Secret Skin (19 page)

The events of the last day flitted through my thoughts. The common thread beneath pulling for attention. Someone had tried to kill us. Or was it just me? Just me. It had to be. Faisal if I had to guess. Khadim possibly. Maybe even the Russian.

Out of habit my thoughts turned to work.

Where was the story? What was my angle?

‘Dubai government creates red-light free zone, whole of Dubai up for grabs,’ I said.

‘That’s over-egging the pudding,’ Martin said, coming back to life. ‘We can’t be seen to be openly critical. We have to show that the government is aware and dealing with the problem.’

‘Okay then: Anti-Human Trafficking Department admits to problem with prostitution and pedophilia in Dubai. Arabian Outlook reporter aids department in their enquiries over activities within Dubai’s bars, hotels and night clubs.’

‘Better.’

‘Nine year old girls forced to service the sexual appetites of the emirate’s growing male population…?’

‘That’s the sort of thing.’

‘Women lured into slavery with the promise of well-paid jobs.’

‘Yeah, that too.

‘On arrival their passports are illegally confiscated and they are forced to work as sex slaves for years until…’

‘…until they pay off the ‘debt’ to their traffickers in order to earn their freedom…’

‘…enduring rape and abuse for years on end, many die in the process…

‘....they disappear without trace, their bodies consumed by the desert.’

He tapped his nose. ‘Hmm, no, scratch all that,’ he said. ‘We can’t call it slavery and we can’t imply openly that government departments are willfully involved.’

‘Ahuh, okay, I’ll make it fluffy just for you Martin. So how about: Male prostitutes take to the streets? Rents go up but boys go down type of thing?’

‘Hmm, yes, I like the story but not the headline; we can’t talk openly about gay Muslims either. Even though in theory everything apart from sodomy is allowed, and commonplace. Use broad strokes, lots of speculative maybes.’

‘So is that why men here prefer the company of other men? I heard the local boys think that as long as you’re giving and not taking it means you’re not gay.’

‘Who knows, maybe? They like prostitutes too right?’

‘They sure do. How’s this: Dubai’s vast sex industry involves women, men and children from all over the world, especially Russia and the CIS states as well as India, Pakistan, Britain, Eastern Europe, Ethiopia, Hong Kong, Uganda, Philippines, Morocco and Thailand.’

‘As many nationalities as you can find please Bryson, we can sell the story in each of those countries if their people are involved.’

‘Okay but let’s not forget: AIDS, Dubai’s ticking time bomb. Expert warns of sick sexual practices with children, blood capsules inserted into young girls to create the illusion of virginity, etcetera, etcetera, yadda yadda yadda.’

‘What expert?’

‘No idea, but I’m sure I can find someone who thinks it’s disgusting.’

‘As many quotable sources as possible please, the less we say ourselves, the less can come back on us. Again imply the AIDS angle rather than say anything explicitly.’

‘There’s not much we can say explicitly is there?’

‘Not if we want to stay in business.’

‘It sucks,’ I hissed. ‘I’ll write a more exacting international version behind your back and see if someone will buy it.’

‘That’s your call. But I’d tread carefully if I was you.’

‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘Too late for that.’

‘So, if I receive any enquiries about recordings of police officers, prostitutes or pimps and where to get hold of them, what should I say?’

‘You’re not looking to sell me out here are you Martin?’

‘Of course not old boy, I just want to know if you’re blagging or not.’

I liked Martin but I wasn’t sure how far I could trust him.

‘I have recordings. They are in a safe place. Security for them, security for me you know?’ A well worded lie, as long as the memory card was still in my shoe.

‘That’s all I need to know,’ he smiled. ‘Now write me that story Bryson, the deadline is looming, print day is nearly upon us.’

‘Sure, when I’ve had some sleep, you’re on,’ I said and slumped back onto the soft sleep inducing pillows.

Martin placed the laptop in front of me.

‘What,’ I said, ‘do you expect me to do with that?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You know what, you owe me.’

‘Not now Martin,’ I said weakly, ‘I’ve just been in a car wreck and I’ve barely slept in two days.’

