the rest, give him the body, otherwise they will take it

anyway and they will kill you.

She took one step forward, then another. When she was near enough the Kano reached through the bars and pulled her by her T-shirt until she was squashed against the bars, then he reached behind and pulled Rosie forward by her hair and pushed her face against Maya’s. She had no eyes left with which to see Maya. Maya’s seasoning was nearly complete.

41

‘You understand there will be no turning back.’

Two men faced one another in the damp-smelling basement that had tables and chairs stacked in the corner, spares for the restaurant above. People passed by on Wardour Street outside. Only their calves were visible as they walked by the barred windows set at pavement height.

The younger man was bare-chested and his feet were shoeless. His skin was smeared in dirt.

‘I understand. I have made my choice. I come before you a poor man with nothing.’

The older man wore a white tunic with a red stole around his neck, and around his waist was a white sash. On one of his feet he wore a grass sandal.

A third man, dressed in black robes, stood in front of an altar covered in a red cloth, on which stood an idol of Kwan Ti, the patron saint of triads. Joss sticks burned jasmine incense in golden holders. Triad weapons: eight throwing stars, four bone-handled shuriken and a spiked chain were spread out upon the red altar cloth, their bright steel incongruous in the gloom and dirt of the makeshift triad lodge.

‘I have made my choice.’

In front of the statue of Kwan Ti was a rolled piece of parchment on which was written an agreement, a treaty, an allegiance. It had been witnessed by the three men and now it needed to be signed. But no pen would do the act, blood must be their bond. Each man would spill his blood into a cup and it would be sipped and shared amongst them. Then the parchment would be burnt and the contract would become binding. Two men had already bled into the golden bowl—one remained to commit the act that would seal his fate. The older man handed the small carved-handled shuriken, its tip especially sharpened for the job of cutting flesh, to the young man. His face intent on the job, his muscles tense along his arm, he swiped the blade across the inside of his forearm and held it out for the older man to catch the drips.

Now, the smell of the burning paper filled the small room as its cinders floated in the air, and Micky’s arm still dripped blood.

42

‘Come, sit on my lap.’ The Colonel patted his leg. The Colonel and Terry were sitting on the balcony at Lolita’s. They sat by the metal railings, looking down. The place had been done out in a builders’-yard style, there was a lot of sheet metal and iron cladding.

It wasn’t the Colonel’s usual seat, but he liked to surprise himself now and again and see his world as a punter might see it—from all angles.

Brandon pushed the child forward and then left to check on things. Maya walked slowly towards the Colonel. He pulled her onto his lap.

It was early but Lolita’s was busy. There were several tour parties of young men in. All eighty-six GROs were out, winding their ways around poles, dancing in couples. The girls smiled at Maya. She stared back. Maya wondered how the girls could like wearing what they did: yellow thong bikinis and black high-heeled boots. All the women Maya knew would be very uncomfortable dressed like that. They would never show their stomachs and their legs.

‘You look like your mother.’

It was her first time out of the Bordello in two weeks. She hadn’t seen Rosie since the day the big Kano had beaten her. The other women said she was dead and that the big Kano had taken her body and thrown it away.

When the big Kano came to get her she thought he was going to kill her. But then he made her wash and brush her teeth. He gave her a clean T-shirt and some shorts to put on and brought her here. Maya looked at the man whose lap she was sitting on; she didn’t like the look of him at all.

‘Yes, you are just like your mother,’ said the Colonel. ‘I took her cherry too, it was on a Wednesday.’ He laughed at the child’s bewildered face and rocked so hard on his chair that Maya nearly fell from his lap. ‘You are right, Terry…’ He stopped and leaned forward; his face was sweating and his eyes yellowed. ‘…they are a whole fucking generation of baby whores.’

On the main circular stage downstairs, ten girls dressed in schoolgirl outfits trooped out to perform a choreographed dance routine. They swung their hair and lifted their miniskirts to reveal frilly thongs. Ten minutes and three routines later they came off the stage to whoops and hoots from the men. The place was charged tonight, throbbing with testosterone and youth. The young men banged their fists on the table and wanted to see more. So did the Colonel. His head snapped from side to side as he leaned over the railings and watched the goings-on. His eyes shone as he laughed like a lunatic and called out from the balcony. Trouble was brewing—sporadic fights were breaking out everywhere. Their youthful energy made the Colonel mad. Young men demanded more action. They were content in the first few days with just being whorists, and then they wanted to go that extra mile. They wanted to be entertained. Tonight Fields Avenue was packed with them.

Brandon came to join them. One look at the Colonel told him they were in for trouble. It made Brandon very uncomfortable when his boss was in this mood. Brandon glanced at Terry. Terry didn’t respond and kept working on his laptop. Anyway, he had seen it all before. The Colonel needed him—it was Terry’s name on the property documents and on the licences. Brandon had a lot to learn. Unless it benefited Terry in some way, Terry was not quick to help him. Why should he? It was every man for himself in this world. But Terry was uncomfortable with Maya jigging about on the Colonel’s lap. Terry didn’t care what people did behind closed doors, he didn’t mind that most of the girls dancing around him were under sixteen, but at least they could pass for older. The child on the Colonel’s lap was a baby. Someone in the club wouldn’t like that, he was sure.

On the lower floor the men were having drinking competitions. One of the tables was getting carried away with some of the GROs.

‘Fuck her. Go on…fuck her…’ screamed the Colonel from his lofty position as he watched the scene below becoming lewd—two of the men were holding a girl’s leg open whilst a third was simulating sex. The girls looked at him and giggled nervously. Boundaries might be crossed that could not be uncrossed.

No sex in the club. No lewd acts in the club.

Those were the rules, but the Colonel had made them and he could break them.

‘We need some more fucking action in this place, Terry.’

Terry didn’t answer, just tapped away at his keyboard.

The Colonel turned to Brandon. ‘Make them fight.’

Even Terry looked up from his laptop at the Colonel to make sure he’d heard right. But the Colonel wasn’t looking at Terry; his bulging red-rimmed eyes were fixed on Brandon. He repeated his demand.

‘Make them fight.’

He had blobs of spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth and he was spraying as he spoke. There was no placating him now. They had left it too late. They’d have to roll with it now—no choice. Terry would have to have a word with Brandon later, tell him how to work the Colonel better next time—otherwise it would go badly for them all. An out-of-control speed freak was not what they needed to front their rise to power.