Infernal: Bite The Bullet (3 page)

I flipped the card over and the word ‘Infernal’
shone in pearl lettering on the black background. The address put it in a
high-end neighbourhood in Chelsea. A private club maybe? Out of my league for
sure. Slipping the card in beside my brother’s picture, I worked my way into
the crowd streaming through the northbound barriers, and replayed the audition
in my head.

Konstantyn Lazarenko was an ass, but man was he an
ass who could dance. Being partnered with him, even for the few minutes it took
for him to judge me, had been the scariest and most exhilarating performance of
my life. Did that symbol on his arm mean anything, or was it pure coincidence?
I needed to speak to him, without him chewing me out and shutting me down
before I even had a chance to open my mouth. Maybe tomorrow, if he called me up
again to partner him, I thought, refusing to dwell on the flutter of
anticipation coiling low in my belly. Magnetic sexuality aside, the man was a
still a murder suspect.

I two-stepped it down the plummeting escalator
towards the Northern Line platform, where the air ran a few degrees warmer. Down
in its deepest levels, the Underground seemed to have its own micro-climate: a
hot-house of body-heat and electrified lines. A train trundled at speed through
the tunnels below, shaking the tiled walls and pushing up a hot breeze that
billowed through my shower-damp hair. The sensation brought a lost memory
crashing home. It was of Daniel and me laughing, posing together for a selfie
as we rode the escalator, pretending we were the stars in our very own hair
commercial. God. The ghosts of our life together clung to the fabric of the
city, ghosts that could never rest so long as his killers walked free.

At the sound of the door-closure warning, I made a
dash for the south-bound train. A tall blond man in a suit blocked the sliding
doors just as they were about to shut. They reopened in a flurry of beeps, and
ignoring the judgmental looks of the other passengers, I leapt inside. I turned
to thank my saviour, who’d stepped out onto the platform. Chivalry was a rare
thing in the cutthroat underground of harried commuters.

I recognised him as the stranger who’d approached me
at Daniel’s funeral. “Hey you’re the guy –”

The doors slammed together, cutting off my words.

The man smiled crookedly at me through the glass.
Framed with neat blond curls, his face had an ageless quality, almost angelic,
just as I remembered it.  

He was still standing there, smiling at me, when
the train pulled out, and I felt a deep sense of relief when the eye-contact was
finally broken.

Freak, I thought. What was that all about? London
attracted more than its fair share of eccentrics and religious fanatics, I just
didn’t expect them to come with impeccable grooming and designer suits. He’d
seemed normal at the funeral though, charming even. He gave me the impression
he and Daniel had been close, perhaps even intimate. And he was the one who
mentioned about Daniel working at the studio, and the upcoming auditions. I’d
been hoping he could tell me more, but then my crazy mother intervened.

Christ, what a mess that had been.

Wherever she went, the woman never failed to make herself
the focus of attention. Even her own son’s funeral proved no exception.

I stared out the windows of the train, watching
the tunnels zip by, picturing that strange man standing there, smiling at me.

“Who are you?” I murmured aloud, drawing the
curious glances of my fellow passengers.

Perhaps I’d bump into him again. Chances were he
either lived or worked local to the studio. Then maybe I’d have a chance to ask
the questions my mother had so rudely interrupted. I let the clickety-clack of
the rails and the repetitive voice of the ‘Mind the gap’ announcer lull me into
a semi-trance, getting so lost in my own thoughts I almost missed my stop.

Outside Angel station, I wrapped my cardigan
tighter against the night’s chill and braced myself for the short walk to my
empty one-bedroom flat. Delicious smells escaped through the vents as I ran the
gauntlet of Upper Street’s many ethnic restaurants, and my stomach growled at me,
loud on the quiet street. I caved passing the Asian place on the corner, and a
quarter or an hour later, with take-out noodles bundled against my chest, I
pushed into the small apartment, plucked a fork from the kitchen drawer, and
flopped onto the couch. My food rapidly lost its appeal though, when I pulled
out what was jabbing me in the ass. Daniel’s photo and the small, secretive
business card Gracie had given me. I set aside my dinner with a sigh, and with my
brother’s face staring up at me, dragged my laptop over to Google the name and address.
I chewed the corner of my nail as the browser spewed out endless results, obscurely
referencing what I needed. But there was one.