He placed a small brown plastic pot with a white lid on top of the computer. A prescription case but with no prescription on it.

‘Ritalin,’ he said,

‘Kiddie amphetamines?’

‘You betcha, it’s amazing what these private doctors will give you when you ask nicely. Just have a first draft ready for the morning. I can edit it to sound good and censor anything that needs censoring.’

‘You’ve got to be joking.’

‘Not a chance. While you’re in here you’re mine. Once you’re back out there someone could try to kill you again. So give me names, dates, figures, quotes, and anything else you’ve got. I’ll do the rest.’

‘Martin, it’s 1:30 in the bloody morning.’

‘That’s what the Dexys Midnight Runners are for, so get cracking. I’m going to rustle up some more spirits and see if I can’t figure out who’s trying to turn you into one. I’ll be back at nine in the a.m.’

When he left I cursed him for a solid ten minutes, stamped around the cold floor and then staggered out to the balcony.

The thick windows had sound proofed the room from Dubai’s relentless soundtrack of screeching tires and angry horns. I held onto the balcony rail and stood for a while listening to the high stress world below. After the professional chill of the hospital’s air conditioning the night’s humid warmth soothed my lungs. Eventually the dampness became too much but by then I’d calmed down.

I went back inside and rummaged around for the memory card in my shoe. After a brief frantic search I found it amongst the pocket junk the nurse had sealed in a plastic bag on the sideboard. I pulled the laptop onto the coffee table and uploaded the memory card’s files to a second email account and the ftp server I used for my portfolio website.

Then I began to type. By 3 a.m. the pot of Ritalin had burnt a hole in my hand.

***

I came around in my apartment two days later. I had memories of Martin collecting the story from me the following morning. I remembered asking if he’d worked out who was trying to kill me. ‘Everyone,’ he’d answered unhelpfully and left me to pass out.

An ambulance brought me home a day later with a plentiful supply of painkillers and orders to return for a checkup in a week’s time. The pain in my side had begun to fade. The speed, however, had left the shadow of drug induced depression lurking around the corner of each brain cell.

I swallowed more painkillers than recommended and forced myself out of bed and into the kitchen where I made a pot of strong coffee and heaped tablespoons of sugar into the mug. Apart from some over-ripened bananas I had no food in the house. I ate both. I read somewhere years ago, back when house music was all the rage, that bananas balanced out your serotonin levels and stabilized your emotions after indulging in too many party chemicals.

I didn’t know how much of that was wishful thinking but ever since I always kept some emergency bananas hanging around just in case my mood needed altering.

I wondered whether I could pitch a drug story on Dubai. I knew quite a few people who had regular summer colds.

‘Stop working,’ I said out loud.

Without busy thoughts to distract me, my addled psyche threw me down hard in front of the oncoming rush of bad memories. Like widescreen for the mind I relived the world through the Viper’s front window as it span out of control. My mental film speed slowed and I watched the other car tumble over a line of stationary cars in an ungracious cartwheel of flying metal and barely heard screams. I saw the imagined faces of the young men as they were crushed from view, ambitious, determined faces. They had tried to run us off the road. Now they were dead.

Good, I thought.

I fought back an overwhelming urge to fight or take flight from invisible foes and my heart pounded with the first pangs of what my friends used to call The Fear. Drug induced terror.

My hands clenched and unclenched with the sudden overload of nervous energy. Speed comedown and shell shock. A fear cocktail.

Bad things were coming. I could feel it.

They’re gonna get you, my inner child sang, someone’s gonna kill you.

Cold in the air conditioning but sweating unstoppably I gripped the kitchen counter as my heart tried to kick its way out of my chest. The pulse pounded in my ears, out of control, my breathing shallowed…hyperventilation…panic.

Someone was really trying to kill me.

I heard a fearful childlike wail, of monsters in the closet, of the bullies at school, of strangers in dark rain soaked alleys, and realized it was me. I was making that wretched noise. I would never let anyone make me feel like that again. Never never never. I hadn’t grown up through all that shit, that fear, to be reduced to…monsters and bullies please please leave me alone…I couldn’t breathe.

’No!’

