Revenge of the Tide

  On one phone, a missed call from Carling’s number – an hour ago.

  On the other, a missed call from GARLAND. I hit redial.

  The number you have dialled is currently unavailable. Please try later.

  I shouted at it in frustration, threw it on to the sofa. Why the fuck couldn’t he leave his phone switched on? Was I ever going to speak to him again? At least it meant he was still alive, still out there somewhere. And he hadn’t entirely forgotten about me.

  Twenty-seven

  The following Saturday night, the Barclay was busy, busier than I’d ever seen it. Norland and Helena were both in, but there was no sign of Fitz when I arrived. Caddy was there too, already out in the club with some of her regulars as I went into the dressing room to get ready.

  The club was packed with people: stag nights, groups of men crowded at the bar and the stage. I had private dances in the Blue Room booked, and even the VIP area was full. Dylan, Nicks and Gray were there too, but they were busy – the crowd was rowdy and they ended up helping out the door staff with removing those who had drunk too much.

  The atmosphere in the club felt very different. Maybe I should have seen it as a warning; maybe I should have felt it. It reminded me of one of the first weekends I’d danced in the club, when Caddy had steered me away from a group of men in suits who were already tanked up on champagne and vodka.

  ‘Not them, love. They’re no good.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’re discussing business.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You get to know these things. They’ll call us over when they’re ready. And when they do, be careful with them, alright? Just in case I’m otherwise engaged.’

  ‘Be careful how?’

  Caddy had taken a deep breath in and spouted one of her classics. ‘This club is full of men who think of themselves as dangerous. In reality, very few of them are. But it really helps if you can spot them.’

  I’d steered well clear, left the group to the other girls who were watching them from a distance and waiting for them to finish their business deals. Besides, I had plenty of other guys to entertain.

  The club smelled of danger tonight.

  By half-past two it was beginning to quieten down; the rowdy ones had all been ejected or had run out of money and gone home. Those that were left were a mixture of regulars and tired-looking businessmen. I wound down with some slower moves. I was tired tonight; I had hardly had time to drink water between dances and I was starting to get a headache.

  During my last dance I noticed two of the men who had been with Arnold at Fitz’s house last weekend. They were in one of the booths. I made eye contact with one of them and gave him a smile and a wink while I gyrated and swung around the pole.

  At the end of the routine, when the last bars of Portishead’s ‘Glory Box’ were fading, I saw Leon Arnold. He was talking to Caddy and Norland at the bar and he was watching me over Norland’s shoulder. I considered going over to join them, thought about whether I could get Caddy on her own to try and sort things out.

  I had a ripple of applause from the remaining audience as I handed over control of the stage to Chanelle, who was coming on for her last dance.

  The dressing room was almost empty; many of the girls had already finished and left. I started to pull off my shoes, looking forward to putting my jeans on and going home, when the door opened.

  It was Norland. ‘You’ve got another private dance,’ he said.

  ‘What? You’re joking,’ I groaned. ‘I’m worn out.’

  ‘I’m not fucking joking. Get on with it.’

  I was half-inclined to leave it, to slip away and pretend that Norland hadn’t told me. But I put some lip-gloss on and made my way down the corridor to the Blue Room, thinking about the money, always the money – it was the only thing that made all this worthwhile.

  I didn’t know who I’d been expecting – one of my regulars perhaps – but in the room were Leon Arnold and the two men I’d seen in the VIP booth earlier on. One of them closed the door behind me.

  I felt uncomfortable for a moment but he gave me a warm smile and they didn’t seem to be drunk. I cast a quick glance up, to the corner of the room, the CCTV camera, hoping that someone was in the office upstairs keeping an eye on me.

  ‘Hi, guys,’ I said, trying to look and sound as if I’d just started work and was ready to give them their money’s worth and more besides, ‘take a seat.’

  I’d said this to the guy who was still standing by the door, but he ignored me.

  I was too tired to mess around so I left the music selection screen and went over to the doorway. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked him. He was standing the way Dylan did, still and impassive, as though he were there for my protection. I didn’t feel protected.

  ‘His name’s Markus,’ said Arnold, amused.

  ‘Come and sit down, Markus. You won’t get much of a view from there.’

  He looked at Arnold, who was sitting on the sofa with his feet up. I raised a questioning eyebrow at him, and there was a nod in response – either to me, or to Markus.

  Whatever. Markus left his post on the door and went to sit the other side of Arnold.

  I went back to staring at the screen, wondering what I’d already danced to this evening… then I had it. Madonna – I definitely hadn’t done any Madonna for a long time.

  I started my routine by getting as high up the pole as I could, then spinning slowly back down to the floor.

  Arnold was paying attention, thankfully. The other two were talking amongst themselves – nothing they hadn’t seen before. I was going to have to do something really spectacular to get them going. Question was whether I had enough energy left, and whether I could be bothered. It wasn’t them I was interested in, and it certainly wasn’t their money paying for my time – so I turned my full focus on Arnold. I wondered why he wanted them there. He would have had to pay for them, too.

  Before the song finished, some signal must have been given that I wasn’t aware of, or didn’t notice, but Markus and the other guy got up and left the room.

