life and light. Now, it stood like a forgotten abode, soaked in despair and misery. Ben's eyes scrolled to the front door and he remembered kissing Dani goodnight on the doorstep on numerous occasions. He smiled. 

Dani noticed the smile and immediately knew what he was thinking. Despite their disagreements –
his disagreement, after all, he's the cheating fucker
– she remembered the memory fondly. Forbidden teenage love. Exciting, passionate, monitored closely by caring, nosy parents. Ben never stepped foot in her house at her father's insistence.

Weird,
she thought.

None of that mattered now.

Dani took a step forward, emerging from the protective shadow of the garage. "You didn’t come here to say sorry."

Ben turned to her, his eyes taking in the damage on Dani's face and he gasped, backing away. Dani's eyes narrowed, her lips pursed in a tight line. "You came here to have a nosy, didn’t you? You wanted to be the first to see the freak. I'll bet that Chantelle put you up to this?"

"I had to see it for myself. I didn’t believe the story. One day, you were here and the next, your whole family is gone. I thought you might have moved."

Dani stepped towards Ben, peeling away her bandages slowly. "My family were murdered.
Murdered!
It featured in every newspaper from here to outer fucking Mongolia, so don’t tell me you didn’t believe it. You saw it for yourself. I know you can read. It was one of the few things I admired about you."

Ben, a slight smile on his face, came towards Dani. His eyes roamed her face, the puffy, pale skin, the scars that angled towards both ears, contrasting against her natural olive shade. The sides of her lips angled outwards, the swelling still present. Black, sleep deprived rings circled Dani's eyes. Her complexion, where normally perfect, was blemished and gaunt. Her hair still sat in an unkempt ponytail.

Ben stopped. "Chantelle didn’t send me."

"Bullshit," Dani spat.

"She didn’t."

"Morbid curiosity was never your strong point. You hate getting involved in things like this. She put you up to coming here. Probably wants an update for her blog or something."

"I came to see if you were okay."

Dani paused. A sense of sincerity tinged his voice. She almost fell for it. His betrayal tinted every word. "I want you to leave."

"I came for you."

"Yeah, well, if you weren’t such a cheating bastard, you might have the fucking right to do so. You have no idea what you did to me that day. I had to walk home and find my boyfriend, the guy who told me to ignore my parents warnings, the boy who confessed his love to me, playing tonsil tennis with another girl. A slag, nonetheless. Kissing isn't cheating? Isn't that what a whore would say to a client? What sort of deluded world does she live in?"

"Dani –"

"– I don’t want to hear it, Ben. I learned one thing from you and that is to trust no one. We're done. After today, you won't be seeing me again."

She turned and walked back into the garage.

"Dani?"

"Fuck off."

Dani dropped her phone on the floor and kicked it behind the dusty workbench in the corner. She watched Ben struggle with his emotions, his lack of chance to get a photograph – she'd seen him slide the phone from his pocket, hesitant to snap her hideous visage – and eventually, he walked off the driveway and home, vanishing from sight. He'd bottled it, as always. She wondered how Chantelle would react to his failure.

Good riddance
, she thought.

Dani opened the driver door and climbed in. The leather squeaked beneath her rump. She slipped the key into the ignition and turned the car on, thumbing the radio off. Slowly, she pulled out of the garage and turned into the road, snapping the CRIME SCENE tape. Dani didn’t look at the house as she drove the car away from her entire past.

Leaving her home and the horrific memories behind.

A moment later, her mobile phone vibrated on the concrete floor.

It remained unanswered.

PART TWO

Best Laid Plans

He liked to observe, it relaxed him.

Observing was a preferred pastime of his, something he thoroughly enjoyed. Bradley had never been one for video games, TV, poker, or anything that helped pass a person's mundane existence. He felt it spoiled the cognitive function, caused distractions. Bradley didn’t like to be distracted; in his line of work, it could be fatal.

He liked music, but that was something else entirely.

Distractions denied focus, they stunted organisation. He couldn’t have that.

No, Bradley preferred to be organised. For forty long years, he had been prepared; ready for anything and poised for nothing to go wrong. It made him a valuable asset to anyone who knew him. As a result, he was also extremely dangerous.

A prepared man is essentially a deadly one.

He finished his cigarette, tossed the butt in the fireproof bin to his left, and pulled the heavy iron door open. A wave of heat gushed out, warming his wind-bitten face. Bradley stepped through the door and let it shut behind him. He closed his eyes and took in the smells, breathed in deeply. The perfumes, the sweat, the food, and odors of normal everyday activity. Bradley opened his eyes. He stepped forward and walked through a wooden archway. Once through, he paused.

He liked to observe, it relaxed him.