The page loaded to a sleek site with a minimalist
gallery, showing only a leather and pearl reception area and a sombre black door
adorned with high-polished brass. To access anything else, the page popped up a
log-in screen. Private indeed.

Glancing at the time and the empty loneliness of
my apartment, it wasn’t a difficult decision to gather myself up and see if I
had anything to wear that would help me blag my way inside. If the site would
give me nothing, I’d have to go to the club and see what that yielded.

Staring at the contents of my small closet, I was
pro-con-ing a simple black dress when a thought occurred to me. I shuffled my
phone from my pocket and scrolled through my recent calls, looking for Detective
Dalton, my liaison officer on Daniel’s case.

After months without a single lead, all the
manpower had been pulled off the hunt. Not that I believed the police had ever
given my brother’s murder the priority it deserved. With the drugs they found
in his system and our mother’s history, everybody just assumed he’d fallen foul
of some pimp or dealer. Dalton had sworn to me that he’d never stop seeking
answers, but his cold grey eyes had told a different story. The eyes could tell
you all you needed to know about a person, provided you looked beyond what you
wanted to see. Unbidden, an image of Konstantyn Lazarenko’s brutal,
green-flecked stare came to mind, and heat crawled up my throat at the memory
of his choke-hold.

Dismissing the undeniable frisson of fear-soaked
arousal that thought evoked, I pressed dial. While the phone rang, I checked
the time and pulled the dress off its hanger, grabbing up a pair of studded
flats and a black jersey jacket. It was late to be calling, but Dalton was used
to my pestering.

“Neva,” he answered in that clipped British tone
that branded him the product of an expensive, public school education.

Guess he had me on caller ID.

“What can I do for you?”

He hid his exasperation well, just not well
enough.

“Detective Dalton, sorry to bug you.” I fidgeted
with the flats in my hand, stuffing my apology in with the pressing need to
talk to him.

“That’s quite alright, Neva. I did say any time.”

Ha, but I knew from his stilted tone he was
regretting those words now.

“I am having dinner with my wife presently. Can
this wait? If this is about the reduced manpower on your brother’s case, you
know I’m doing all I can —”

“No, it’s not that. I–” I took a breath and
squeezed my eyes shut, as though it would make my blurted confession go easier.
“I auditioned today, at Vinyl Scratch studios. The place where Daniel –”

“I know where that is, Neva, but do you really
think that was wise?”

“You said yourself: none of the dancers would
speak with the police. Maybe they’ll talk to me.”

“I see.” I could almost hear his brow arch, such
was the curiosity in his voice. He paused for a long moment before clearing his
throat and asking what he was clearly dying to know. “And
have
any of
them spoken to you?”

“Not exactly, no, but–” I ran my thumb over the
glossy business card. “Did a Chelsea club called Infernal ever feature in your
investigations? Was there any record of Daniel having worked there?”

There was another long pause on the other end, like
Dalton was thinking it over. “Infernal? No. I can’t say I’ve heard of it. Why?”

It’d been a long shot, I supposed.

“Oh, never mind. I’m sure it’s nothing. You enjoy
your dinner, Detective. And say hi to Susanna for me.” Susanna was his plump,
homey wife. He’d shown me a picture from his wallet once, of her and their two
goofy kids, and it’d felt awkward. The happy families set-up was way out of my
comfort zone.

“You’re not thinking of doing anything foolish are
you? I can’t stop you auditioning. It’s a free country, after all, but I won’t
condone you taking the law into your own hands. Tell me who mentioned this club
to you, and I’ll have my men look into it first thing in the –”

I’d already hung-up. Perhaps I should have waited
and let the police check it out. But he’d only talk me out of it, and so far,
every lead I’d given Dalton on what I knew of Daniel’s life had run headlong
into a brick wall. Every potential witness clammed-up under questioning. It was
as though my brother had been wiped from their collective memories. That, or something
– someone? – had made them too frightened to talk to the police. I was done
with waiting. I’d sat on Daniel’s note when he went missing, and it cost him
his life. That was something I could never forgive myself for, and damned if I
was going to make that same mistake twice.

