Red Grow the Roses Page 11

  Perhaps he had a girlfriend who worked at the club, she thought, twisting the knife in her own guts. Perhaps she was a Thai contortionist who did unbelievable things with ping-pong balls and champagne bottles, or some Polish slut who let men stuff money up her cooz as she lap-danced them to orgasm.

  Well, whatever it was, she was determined to know for herself. She would know the truth at last, and to hell with all his evasion. She was going to catch him red-handed in this club of his, and she was going to give him his papers there in front of everyone, and then her lawyer was going to take him to the cleaners.

  She’d packed a can of mace into her purse as well, packaged as a body-spray. She wasn’t completely reckless.

  ‘We’re here, madam,’ said the driver, pulling up into a reserved parking bay. Jacqueline lifted her eyes to the narrow black glass door in an anonymous brick wall, and to the small sign over it that read ‘Pleiades’ and from which shone a cluster of seven blue LEDs.

  ‘Wait until I’ve gone in and then just circle the block. I shouldn’t be more than half an hour. If I’m more than an hour phone my secretary and tell her. Here’s the number.’ Jacqueline passed over a marked banknote: a fifty. Why be frugal with her husband’s money, after all?

  Her dress shimmered as she slipped out on to the pavement, its silver catching the blue light from above: it was split to mid-thigh up the left side because she’d always been proud of her legs. She noted a security camera over the door and a discreet buzzer next to it. When she pushed the button the door opened electronically, without a sound, to reveal a man in a polo shirt and grey jacket blocking the way into the dark space beyond. His hands folded before him and the breadth of his shoulders spoke the unmistakable body language of the bouncer.

  ‘Can I help?’ he said.

  Without a word Jacqueline drew from her purse a white electronic pass card embossed with the Pleiades logo. It was quite genuine: she knew that because she’d stolen it from Leon’s wallet, and had a replica made to take its place. To her dismay the door guard slipped the card into a handheld card reader: she had hoped to get past the first layer of security before having to bluff. His eyebrows rose slightly.

  ‘You’re Mr Herrin?’

  ‘I’m Mrs Herrin,’ she said, drawing herself up confidently. Attitude was everything.

  ‘That she is,’ said a man’s voice, and a second bouncer emerged from the dimly-lit porch. ‘I did some work for them once.’

  Jacqueline took in the new man’s face, thanking her stars she had a good memory for people. She did recognise him: while Leon was playing in South Africa and she’d gone to accompany her husband they’d taken a group of bodyguards and this was one of them. He’d even been on safari with her. ‘John, isn’t it?’ she asked pleasantly. ‘What a nice surprise. How’s it going with you?’

  ‘Not so bad, Mrs Herrin. You here for the big night then?’

  The big night? She had no idea what he meant. ‘Leon wanted me to be here,’ she improvised with a crook of her own eyebrow that might have been read as anticipatory or condescendingly amused, whichever they were expecting to see.

  The bouncers exchanged glances.

  ‘Go on then,’ John told the other man. ‘She’s kosher.’

  He handed back the pass card and gestured her in. ‘You’re just in time, I would think.’

  ‘Down the stairs,’ called John.

  She was glad to have some directions because the corridors inside were very dark, lit only by floor-level emergency lights, and her eyes didn’t get used to the gloom fast enough to allow her to pick out the signs on the doors. The stair banister was rough iron, cold under her hand, and from below her feet a hubbub of voices and music echoed faintly up the stairwell. Setting her jaw, she descended step by step – until she turned on a landing and a dark shape loomed up suddenly next to her. Jacqueline nearly jumped out of her skin.

  ‘Shall I take your coat, madam?’

  The girl was pale-faced and unsmiling, her breasts tightly constricted in a leather corset and her legs hobbled by a long rubber skirt with buckles and straps pinning her legs closed even at the ankles.

  An SM club, Jacqueline was beginning to suspect. Oh, Leon, she thought, what have you been up to? But she shed her cashmere wrap gratefully. It was surprisingly warm down here.

  ‘This way, please.’

