Secret Skin (15 page)

‘So you don’t have to feel inadequate if your job doesn’t pay,’ I said, ‘if your prospects are so bleak that the car you drive, if it were a guy, would be impotent, none of that matters in here.’ I echoed his accent and then pushed it a little further. ‘As long as you got money in your wallet the deal will go down, she will go down. As long as you have currency to exchange for affection, you need never be lonely again.’

He looked at me long and hard, ‘Uhuh. You don’t need to pay for sex right? Then what are you doing in here?’ he said, calling my bluff.

‘Hah, you got me,’ I said. ‘I’m just looking. It’s actually my first time.’

‘A Kingston virgin hey? Just looking you say? Yeah me too,’ he winked. ‘Looks good don’t it?’ he said laughing at his own joke. I laughed with him; he took this as encouragement to resume his monologue. ‘Strawberry blondes, dusky brunettes, redheads with curls, afro-desiacs all night long. Big tits, small tits, tall women, short women, hell I heard they got midgets out back if you want them. Whatever you want they got it here for you my friend. I love this fucking place.’

‘Excellent, it’s good to get some pointers from an old hand.’ I said.

‘Less of the old, pal, I’m still in my prime.’

I smiled back and didn’t say anything. My willing mentor walked his conversation into the gap.

‘You like different races? I bet you do being a Brit and all. Got to populate the colonies right? What’s your taste?’

I shrugged. I couldn’t be bothered to lie.

‘Well Russian is the main flavor in here, but as I say what you want they got. Trust me, I know. If you go Russian, Moscow girls are best, the breakaway states always act up. Ethiopians are next on the list, slim, beautiful, big breasts, perfect behinds, don’t get too many of them in here mind but once you see one, you gonna wanna do one. Ugandans try to pass off as Ethiopian but don’t be fooled, they’re usually short, fat and ugly, but thankfully you won’t find them in here. No matter how drunk you get you don’t have to worry about going home with a howling wolf.’

‘That’s a lot to take in,’ I said.

‘You bet, that’s why I’m here to point you in the right direction.’ He put a big hand on my shoulder. ‘Listen friend, are you tired of your old lady’s wrinkled poon tang?’ I couldn’t help but laugh. He wasn’t put off. ‘If you are,’ he said with a cocked eyebrow, ‘then they got young girls somewhere close. Just ask a barman,’ he said, tapping his nose. ‘Shit some of the girls on the stage through there ain’t barely sixteen, you’ll see for yourself.’

‘So what else is good here?’ I said, changing the subject, growing weary of him.

‘The Filipinos, best in the city, clean, soft and sexy, best escorts around if you need one. That goes for Lebanese women too if you like that Arab thing. It’s a creamy crop alright. The Moroccans are the ultimate. Rich Arabs only though, guys like us won’t even get a look see, you’d be damn lucky to find one in here. Expensive too. At least $800 dollars a pop.’

‘Crikey,’ I said. He smiled at this, the quirky Brits and their funny ways of talking.

‘Steer clear of the Pakistani’s, too many guys in tow looking for your dough. But if spicy brown is your flavor then go for an Indian, they’re usually moonlighting office girls or housewives in here. Go home with a housewife and you might just get an audience, at least one baby on display, sometimes the husband too, he’ll even watch when there’s no cricket on.’

‘Not exactly my cup of tea, next thing you know he’d want to join in and show you his bat and balls.’

‘Hah!’ He said loudly. ‘Well there are Brits here if you want them. Like all British women they drink too much and keep spending your money as the night goes on, it’s usually only Brits themselves or the British educated locals who go for those girls.

‘Affection,’ he concluded, ‘is entirely negotiable at the Kingston. If a girl says 1000 dirham push for 300. After 11.30 the place fills up and it gets easier to negotiate. If you’re still talking to them outside when the club shuts then keep haggling, they’ll almost be paying you for the privilege by the time you’re through.’

‘Really?’

‘Really, my friend, now listen I’ve got to go get me a woman, the night is young and I want to sow my wild oats on at least three continents by the morning. So I’m going to head next door and get me some Ethiopian pussy to begin with, before they all get snapped up for the night.’ He knocked back the remainder of the beer I’d bought him in one long swallow.

