The Girl Who Had No Fear. Marnie Riches

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      Overblown gales of laughter ensued.

      Standing at the urinal, Elvis listened to the inane banter of three of the most catwalk-ready handsome young men he had ever seen, gathered around the sinks where they were primping their hair. What would they be talking about had they been straight? Football. Obviously. And they wouldn’t have congregated in the stinking toilets. There was a rhythmic knocking sound coming from one of the cubicles. Hastily, Elvis zipped his trousers and left without washing his hands.

      Perching on a balcony above the dancefloor, he scanned the club for signs of drug use or dealing.

      ‘Hi!’ He was startled by a man’s voice bellowing in his ear. ‘I’m Frank. What’s your name?’

      Blushing in the dark, Elvis swallowed hard. Was he being hit on? Thought of a name that was neither Dirk nor that hateful damned nickname that Van den Bergen had bestowed on him, now inextricably linked with his professional persona – Elvis. ‘Antoon.’ He reached out to shake Frank’s hand. Frank, a balding boulder of a man who clearly ate iron for breakfast, laughed nervously, raised an eyebrow and shook his hand. Firm but sweaty.

      ‘Very formal, Antoon,’ he said. ‘So, what brings you here? You’re new.’

      Elvis opened and closed his mouth. Half-relieved that he was being hit upon. Appalled with himself that he wasn’t sure where to go with this conversation. ‘I’m from out of town,’ he said. ‘I just fancied coming out. Kicking back. You know?’

      Frank started to laugh. Stroked his cheek. Elvis shrank away from his touch and folded his arms across his chest.

      ‘I spy a man in the closet!’ Frank said, smiling. ‘Are you married? Fancied a walk on the wild side?’

      ‘No, it’s not like that,’ Elvis said, feeling the sweat pool around his armpits and pour into the waistband of his jeans.

      ‘Ah, shy?’ Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggie of white powder. ‘Fancy a bit of chemical courage?’

      This was more like it. ‘Maybe,’ Elvis said. ‘Is that coke?

      ‘Yep. I’ve got some meth too, if you’d prefer.’

      ‘Cool. Where did you get it?’

      ‘Why?’ Frank’s brow furrowed.

      Stop acting like a cop, Elvis chastised himself. You’re undercover! This is not an interview down the station of a door-to-door. Screw this up and Van den Bergen will never respect or trust you again. ‘I hear there’s a bad batch going round. You can’t be too careful.’

      ‘Oh, I think this is good gear,’ Frank said. ‘My dealer is the go-to man in chem-sex circles.’

      ‘Chem-sex?’ Elvis gulped.

      Frank ran his forefinger down Elvis’ sweaty chest, over his moobs and gut, which he could no longer hold in. What the fuck should he say next?’

      ‘There’s been a couple of guys from the scene died lately,’ he said, reasoning that if the newspaper had printed stories about the canal deaths, then it was fair game. ‘Aren’t you worried?’

      Raising an eyebrow, Frank smiled and leaned seductively against the balcony. ‘Should I be? Are you going to fuck me to death, Antoon?’

      Feeling the phone vibrate in his pocket, Elvis’ head started to throb with the worry that some ill-fate had befallen his mother – that was almost certainly the carer texting – and anxiety that he hadn’t yet got any information of use and was now almost certainly being propositioned for sex.

      ‘I need to know about the provenance of the gear before I … er … indulge,’ he said. Thought of George and her OCD. Was she faring any better? ‘I’m very uptight about these things.’ He put his hand on top of Frank’s. Smiled. Prayed the guy couldn’t feel how dangerously fast his heart was pounding. ‘My body’s a temple. I’m sure you understand.’

      Frank slapped him on the shoulder and threw his head back. Mirth in his opiate-glassy eyes. ‘You’re funny.’ Grabbed at Elvis’ belly. ‘Temple, indeed! I like you.’

      And then he said the name that would crop up in conversation time after time in every bar and club Van den Bergen sent Elvis to.

       CHAPTER 13

       Amsterdam, Keizer’s Basement nightclub, 14 May

      ‘Nikolay?’ George asked. ‘Who the hell is Nikolay?’ She flipped the tap on and started to pour the first glass of beer from a new barrel. Channelling Aunty Sharon, who had spent the last two decades pulling pints in Soho. Maybe barmaiding was in the blood. The foam started to spurt, shooting up to the rim of the glass, covering George’s hand and T-shirt in sticky alcoholic ejaculate. Maybe barmaiding wasn’t in the blood. ‘Ugh. Grim, man. I’m gonna kill Van den Bergen,’ she muttered in English, wiping her hand on a bar towel.

      ‘He’s the Czech gangster I was telling you about.’ At her feet, her cocktail-shaking compatriot Tom was methodically stacking a beer fridge. Whispering, lest he be overheard by the manager. ‘I’ve heard the bouncers talking about him.’

      Nikolay. Nikolay. George committed the name to memory. The first decent lead she had managed to generate in ten nights of working as a cack-handed barmaid in five different clubs across the city.

      ‘Move aside for the expert.’ Tom stood. Playfully, he pushed her out of the way and started to tinker expertly with the beer tap until it produced a steady amber stream. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the magic touch.’ He winked at her.

      George was relieved he couldn’t see her blush. Eyeing his wiry, hairy forearms, she reasoned that they were the right kind of forearms. But she hated his bitten nails. Had a sudden urge to ask him why he took such good care of his hair and body and yet neglected his hands. Bitten nails made George wince inwardly. Focus, tit! You’re not here to check out some strange guy’s forearms or his hand hygiene. ‘Nikolay,’ she said. ‘So the dealers who work in here flog his gear?’

      ‘Oh yeah,’ Tom said, grinning, as though he were pleased at having insider information with which to impress this inquisitive new barmaid. ‘They used to just deliver to order outside. Turning up on mopeds like pizza guys. But they’ve got braver in the past year and you can spot them on the dancefloor if you know what to look for. I reckon the bouncers must be taking a cut. Nobody ever sees the man himself, though. You wouldn’t catch Nikolay on house night in crappy Keizer’s Basement, that’s for sure. Apparently, he’s the stuff of legend. Like some Scarface type, except he deals meth and other chems.’

      ‘What? Like whizz?’

      He laughed. ‘Nobody takes whizz anymore.’ Derision in his voice, as though George had said something preposterous, like an ageing parent trying to be cool. ‘Ecstasy’s popular again, but mainly it’s all crystal meth and mephedrone now. Where have you been for the last couple of СКАЧАТЬ