  The leaking music would have told her that anyway. She pushed through the double doors and found herself in the belly of the Pleiades.

  It was still dark in here, but after the stairs it seemed a haven of light. A relatively big room, she thought, filled with low tables and solid leather armchairs – and, against the far wall, a stage which was in fact the only spot brightly lit. On that stage two girls were dancing. So far, so as anticipated. Jacqueline moved to the side of the entrance and looked around her, partly to orient herself, partly in search of Leon. There was a bar, of course. There was a mezzanine floor to one side of the stage, walled off with silvered glass. There was an overhead walkway around the wall of the room and some winching machinery clustered up near the roof which was either industrial or theatrical, she was not sure which: steel cable stretched at several points from ceiling to floor around the stage. Most of the chairs were occupied, and as Jacqueline made her way slowly barward she realised that although there were some women with the lean moneyed look, and a fair scattering of what Leon called Rolex Girls – ‘they cost a fucking fortune, but look great on your arm’ – most of the occupants were men. Feeling her antipathy harden she paused to take a better look at the dancers.

  How tacky, she said to herself.

  It was a sex-show, of course: she’d have been taken aback if it wasn’t, to be honest. The only surprise was how restrained it was, and that they were actually making any show of dancing. The taller girl was wearing thigh-boots and a one-piece body of scarlet PVC, and carried a whip of fine red rubber strands. All exactly the same colour, Jacqueline was slightly irritated to recognise, as her own high-gloss lipstick. From between the domme’s thighs in an elegant and exaggerated curve rose a strap-on dildo of the same colour and texture, and with this she was menacing the second girl, who wore what looked like a minidress of black fishnet and whose big breasts were displayed by every bounce and twist. Their dance seemed to consist of the girl in red grabbing the other, pressing up against her with lascivious intent, forcing her to bend and accept the red phallus in her mouth, pawing at her breasts and bottom and using the horse-tail whip on both at every opportunity. The blonde victim would suffer these attentions for a while and then fight free, only to be recaptured and subjected to more and worse. The cock might be fake but the penetration was real, her pink slash invaded again and again.

  How disgusting, thought Jacqueline, but she carried on watching, unable to avert her gaze. There was something mesmerising about the melodrama: it was all so very bright and pretty and offensive to every better instinct. Jacqueline felt a flush of outraged taste start at her cheeks and seep all the way down to her sex.

  ‘Excuse me, madam. Would you like to place a bet?’

  She turned with a start to the waitress who’d materialised at her elbow, another of the young women in fetish getup, like the cloakroom girl. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Would you like to place a bet?’ She was carrying an electronic notebook and wearing a money-belt that seemed to be stuffed with bills.

  ‘What are the odds?’ Jacqueline improvised.

  ‘The house is giving 2:1 on Herrin.’

  She smiled faintly, her mind racing. ‘No thank you, not this time.’

  At that moment the music faded out and the on-stage entertainment came to an end behind her. There was some applause from the audience and, as the two dancers stood up and sashayed off into the wings, some wolf-whistles, but the enthusiasm wasn’t wild.

  It’s not what they came here for, Jacqueline told herself. There’s something more.

  ‘Ladies. Gentlemen.’ The voice on the loudspeaker was masculine, but hushed and reverent.
‘You’ve seen both of these men in action earlier tonight. You know what they are capable of. You know only too well the blood, the sweat and the pain that’s brought them to this point. Some of you think this should have been your night, your opportunity for glory – but everyone had their chance. In this place there are no excuses. These two men are the best of the best: the strongest, the toughest, the hardest. Men of iron. Which one of them will reach out tonight for the ultimate prize? Which one of them will dare? Ladies and gentlemen – I give you tonight’s grand final: Able versus Herrin!’

  The machinery overhead began to turn. The cables started to flow. From the floor on three sides of the stage a veil was raised into the air: a veil of steel. It was chain-link fence, and it turned the stage into a cage. Everyone in the audience got to their feet. Some stood on their chairs and tables, but most pushed forward into the centre of the room to cluster about the metal netting.