Between the angelic blond man tipping me off about
the auditions, and now Gracie giving me the card, I couldn’t shake the feeling
that fate – or some other spirit – was guiding me. God, that man. For one
stupid moment, I wondered if he could be Daniel’s guardian angel, sending me a
message from beyond the grave, to help me catch his killers. Sometimes things
happened that made you wonder whether there wasn’t some higher force pulling
the strings of your life.

I reached into my back pocket and looked at the
card again. Gracie knew something. She’d acted so weird when I showed her the
photograph, and I had to believe she’d given me the card for a reason. It was
too late to stop now.

I stripped out of my clothes, changed my bra so
the lace would show above the neckline of the dress, and shimmied into the
sleek black silk I hoped would be classy enough for a private club.

Mission: Check out the club. If anything bad
happened, at least I’d all but left a trail of breadcrumbs for Detective Dalton.

The black cab pulled up outside a sombre looking
front door that was more Ten Downing Street than nightclub, and I frowned at
the low-key entrance. There was no bouncer, no signage. The street was deserted.

“You’re sure this is the place?” I asked, swapping
my flats for the pair of heels I’d snagged as a last minute option.

“Yup. You getting out?”

I knew better than to argue geography with a
London cab driver. He tapped the meter, and I handed over a twenty-pound note
before shuffling to the curb and making sure I was unrumpled from the ride.

With the night breeze whipping my hair, I rapped
once on the brass knocker, preparing myself for what might be on the other
side.

The person who opened the door was not who I
expected. Supermodel tall and slim, the woman’s blonde hair fell over her
shoulders, partially concealing the priest’s dog-collar that topped off her
tailored black suit. It was a striking combination, and I stared dumbly at her
until she arched a brow and smiled, “May I help you?”

“Oh, yes. Raider sent me.” Regretting that I’d let
it get so crumpled in my pocket, I showed her Gracie’s card, and tried not to squirm
as she scrutinised it, and me.

“I see. And your name is?” She handed the
dog-eared card back and I slipped it into my bag.

“Roxanne. Roxanne Bailey,” I lied, throwing
together a fake name.

“Well, Roxanne, the performers’ entrance is at the
rear of the building. I can have Robert let you in. I assume he’s expecting
you?”

What? She thought I was here to work? My outfit wasn’t
cut for free-styling. “I... No, actually. I’m here as a... customer?” I hoped
that was the right phrase for whatever went on inside.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Forgive me,” she said, her
manner changing to the bright professionalism of one pretending to be sincerely
happy. She ushered me into the warm interior, and slipped the coat from my
shoulders. “Welcome to Infernal.”

She took my coat, and I hoped she wouldn’t notice
the label. I doubted the clientele here shopped at Primark.

“We require a credit card imprint. Just as an
insurance policy. I’m sure you understand.” She smiled expectantly.

I handed over the card, hoping it wasn’t secretly
charged. I doubted I had the credit on it to cover it anyway.

She examined the plastic and gave me a look I
couldn’t decipher, until I realised it had my real name on it, and I stuttered
to explain. She waved her hand, passing it off and quieting my attempt at an
excuse.

“Everyone here is being somebody else.” She
laughed softly, swiping the card through a reader. Apparently satisfied, she
gave it back with a smile. “Mr. Raider explained the rules, I assume?”

The rules. Shit. “Eh, yeah, briefly.”

“Did you bring your own mask?”

“A mask? Crap, you know what, I left it at home.” I
cringed.
Dammit, Neva.Way to sound like a scolded schoolgirl.

“Perhaps you’d care to borrow one of ours? We have
a house selection for you to choose from.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Masks are compulsory, I’m afraid. Our clientele
puts a high price on discretion. I’m sure you understand,” she said, reaching
beneath the sleek, black counter to produce a velvet-lined tray of exotic
eyewear.

The masks were exquisite. All in silver, some were
animal – a butterfly’s wings; burnished ears and a sloped nose that turned the
wearer into a vixen – while others were simply elegant. I chose a plainer one,
without ears, that tapered gently across my cheeks when the hostess helped me
tie the black satin ribbons at the back of my head.