The concourse before him bore little resemblance to its former life as a basketball court. The concrete floor still stood proud, yes, and the worn red and blue markings of the various zones relevant to the sport still divided the concrete into useless sections. The hoops were still secured high up in the air, suspended on rusted metal arms. They retracted far into the ceiling; there was no use for them now. The nets hung awkwardly, leaning against the dusty metal rims. Bradley smiled, remembering his youth. He played basketball once or twice. He recalled being quite good at it, but boxing was more his sport. He almost went pro.

The court divided into areas, with each area providing a home to two mobile cabins. Bradley didn’t count, but he knew there were sixteen units, eight areas in total. The units were green and basic and the windows wired up, the type of units you see on building sites, to occupy the staff on lunch breaks. He'd been on a few sites in his time so he knew the feeling. Cold, stinking of coffee or tea, and being crammed into them like sardines with all of your workmates. Trading soggy sandwiches and anecdotes, slandering the wives and cheating girlfriends behind their backs.

It wasn’t a feeling he wished to relive.

These modified units were home to a number of women. Bradley knew they currently had twenty working girls on their books. They had a rotation system, which meant each woman occupied one cabin at a time. The four remaining women were working, bringing in the money. Bradley knew the money was a reasonable amount. It kept him in work and very comfortably at that. He owned an Audi, rented a plush, minimal apartment, and wore a Rolex.

Times were good.

Bradley walked across the court and idled between two units. Closed doors meant the women were sleeping, resting after their multiple performances of the day. Strict rotation meant that Thursday was a quiet day. Two or three performances meant that the women rested for a few hours in between each. They would probably have the whole night to themselves, locked away in their units, counting their takings or patching themselves up. They could do whatever kept them happy.

Bradley knew that each woman had access to a bed, a bookshelf, a TV fed from a main switcher box upstairs, and toilet and medical facilities. They had comforts, but they had to realise they were there to work. In addition, they had to take the chance to rest; the weekends were usually hectic. Married customers could feign business trips during the week, but many wouldn’t risk it until the weekend. It meant they were less restricted, freer with their earnings. Bradley smiled at the idea of marriage. Nowadays, it seemed more like a hindrance than an actual tradition.

He had heard that fifty percent of marriages ended in divorce, many in their early years.

Why bother?
Bradley found himself shaking his head.

He moved on. As he strolled, he brushed his fingertips along the coarse cabin walls. Possibly feeling for movement inside, mostly out of routine. The cold, anti-corrosive paint felt fresh and smooth beneath his fingertips. He closed his eyes, savouring the touch, the cool feeling.

The simple things are best, so many take them for granted
, he thought.

After a moment, he reached the double doors that occupied the right side of the court.

Beyond the doors lay the business centre of Rhodes’ little empire. He took one final glance at the cabins, studied each for two seconds, smiled when content, and turned around. Bradley stepped through the double doors and waited.

He could hear faint music on the air. A recent song, familiar, one he'd heard numerous times, but couldn’t recall the name or artist. Not one of the greats, not one he would find in his music collection. Nothing as classic as Holly or Springsteen or Clapton.

Bradley was in an aqua blue hallway, which was home to a number of marked doorways. Between each doorway, hanging on the wall, was a painting. Bradley was not a fan of art and didn’t know the paintings by name or painter. There was one with a tree. Another with a screaming man. A third with a man standing on a dock, staring out to sea. All very elegant. They seemed like pieces picked out of a catalogue for their convenience or popularity rather than for their tradition. It gave the hallway a welcoming, but tidy appeal. Bradley knew people didn’t come here for the scenery outside of the rooms anyway. He smiled and strode down the corridor.

A door burst open behind him. Bradley spun casually and saw a woman collapse to the carpet. She was naked bar a small black thong, one mostly hidden in the cleft of her shapely behind. Her legs had folded up beneath her. Her mane of dark hair covered her face and shoulders, and her arms crossed defensively, covering small breasts with dark nipples. She spun to face the door and threw her arms out, hands spread, in an attempt to shield her from whatever was coming after her. The girl was sobbing.

A man emerged behind her. He wore a dark red robe that hung open in the middle, his pale, hairy gut protruding from between the material. His expensive white boxers did nothing to hide his throbbing erection. In one hand, he held a tumbler of amber liquid. Whiskey or bourbon? Bradley couldn’t tell. The other hand was trying to grab the woman by the hair. She was cowering away, yelping.

Bradley recognised the girl as Britney. It was her nineteenth birthday today, which meant this was her solitary shift for the day, a gift from Rhodes himself, one bestowed on all the girls. She was Brazilian-American, which gave her a special foreign appeal. International flavour, high in demand, and very expensive. In his eyes, Britney was the most beautiful woman they had on the payroll. Unfortunately, because of her age she was also quite naïve. It was obvious the customer was trying it on, taking advantage, and Britney was having none of it.

Bradley stepped forward and made a mental note of the room number. After a second, he approached the man. He said nothing, simply lingering in the man's peripheral view. The man became aware of his presence and looked at him. Only then did Bradley smile. “Problem, sir?” He had his arms folded behind his back. He resembled a bouncer outside a nightclub.

