Destiny was at the bar, talking to a man who a moment ago had been drinking on his own. There was a gold bucket overflowing with ice on the bar, two bottles of Moët et Chandon chilling in there. Junior, behind the bar, opened one of the bottles, poured out two glassfuls. Destiny smiled and tossed her blonde hair, looking around.
Layla sank back into the shadows by the staircase, but not before Junior’s eyes met hers. He grinned and wagged a finger at her. Naughty naughty. He knew Ellie wouldn’t want her down here.
She looked again at the beaded curtain, still swinging after Precious and her companion had passed through it. For safety’s sake all the private dancing rooms were monitored from the room upstairs. She couldn’t help wondering what went on in those VIP rooms. Quickly she crept up the stairs, returned to her room and closed the door. Maybe one evening she’d sneak a peek in the monitor room, take a look at what went on.
‘You bastards!’ shouted Dickon.
There was a rusted bridge strung between two tall unused warehouses down in a disused part of the old docks. It was this bridge that Dickon, second cousin of the Delaney twins Orla and Redmond, found himself hanging from one dark night.
He was dangling upside-down, suspended by a rope tied around his ankles. The whole black and grimy night world was whirling around him, and his head felt as if it was about to be ripped off. Up on the bridge above him were several beefy types, all suited and booted and wearing black overcoats. One of them, grinning like a pirate, was now holding a knife. Dickon could see the thing sparkling in the moonlight.
‘Shit!’ he yelled, and thrashed about wildly. It didn’t help. His hands were bound, his feet were tied, he’d been dragged out of his nice warm lodgings and he was now dangling over this scary space like a landed cod, his thin hair blowing in the cold evening breeze. All right, he knew he was no angel. He was a small-time house burglar and sometimes – just occasionally, mind – he liked to touch up a kid or two. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t be held responsible. He got these urges. He didn’t deserve this.
Max Carter placed the knife against the rope. It was all that stood between Dickon and a high-impact headache if he should fall forty feet to the hard cobbles below.
‘OK, let’s get down to business,’ said Max.
‘I didn’t do it!’
‘Didn’t do what?’
‘If I’d known the woman was anything to do with you, Mr Carter, I wouldn’t have gone near. Ask Moira! I don’t do women,’ wailed Dickon.