  I got to my feet for my final twirl and felt a grip of alarm. Arnold wanted me on his own.

  I held out my hand to him and he kissed it, but he didn’t let go. ‘Come and sit with me for a minute,’ he said.

  The music automatically switched over to the lower volume, slow-time background noise that they left running in here when there weren’t any dances. I picked up my clothes from the floor and slipped back into them as quickly as I could. ‘I need to go and get changed,’ I said in a voice that I hoped left no room for discussion, ‘but thank you. It’s been lovely to see you again.’

  ‘Sit down,’ he said again.

  I sat, at the other end of the sofa. Without a word he moved closer to me, his thigh touching mine. I wriggled out and tried to stand but suddenly, before I really realised what was going on, he was on top of me, his hand up my dress, pulling at my underwear, his mouth on mine.

  I pushed him off with a shove and screamed as hard as I could, kicking out with my heels and making contact with something, a shin maybe.

  ‘Get off me!’

  ‘Ow, you fuckin’ bitch!’ One hand on my shoulder, his knee in my groin pinned me to the sofa by my own stupid dress. ‘No need to be so unfriendly,’ he said.

  ‘There’s CCTV,’ I said. ‘They’ll be in here in a minute…’

  ‘No, they won’t,’ he said, breathless.

  His hands were all over me and I couldn’t think what to do. I’d been groped before, I’d had men shouting disgusting suggestions to me while I’d been on the stage and all I’d ever had to do was say something like, ‘Please don’t speak to me like that,’ or look over to one of the guys, and before you knew it they would be being carried off towards the exit.

  Now I was on my own.

  At the back of my head I was replaying the previous weekend, wondering if I’d said or done anything that might have given Leon Arnold th
e idea that I wanted this, that I wanted to be on my own with him. Or maybe that this was some kind of set-up, that Fitz had told him I’d be okay with it, having neglected to mention it to me before or since…

  ‘Leon,’ I said in a voice that I hoped was both calm and firm, ‘please – this isn’t right.’

  ‘Shut up,’ he said mildly, trying to kiss me while I turned my head left and right and crossed my arms over my chest to try to stop him getting so close, so horribly close.

  I looked up again at the CCTV, praying for someone to come and help me. That was my only hope. Even if I screamed or shouted, nobody would hear me. The noise from the club; the dressing rooms were empty; there was nobody in the offices upstairs.

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘you really need to stop this. If you want to talk to me this isn’t the right thing to do.’

  He was hurting me now, his hand gripped around the fabric of my dress, pulling it tighter and tighter against my skin. In a moment it would tear away. Where were they? Surely there was someone watching the CCTV? Surely someone would come? I started to panic, writhing and trying to bring my knees up to throw him off. He covered my mouth with his free hand, pressing me down, pushing my head into the sofa cushions so I was fighting for breath while I clawed at him, trying to find skin that I could scratch. The panic was rising inside me, making me shake, weakening my efforts to get free of him.

  I heard a muffled sound, like a bang, and seconds later felt clean air above me as Arnold was pulled away. There was shouting, but I couldn’t make out words… I found myself taking long gasps of air as though I’d been drowning. My chest hurt.

  I managed to sit up and the room was empty. I was shaking, my hands tingling, my knees knocking together. I tried to push myself up but my legs wouldn’t support my weight.

  The audio system was still playing at low volume and in front of me the pole rose from the laminate floor, shiny in the lights, gleaming and innocent, oblivious to what had just happened.

  I sobbed then, trembling on the sofa, thinking about how they’d made such a big thing about the girls being safe here and how, actually, we weren’t safe at all.

  And then Dylan was there, hands twitching into fists by his sides, breathing hard as though he’d been running.

  He held out a hand and pulled me to my feet, then he put his huge arms around me and held me. Inside the circle of his arms I was sobbing and shaking. He patted me reassuringly on the back. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘you’re alright now. Let’s get you to the dressing room.’

  There was nobody in there, nobody in the corridor on the way to the dressing room either.

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked, when I could speak.

  Dylan was sitting on the stool next to me, waiting patiently for me to stop crying. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘They’ve gone too.’

  ‘What happened, Dylan?’

  He shrugged. ‘He thought he could get away with it, I guess.’

  ‘What about the CCTV? Isn’t someone supposed to be watching it all the time?’

  He grimaced. ‘Supposed to be.’

  ‘It’s not fucking good enough.’

  ‘No.’

  The door opened and Norland came in.

  ‘Don’t you ever fucking knock?’ I demanded, finding myself angry, furious, where seconds ago I’d been falling apart.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Norland asked with a sneer.

  ‘She just got roughed up,’ Dylan said.

  ‘By Leon Arnold? You’re joking.’

  ‘Do I look like I’m laughing? Norland, you shit, why wasn’t someone on the CCTV?’

  Norland didn’t look remotely concerned. It crossed my mind then that Arnold might have paid him something to look the other way.

  ‘Where’s Fitz?’ I said. ‘I want to talk to Fitz!’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Norland said, ‘he’s not here. And in any case, do you think he’s gonna listen to you whining? Who do you think you are?’

