A second later, Humphrey and Vanya turn and walk hand in hand across the length of the club and disappear out the exit.
Not for the first time in my life, I’m confused. What’s he done with my car now?
It’s one of the club’s rules that senior members (i.e. those the management want to keep on good terms with) can take selected girls off the premises and back to their own places, by prior agreement. Stephen Humphrey is one such member, but since he’s married with a sizeable brood of kids, I doubt he’s taking her back to his place for a bit of slap and tickle.
Which means they could be going anywhere.
So, what do I do now?
For the next half hour or so, I don’t do a lot, just keep walking the floor of the club, making sure that everyone, clients and girls alike, feels happy and secure. But all the time I’m thinking about my car and the heinous way it’s been taken from me. And, of course, what I need to do to be reunited with it.
Finally, I can take no more. I’ve got to have it back. It’s just turned midnight when I head outside and make a call to the firm who monitor the tracking device that’s installed in it. I tell the man on the other end of the phone that a friend of mine’s driven off in my car for a prank. I don’t want to involve the police but I do want the car back, so can he please activate the tracker and let me know where it is? He doesn’t like the idea, and to be fair, it’s a bit of an unusual request, but eventually, having ascertained that I am who I say I am, he does the honours and informs me that my car is currently outside Number 21 Bowbury Gardens in Hampstead.
Ah, the wonders of technology. Now all I need to do is get there.
As I turn round, putting the phone back in my pocket, I see The Crim hurrying down the steps with The Knife and The Gang in tow. They don’t see me, but keep on going round to the entrance of the underground car park. Something’s up, I think, but I’m no longer so worried about them. The important thing is to get my rear across to 21 Bowbury Gardens before anyone else does. So, after a quick few words with my fellow doorman, Harry “The Wolverine” Carruthers (so-called because of the thick black mat of hair that covers his body from neck to toe), he agrees to lend me his car. He’s not too happy about it, obviously, since number one he’s going to have to cover for me and number two, when finishing time comes round at the unearthly hour of 4 a.m., he’s going to have some trouble getting home.
I tell him not to worry about this since I’ll have it back well before then, and anyway, he owes me one. The Wolverine’s not happy, there’s no doubting that, but eventually he parts with the keys, and I drive off towards Hampstead in the hunt for truth and justice.
It’s just turned quarter to one and raining when I pull into Bowbury Gardens, a quiet residential road of rundown three-storey townhouses, and I’m immediately confronted by an alarming sight. The front door of one of the houses about halfway down is open and I can see Vanya, the girl who left the club in my car, being manhandled by a number of men who all have their back to me.
Hearing my car approach, one of them turns round and I see that it’s Jim The Crim. He immediately turns back and grabs Vanya by the arm, pushing her back into the house. I carry on driving, looking straight ahead, hoping they won’t recognize me, and as I pass I see that they’ve all now disappeared inside. I also see my motor – sleek and metallic-black, like a crouching panther – parked at the side of the road.
I find a space nearby and pull in. The spare keys are in my pocket. Now is the time to pretend I never saw Vanya being accosted by The Crim and his boys, grab my car and drive off, end of story. Obviously, I’m going to have to get out of London for a while, in order to escape The Crim’s wrath, but I was planning a holiday anyway, and Stallions isn’t exactly a job I’ll miss.
But the problem is that I’m an honourable man, as I’ve told you before. I can’t just walk away from a damsel in distress; it’s not right.
However, there’s another problem. I am outnumbered, and if I remember rightly (which I do), the Knife is carrying a gun. Since I know that The Wolverine is a man who sometimes strays on the wrong side of the law, I check in his glove compartment for any useful accessories and, lo and behold, I find a can of pepper spray. It’s not a lot but it’ll have to do.
Putting it in my pocket, I get out of the car and jog through the rain past my car, resisting the urge to kiss the paintwork, and carry on to the door where I saw the altercation. I try the handle and it’s locked. There’s a buzzer lit up on the wall beside it and I see that the house is split into three flats. Taking a step back I note that the third floor’s the only one with lights on, so figure that this one’s Vanya’s place. I come forward again and launch a flying karate kick at the lock on the door. It looks pretty old and it gives easily, flying open with an angry crack.
Surprise has never been my strong point and I wonder again why I’m helping Vanya. She’s never been particularly friendly to me. In fact, I’ve always thought her aloof and cold. I think maybe I’m simply a sucker for punishment.
I shut the door behind me and move forward in the darkness, listening. I can’t hear any sounds from above so I head over to the stairwell opposite and take the steps upwards, my shoes tap-tap-tapping on the cheap linoleum floor. It smells of damp in here and I suddenly feel sorry for Vanya, coming thousands of miles to work in a brothel servicing middle-aged men, and living in a dump like this.
There’s a scream. It’s short and faint, but it’s definitely coming from the top floor. Before my fights, I used to get so nervous and pumped-up that I’d be bouncing off the walls, counting down the seconds to the action. I get that feeling again now. I can sense impending violence and it’s weird, but I’m actually looking forward to it. It’s like I’m living again for the first time in months, years even.
And now, of course, I know why I’ve come here, and why I’m defying Jim The Crim Sneddon himself. I crave the excitement. It’s like a drug.
The pepper spray’s in my left hand as I mount the last step, see a door in front of me, all plywood and chipped paint, and do a Jackie Chan on this one as well. It flies open as well and this time I’m confronted by a sight that’s alternately hilarious and shocking.
First, the shocking part: Vanya, dressed in civvies, is sitting rigid on her threadbare living room sofa, her pale blue eyes as wide as saucers. Above her, with one foot on said sofa, stands The Knife, the tip of his trademark stiletto touching the little fold of skin just below her left eye. In his free hand, he holds a thick lock of blonde hair that he’s clearly just lopped off, and it looks like he’s about to embark on some more physical damage. The expression on his face is one of cold pleasure.
Now for the hilarious part, and believe it or not, there is one. Wailing like an angry baby in the middle of the room, is the right honourable Stephen Humphrey MP. Except his resplendent silver mane is no longer attached to his head, but is actually bunched up in Vanya’s hand, like a sleeping Jack Russell, where she’s obviously removed it with some force. So, the rumours are true. Humphrey really is as bald as a coot, and I think it must have been his screams I heard, because his shiny dome is red and raw, and laced with the remnants of torn adhesive.
The Crim is the only other person in the room, and he’s having a bit of a laugh at Humphrey’s plight. At least he is until he sees me bursting in like some avenging angel. The MP is the nearest to me, but I don’t bother with him. As Defence Minister, he had a reputation as a tough guy in parliament. But it’s one thing making the brave decisions that send other men to their deaths, and another getting in the firing line yourself. He makes his intentions admirably plain by jumping out the way very fast, and burying his newly naked head in his hands.