‘Here’s a tip, start with the prettiest ones when you’re sober, by the end of the night when you’re drunk they all look delicious and a 200 dirham squeeze will taste the same as 2000. Enjoy!’ he barked and slammed the empty bottle on the bar. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, gave me an imaginary salute and strode off into his own personal sunset.

Staying in character is tricky when you haven’t kept in practice. He’d been a good warm up. I turned off the phone’s recorder, drank some water and watched the band a while. They were pretty good. The cold liquid kept a creeping headache from taking over, the side effect of too much caffeine and too much heat.

I pulled out my phone and then switched the headphone and mic jacks on the hands free set back to their normal sockets. I’d had an idea that I could use the earpiece as a microphone after I mixed them up by accident and found my microphone had become a miniature speaker.

I played back the recording and heard the man’s voice clearly above the music. The levels peaked whenever the band pumped up or he became loud and excited, but it would more than do.

The best thing about it was that I could take the earpiece casually out of my ear and hold it in my hand throughout a conversation. Like so many things, if it was in plain sight, no one paid it any attention.

I drank some more and grounded myself for a moment. After a day without air conditioning the breeze at the bar felt like the cool caress of an icy handmaiden.

The blissful feeling didn’t last long though. Men were being corralled into the humid depths of the hotel’s club, each man screened by security – cameras removed – and then onto where the action was.

Time to join the herd.

In the crowded heat of the main room women from everywhere ground their hips around a busy central stage and bar to a soundtrack of Dubai R&B that was aspirational, gangsta and childishly sexual.

A smattering of Indians, expensive Filipinos and Brits clung to conference men from nowhere in particular while girls from the former soviet states worked the busy crowds. They led a steady stream of men by the hand to the chill out area and balcony above the main floor. Dark and secluded there wouldn’t be much talking going on up there but a lot of open mouths.

I pressed my way into a pack of some of the most attractive women I’d ever seen, most in their early twenties. Avoiding eye contact I plastered a benevolent grin on my chops and made like a monk testing a masochistic vow of celibacy.

At the far end of the low stage, a number of women touched their toes for the gawping, agitated throng beneath.

I joined the dishdashes, suits, shirts and designer tees to stare. A red head swung her hair and groped herself energetically, taunting the men with her serpentine tongue and arched back. Half the anonymous men beside me devoured her with their eyes; the other half stared hungrily at the nervous young girl behind her.

She stood next to a pole doing none of the things expected of her, nothing alluring or enticing. Tight black short shorts revealed the cleft of petite juvenile buttocks and the silky shrug she wore framed her small chest beneath a contrasting white bra top. Her body had that peculiar unformed quality that teenagers have.

The eager audience craved a peek. She crossed her arms defensively over her stomach and held her head down, a veil of angelic white blonde hair fell forward to hide her pale features.

‘Show us your tits you horny little slut,’ a coarse English voice called from the crowd.

The urge to hurt the owner of that voice took hold of me. I scanned the faces around me but couldn’t find the source. My eyes were drawn wretchedly back to the stage.

Uninterested in her lack of dancing skills or womanly features, the crowd focused their desire on her innocence and fear.

An unwelcome thought surfaced. Well maybe she isn’t so young?

Was that how it began? That predatory desire. With a simple maybe in an adult mind?

Maybe she said yes, when really she meant no. Or maybe like Yasmin she never had a choice.

She bent down to talk to someone and nodded her head obediently. A man with dark features clasped his hand around her small, slender fingers. He led her down the steps and off the stage. Her legs shook, unused to the stiff heels she wore. I caught the glassy reflection of a withheld tear as she turned to follow him.

I forced my way through the crowd. The oppressive heat turning to urgent, anxious anger inside as my own hang ups and too much caffeine clashed. I snapped at the men around me. Their voices cursed me back in languages I didn’t understand.

I felt helpless as the dark man put an almost paternal arm around her shoulders. She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. I needed to stop him from doing whatever he had planned.

Pushing into the clear I picked up the pace. With the heat suffocating me and my fists clenched I rounded the other end of the stage and saw her clearly.

Yasmin.

I blinked.