  Dylan stood up and filled the space between Norland and my seat. ‘You’re not helping,’ he said quietly. ‘Go back to the office.’

  Norland gave me one last filthy look and left, leaving the door to the corridor open behind him.

  ‘Come on,’ Dylan said. ‘I’ll call you a cab.’

  He left me to get changed into my jeans and jumper and when I went downstairs he was there, sitting at one of the empty tables in the bar with a glass on the table in front of him.

  ‘Dylan,’ I said.

  He looked up.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Cab’ll be here in a minute. You want a drink?’

  ‘Vodka,’ I said.

  He helped himself behind the bar and poured me a glass. In deference to my femininity he shoved a handful of ice and a slice of lemon in there too.

  I drank two big gulps, intending to finish it off in one go but not quite managing it before it started to burn my throat.

  ‘I don’t know if I can do this any more,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a rough business sometimes. You know that.’

  ‘It’s not like he was just a regular customer, Dylan. It’s Leon Arnold. What the fuck’s Fitz going to say?’

  ‘That’s not your problem,’ he said. ‘Let them fight it out amongst themselves.’

  On the road outside a black cab pulled up to the kerb and I got to my feet. ‘Thanks again,’ I said.

  By the time I got home I was too exhausted to think but I felt grubby, so I ran a bath while I sat at my dining table drinking cold water. I was aching all over, head to foot, as though I’d been beaten up rather than simply held down, and my head was pounding.

  I opened my bag to look for some painkillers, and as I did so I felt my phone vibrate, an incoming text. Not a number I recognised.

  Meet me 6pm Monday upstairs food area Victoria Station

  I felt a momentary panic. Who the hell had sent that text? My first thought that it was Arnold, wanting to get me on my own somehow… but then why would he want to meet me in such a public place?

  I sent a text back:

  Who is this?

  But there was no reply.

  Twenty-eight

  I slept badly, worrying about Arnold and wondering what I was going to say to Fitz the next time I saw him. I had dreams about Victoria Station, about meeting some faceless person who meant to do me harm. I got to work even more exhausted than I usually was on a Monday morning, not looking forward to working my way through the day. To my surprise, Gavin was in the main office, sitting at his old desk, with Lucy next to him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s back,’ Lucy said.

  ‘Who’s back?’

  The door to the manager’s office opened then and to my horror Ian Dunkerley came out. He’d lost weight, but his smug expression hadn’t changed. He fixed me with a defiant stare that looked as though it had required some effort to produce.

  ‘Genevieve,’ he said. ‘When you have a moment…?’

  I stared at him, mouth open, while he collected papers from the printer and went back into his office, leaving the door ajar.

  Oh, God. Not him, not him again.

  ‘Don’t keep him waiting, whatever you do,’ Gavin said helpfully. ‘He’s not in the best of moods.’

  I didn’t even put down my bag, or take off my coat. I went into Dunkerley’s office and stood in the doorway.

  He was behind the desk, tapping away at his keyboard as if he’d never been away. ‘Shut the door,’ he said.

  ‘I’d rather leave it open, if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘You’re half an hour late,’ he said. ‘Why’s that?’

  I didn’t reply. It felt as though the world was caving in around me.

  He stood up, straightened his trousers, and came around the desk towards me. I took a step back, away from him, at the same moment wondering why I was afraid of him. If anything, he should be afraid of me.


  ‘You thought I was gone for good, huh?’ he said, so quietly I could barely hear. He was close enough for me to feel the warmth from him, smell his powerful aftershave.

  ‘I hoped you were,’ I said.

  ‘Well, unlike you, I am a professional. I take my career very seriously. And I should point out that I have been working with the police to prosecute your – friends – for their assault on me. And the police have been very interested in you, too.’

  I bit my lip. He had to be lying. Whatever else he was, Dunkerley wasn’t stupid – there was no way he’d report the incident to the police, not after the warning he’d had.

  ‘Now, I’m prepared to put all this behind me. I suggest you do the same.’ He turned and went back to his desk.

  I felt sick to my stomach as I left the room, closing the door behind me. Gavin and Lucy had gone out somewhere, and the main office was empty. I sat down at my desk and logged on to the network, my head in my hands as I waited for the emails to load. I looked at the list of unread emails in the inbox: four or five from customers, relating to contracts I was working on. And then twelve emails from Ian Dunkerley, one after the other, starting at 07:24 this morning. The subjects of the emails included ‘New working practice’; three called, simply, ‘Meeting’; one at 09:01 entitled ‘Timekeeping’; and finally, as I watched, a thirteenth: ‘Office dress code’.

  I closed the email window without reading any of them and opened a new Word document.

  Ten minutes later Gavin and Lucy returned with their cardboard lattes from the coffee shop on the ground floor, laughing about something and chatting without a care in the world.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Lucy asked, seeing my face.

  ‘Not really,’ I said, retrieving the single sheet from the printer.

  ‘What’s up?’

  I couldn’t even bring myself to answer her. I folded the letter, not bothering to put it in an envelope, and took it with me along with my bag and my coat to the CEO’s office on the next floor. There was a meeting going on.