  Oh, hell, thought Jacqueline, frozen to the spot. It’s not a sex club; it’s a fight club.

  She glimpsed two men walking on to the stage from the rear, but that was her last chance as the audience – men all taller than her, and probably about a hundred of them all told – thickened between her and the stage. They were shouting and cheering now, as excited as football fans before a match. She was walled off. For a moment she didn’t know whether to retreat and try to climb the furniture or just sit down in shock. Instead she approached the back of the nearest man and tugged at his sleeve.

  ‘Excuse me, please!’

  The man turned and she caught a glimpse of a face so swollen over one eye that he must have been nearly blind on that side: dried blood was still caked on one ear. She’d been meaning to explain that it was her husband up there on stage, but she lost all words. Then it turned out that they weren’t necessary: he stood to one side and nudged the man in front of him.

  One by one, without any demurral or any explanation, the men made way and let her up to the front. Glimpses of their faces revealed that many were bruised and cut themselves. Jacqueline slipped her fingers through the wire mesh and stared.

  There were two men up there: a stranger and Leon. The stranger looked younger and leaner, but they both looked messed up. Leon was wearing the remnant of his evening apparel: dark trousers, a white shirt that was torn and bloodstained, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck. He’d been punched in the nose recently, judging from its shiny swollen look and the blood smeared down his upper lip and chin. Sweat gleamed on his close-cropped scalp; his eyes were fixed on the other man, who was dressed similarly and like him barefoot, but grinned and nodded at the crowd. Leon’s hands and wrists were strapped up with white tape; so were his opponent’s. No gloves. No head protection. Not even a gum shield.

  ‘You stupid man!’ Jacqueline wanted to call out. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, you stupid stupid man!’ But the words didn’t have the strength to emerge and battle the roar of masculine approval dinning in her ears. Not just masculine, she realised belatedly: there were quite a few women visible too, pressed up against the mesh like she was and screaming along with the rest of the crowd. It was clearly the privilege of her gender to be at the front. She noted dizzily that despite the affluence of the crowd none of the men looked paunchy or elderly: they all looked like they could take care of themselves to some degree.

  The fourth wall was raised now that the combatants were inside, and rubber-clad female staff moved to efficiently secure all the corners. The taut wire made a barrier that solid bodies couldn’t escape.

  A whistle blew. The fight started.

  Both men came in circling, and it was clear they were both trained martial artists. For the first few moments it looked almost like a regular boxing match, as they held up their hands in a guard position and jabbed the air between them. Then Able aimed a kick at Leon’s hip and Leon dodged by perhaps half an inch. He feinted right himself and then lashed out with the other hand in a sneaky jab that connected with his opponent’s ribs, staggering him, before following through with another strike.

  Ridiculous, thought Jacqueline as she watched them trade kicks and punches: just ridiculous – though she had to admit there was something weirdly hot about Leon stripped down and fighting. So much focus and energy between the two of them, though wasted on their pointless aggression. What the hell were they thinking of, brawling like that? Were they regressing to the schoolyard? Did they think they were being Real Men, battering at each other in that way? But she stopped thinking it was risible when Leon took a blow to the mouth and spat blood – instead she flinched in outrage and screamed his name, her voice drowned in all the others. After that she forgot her scorn, as the primal urge to see her man win surged up like fire in her belly instead.

  Back and forth the battle raged, the combatants sometimes on their feet, sometimes crashing off the netting, and sometimes down on the floor, each trying frantically to get a lock on their opponent that would be too painful to break. The smack of flesh on flesh was brutal: knees and elbows as well as fists and feet. They blinked the sweat out of their eyes and wiped the blood from their faces and kept on hitting back, and at moments when they were too stunned or slow to block they just endured the pain of the blows that rained upon them. The other man was quite a bit faster on his feet, but he didn’t have the mass to inflict the sort of punishment Leon was meting out. Jacqueline found herself looking for his weaknesses, the openings he left, as if she could will Leon to hit into those gaps. Her hands on the chain-link were wet with perspiration. ‘Get him!’ she mouthed, frantic, as Able retreated round the cage, Leon lumbering after him like an enraged grizzly bear.