I slammed my fist into the cupboard door above the counter, denting the weak veneer, and screamed. A grown man’s scream, a don’t fuck with me scream, a come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough scream. A battlefield cry that would get me through the punches and kicks, a scream that would get me through the fear and out the other side.

Yeah, the big man I thought, and chuckled, a fleeting positive feeling.

I punched the air and chased the emotion, shadow boxing the kettles steam, willing the happiness endorphins to flow back into my veins. ‘C’mon!’ my hands moved faster, building up the speed of the jabs and punches. ‘Fuck yeah. Come on,’ more serious, throwing hard fast combinations until finally I couldn’t punch straight and I laughed with exhaustion.

Humor always beats fear.

What must the neighbors think?

All smiles and grim determination, my emotions finally under control, I breathed again.

Someone tried to kill me.

It was finally sinking in. I was still frightened, but a little more prepared.

‘C’mon,’ I challenged the empty room, ‘What are you so fucking scared of anyway?’

DEATH. A straight forward answer from the deepest part of me.

Back in Britain I loved to mountain bike, with its lush green countryside, castles in the hills, rivers, even the rain. When everyone else was inside getting seasonal affective disorder and rotting their brains on soap operas I headed outside and aimed for the puddles. It used to rain so much that the only way to enjoy the ride was to stop worrying about getting wet, muddy, falling off, looking stupid, losing my way or any of the other indulgent distractions the unconscious throws at you. As it tried to persuade you to stay inside, in the warm, in the comfort zone, unchallenged and dying so passively you barely noticed.

The fear of death lived in a deep murky puddle in my unconscious and I was too scared to look at my own reflection in its surface. It had once been a useful fear that kept a toddler’s hands out of burning fires, but it was useful no more.

Aim for the fucking puddles I thought and felt instantly better.

The battery in my phone had died. I had no idea when. Yasmin could have been calling for the last two days and I wouldn’t even have known. I cursed a little prayer for her hoping that I hadn’t gotten her into too much trouble.

I plugged in the charger next to my bed and checked messages. There was just one. A quiet male voice said, ‘David?’ waited a few seconds for an answer and then hung up. The voice sounded familiar but with no number to call back I speed dialed Yasmin’s number instead.

A man like Faisal would probably use my actions as an excuse to administer discipline. Maybe even charge a client with sadistic tendencies for the privilege.

She didn’t answer.

Martin had been right. I had eagerly ignored what kind of trouble I could cause and put her in danger for the benefit of a story.

But then I lived in a world filled with the noise of stories screaming for attention. All too often I felt like I was in a science fiction film where the telepathic main character becomes overwhelmed by the ceaseless chatter inside the heads of passers-by. The only difference was inanimate objects talked as much as people. A pair of shoes could inspire: STARS AND THEIR SHOES for Shit! magazine or CHEAP SHOES, CHEAP LABOUR – the truth about sweatshops for Feel My Angst weekly.

What was my angle? Where to pitch? Was there a celebrity perspective?

The story was everything for someone like me, my currency, my justification for bad behavior.

A friend’s father dies in an industrial accident? Well just make the right noises while your friend cries. Then figure out the angle, the pitch and how to persuade them their father would make a great true-life story for one of those throwaway magazines people read while having their shopping bagged.

If a stranger has a tragic end, jam your foot in the widow’s door and hope she doesn’t break any bones before you get your quote.

For a hack, a journalist, a features writer or a reporter, the story was more important than anything else. We weren’t intentionally heartless or inconsiderate; it was just the nature of the business.

Your conscious mind switched off if you heard that line often enough.

Throw another baby on the pyre. Hey, it’s okay; it’s just the nature of the business.

So whether I liked it or not I’d deserted Yasmin, it was just that simple. But with the weekend coming up I convinced myself she was fine. She would be getting ready to make Faisal some money…cum on her lips…no way is he going to damage the produce. She’s probably just lost the phone somewhere…in a john’s car…the battery is probably dead or…she’s dead in a ditch…maybe she’s got a new number?

Dead in a ditch. Faisal’s dead bitch. Rotting beneath the sand. Did he charge for that kind of show?

Faisal: The snuff daddy.