“Yeah, this whore won’t let me fuck her in the arse.” The man jabbed at the air violently, gesturing towards the sky, the drink sloshing in his other hand. Britney was receding into the wall. Any further and she would probably vanish into it.

Bradley continued smiling.

“I apologise sir, but as you can see you are in B-Wing. Room fourteen is for our basic customers, sir. You haven’t paid for anything other than basic sex, normal sexual positions and a bit of cheeky fellatio. I call it our amateur package, for beginners if you will. Britney is simply abiding by our strict rules and doing her job. Please don’t put me in a position to use force here, okay?”

“But I want to fuck her in the arse, it shouldn’t cost extra. What sort of fucking Mickey Mouse operation do you run here?” The man looked appalled.

“Do you have your membership card, sir?”

The man glared at Bradley. After a long second, he stepped back into the room with a huff. He returned with his wallet and handed it to Bradley. It was fat and full of cash, the strained leather bulging with paper and credit cards. More credit than a man could need, or want, the sign of a man consumed by greed and power.

A man who felt entitled to anything he wanted.

Bradley shook his head. It wasn’t how this operation did business. He flipped open the wallet and slipped out a silver membership card, recognising the familiar insignia in the left corner.
RR
. He tossed the wallet back to the man, who grunted as it slapped him in on his bulging cheek. Bradley inspected the membership card. Embossed letters spelt the man's name. It shone in the light.

“Bernard, may I call you Bernard?”

“No you may not; my name is Dr. Bernard Buck. Dr. Buck to you, okay? May I have my card back?”

“Bernard. For that little spat, I will now refer to you as arsehole. Dr. Arsehole, just so we are on the same fucking level here. You,
Dr. Arsehole
, have a silver membership card. That entitles you to – I hope you're listening – basic amenities. Rooms ten to fourteen only, which means basic sex as I mentioned. You can fuck, you can get your dick sucked and you can fulfill any boring, sexual position that your wife won’t allow. Allow or finds repulsive, after all, look at the state of you, you fat cunt."

Bernard's eyes bulged and widened, his mouth hung agape.

Bradley continued. "However, you will
not
be fucking Britney in the arse; you will not be grabbing her by the hair because that constitutes BDSM and rough sex, which is way beyond your membership quota and, finally, you certainly will not be arguing with me on this. We don't run a Mickey Mouse show here, if you want that, you can fuck off to Disneyland like a proper little nonce. We have a professional business here, and if you cannot abide by the rules, then your membership will be terminated, are we clear?”

Bernard was silent. His erection had subsided, probably because the blood has rushed to his face. His mottled cheeks were bright crimson. Clearly, no one had spoken to him like that in years, possibly ever. He seemed like a man who did what he wanted when he wanted. He finished his amber liquid, the glass trembling between his chubby fingers, clinking on his wedding band, and went back into his room. Moments later, he returned with his suitcase and hat. He looked absurd. He still wore the red gown, in addition to leather loafers and his boxers. A sheen of sweat illuminated his large forehead below the lights.  He stomped off down the hallway. He stopped and looked back at Bradley. Bradley was still smiling.

“Off you fuck, go on!”

Bernard turned and walked away, slamming the door behind him.

After a moment, Bradley bent down to Britney. She was still cowering away. He swept her hair back to make sure she was okay. Britney stared up at him in terror, eyes wide. Bradley lingered on her eyes for a second before helping her up. She truly was beautiful, despite the black eye she had recently acquired.

Beautiful.

Just like her.

Just like Danielle.

Bradley flinched, backing away.

I haven't thought about her in months,
he thought
.

When she was on her feet, Britney nodded sheepishly, stared at the floor and walked into the room, closing the door behind her. Bradley stared at the door, placing his palm flat against it, and then pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. Cursing, he dialed a number and waited. After a muted second, there was a click on the phone.

“We have a problem. We have a customer who overstepped his boundary. What shall I do?”

The voice on the other end said, “Whatever is necessary”.

Bradley snapped his phone shut. He closed his eyes and smiled. This was the favorite part of his job. He removed his hand from the door. Thirty seconds later, he was walking down the hall.

Dr. Bernard Buck, forty-four and overweight, married with no children. Found dead in a ditch the next morning. They found his severed tongue deep in his anus. The fingers and toes were missing. They found his wallet, his credit cards and his hat in his engorged belly. A terrible mess. They found his wife at home, a gouge where her throat had once been. The missing fingers and toes were scattered around her corpse. The neighbors said they had been a normal couple; the husband was always away on business. Mrs. Buck has been an exemplary social figure. The events were a mystery.

Bradley blew out a stream of cigarette smoke, pocketed his pen and closed his notebook. He wondered how long it would be before the press printed that article, with little or no detail.

The sack of shit had it coming. He made me think of her…of Danielle.

Bradley closed his eyes, cleared his thoughts.

No distractions, you know the rules.

Observe – that'll calm you down.