  Sweat washed the blood from both their skins; red droplets turned the floodlit air pink as another flurry of blows was launched. It was followed by a clinch, each man gripping the other’s slippery flesh and trying to knee him in the torso, then wrestling for a clean hold, scrabbling at each other’s heads. It was clear they were both growing tired.

  ‘Hit him!’ she shouted, jerking the mesh back and forth.

  In the end, Leon won by being able to soak up more damage than the other man: he’d spent a professional career enduring pain and exhaustion, and his stamina and his bigger bulk told when it came down to it. Able took one blow too many, staggered and sat down suddenly. As Leon fell on him, knees in the ribs, he folded and slammed his hand down on the canvas.

  ‘Submission!’ roared the loudspeaker. ‘We have tonight’s winner!’

  The crowd cheered and groaned in equal measure and Jacqueline sagged against the wire. The whole bout had taken perhaps five minutes. She was shocked by her own visceral reaction to the violence and to the threat to her husband; and then nearly as shocked by his. Slightly unsteady on his feet, Leon still managed to strut about the stage, arms aloft in triumph, spitting blood and blinking wildly. His sweat-soaked shirt had been ripped open and his broad chest was gleaming as it heaved. He looked twice as large as life. Red marks over his ribs showed where he’d have terrible bruises in a few days, and his face was already swelling into a lumpy moonscape.

  Jacqueline found herself taken aback: she’d almost forgotten what a big strong man he was, how broad his shoulders – and how utterly stubborn he could be. The thought made her self-conscious and she averted her face, not wanting him to recognise her. But Leon was beyond recognising anyone right now: he was buzzing on his victory. The crowd roared and he roared right back at them.

  The wall at the back dropped again, and Pleiades staff hurried on to the stage. Three of them plucked Able up on to his feet and led him off, while a white-haired man with a microphone came to greet the warrior triumphant, raise his arm and then calm the crowd in the afterwash of their final acclaim.

  ‘To the victor the spoils,’ he breathed into the mic. ‘What’s it going to be, Herrin? Are you going to claim your prize now?’

  He gestured and two male attendants dragged a much smaller figure on to the stage. It was the dancer, Jacqueline realised: the blonde in the f
ishnet dress. She had her wrists tied at the small of her back and was dragged on almost bent double. The MC jerked her to her knees at the front of the stage and pushed her face down, ass up, yanking up the hem to bare her bottom and then planting the sole of his shoe on the back of the girl’s neck.

  Jacqueline’s heart and stomach crashed together.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  There were shouts and catcalls but the noise of the crowd was ragged now, no longer the voice of a single beast. They were unsure of Leon, divided among themselves. The girl didn’t struggle, though her pale ass swayed from side to side a little. Leon was looking right down at her bare pussy. He must be looking right at the twin bull’s-eyes of her cunt and anus, wondering which to aim for. Slowly he reached to his crotch and hefted his package through the material of his trousers. It was obvious he was packing lead there. Then he unzipped his fly. The room was suddenly so quiet that even the rasp of his zipper was audible. Manhandling his cock and balls out from the open fabric, he revealed a full-on erection.

  It was so familiar, Jacqueline thought: that little list to the left, the colour and the shape of his pubic thatch, the bulge of his ball-sac, hairy and heavily wrinkled and seamed up the middle. So familiar, but not in this context. Here, it looked mean and threatening and somehow considerably bigger. She was suddenly hot all over, despite the fact that this end of the room was air conditioned. Something uncomfortable seemed to writhe in her sex. Would she – could she – stand and watch him fuck that girl in front of a slavering audience? Was he really going to do it?

  Oh, he’d always loved the public stage, hadn’t he?

  Leon stroked himself lovingly, revelling for one more long moment in his triumph and in the helpless pink snatch presented for his pleasure. Then he lifted his chin.

  ‘What’s it going to be?’ the MC urged, stepping away from the girl, circling to Leon with the mic. ‘Are you going to claim that sweet little cunt?’