She wore her abaya, head uncovered, hair flowing, and talked to Faisal. He sat at the centre of an enclosed trio of tables with a clear view of the stage, uncrowded by horny proles. His hand rested on the inside of her thigh.

Damn it. I hadn’t told them I was coming. Would they be upset? Would Faisal?

I searched again for the young girl and the dark man. I couldn’t see them.

Go now.

I looked back to Yasmin. She looked directly at me, but didn’t see me. Something was different. Not right. Then it clicked.

It wasn’t her.

She looked like Yasmin. Same eyes, skin color, similar hair, slightly feline features. The same overall impression. That marketable Lebanese look. The best escorts in town I’d been told. But it wasn’t her.

Hurry up.

I rushed past the Yasmin look-alike and Faisal, my face turned away from them, moving quickly. Nobody called out.

I’d lost the man and the young girl. I hurried out through the main doors to the reception and the bar. No children in the bar. I walked quickly outside. No one there apart from a grumpy valet who asked for my parking stub. I ignored him. They must still be in the hotel. Rooms by the hour.

I ran back in. Security eyed me suspiciously. Bathroom? I mimed desperately, grabbing my crotch and hopping from foot to foot. They pointed towards the end of the hall beyond the immaculate Indian concierge and his podium like desk – a minimalist reception designed only for the collection of hourly fees.

The gents stood next to the lifts and both were out of reception’s eye line. The lift had stopped on the third floor.

Security would come looking for me if I spent too long back there. Whatever I planned to do it had to be quick.

***

The lift doors opened onto a wide, empty third floor corridor. Identical mottled wooden doors trailed off into the distance.

Then I heard it. A small cry. To my right and close by. I moved silently along the corridor and prayed for everybody to stay in their rooms. I heard the cry again just a little further ahead.

From behind door 306 another familiar noise. A slap. Followed by a small scared yelp of pain. A girl’s voice? Without thinking I knocked the door.

What the hell was I doing?

‘What do you want?’ shouted an angry voice.

‘Management sir,’ I said ad-libbing in an uncertain accent, Indian perhaps. ‘It appears as if you have overstayed your allotted time and we have to ask you to leave?’

‘Whaaat?’ The man roared.

I looked around me for…for something. A clue as to what next.

‘I’m dreadfully sorry sir. Hotel rules I’m afraid sir.’ English butler that time.

Across the corridor, a small black fire extinguisher used for electrical fires hung on the wall.

‘Wait there,’ the irritated voice said.

Yanking it from its plastic wall fitting, I hefted the thing for balance and let my unconscious take control.

‘There’s going to be trouble,’ the voice said. The door opened, ‘I was just getting started.’

I briefly saw the man’s dark brow. The fire extinguisher blocked the rest of his face. Before he could react I smashed him in the nose with the end of it. I saw a small red spurt and he disappeared from view. I looked down at the man’s kneeling form; he held his nose and mewled in agony.

In the room a dainty pair of bare feet dangled from the end of the bed. The teenager’s face edged round to look at me.

‘Sorry sir!’ I said politely and hit him again on the side of the head. He crumpled to the floor.

‘It’s okay,’ I said to the girl, ‘I’m not here to hurt you.’ I dropped the extinguisher and moved cautiously into the room. Then quite calmly she began to scream. Her eyes closed with the exertion. The noise startled me so much I just stopped and stared.

She opened her eyes and held mine. The scream cut off as she swallowed another lungful of air.

‘Ah, shit….’ I said and ran before the scream came again. I caught a foot on the man’s unconscious body and stumbled into the hall. I rebounded off the door opposite and headed for the lifts without breaking stride.

Forget the lift, it’s a dead end.

I crashed through the door marked emergency exit and took the stairs three at a time, then each staircase in one move by leaning on the handrail and using it as both pivot and brake. My knees complained with each impact.

On the ground floor the fire door opened between the lift and the bathroom and out of sight of the front desk. I heard unseen voices arguing.

I turned away from the voices and slipped quietly into the gents. To my great relief three gleaming white cubicles, urinals and sinks stood empty. I walked over to one of the stalls and pressed flush. Then stood casually at the sinks and took the time to wash my face, dry off and sort out cuffs, collars and hair.