The Lover's Children

Chapter 85 – Solstice – Part 18

PAT

You’re there again, performing your act. And so beautifully.

The other so-called dancers have nothing on you, parading up and down as they do, flaunting

themselves on the dancefloor. Or strutting their cheap wares in the kind of lewd displays that say they’ll

be selling something else later, to whichever of the gawping spectators has the fattest wallet.

But you…

Lily…

I know it’s a stage name, but it suits you so much better than Martina.

You move with such grace, your spine arching as you sway to the music, sliding long limbs along the

pole. Everything toned and perfect, effortlessly, your body does what you ask of it, your hair sweeping a

long arc as you roll and rotate and undulate.

How do you do it?

You make it look so easy.

Pirouetting, you wrap a leg around the pole, flexing your bare foot, then your knee, anchoring yourself

against the metal. I can barely follow the movement as you bring the other leg up, sliding your hands

upward as you climb, then swing. Calves locked in place, you lean outward, supporting yourself as you

whirl and rock and spin.

The others watching leer and point, their comments crude.

You’re not for the likes of them.

My Lily…

Your act finished, you bow to the assembled drunks, pimps and lechers. They clap in a perfunctory way

as you vanish sidelong into the shadows. Some jerk in a sequined jacket announces the next act.

She’s all tits and ass, bouncing onto the podium as though she had any place following you.

Where are you?

Where have you gone?

I polish off my beer in a couple of swigs, sliding the glass across the bar. “That last act, Lily, will she be

on again?”

“She’ll be doing another turn in about an hour, sir.”

“Yeah? In that case, I’ll have another.”

“Coming right up, sir. Oh…” He gestures behind me, drops me a wink… “Here she comes now.”

Wearing a wrap around your stage costume, decently covered, you stand next to me at the bar.

“Slimline tonic, please, Jack.”

“Let me get you that.”

You turn to me with a half-smile, then double-take. “You again?” The smile fades. You sound shocked.

“Yeah, me again. Quite the coincidence isn’t it.”

Your brows rise and you look away. “Isn’t it.”

Your drink arrives and I reach for my pocket. “No, it’s alright,” you say. “I prefer to buy my own. Put it on

my tab will you, Jack.”

You sip your drink, your other hand resting on the bar, and I touch your fingers. “What time do you get

off?”

Unsmiling, you throw me a sidelong glance, tug your hand away. “Not for hours yet.”

“I’m happy to wait. Maybe you ‘n me could go on somewhere afterwards? Your place? Or mine if you

like.”

You bang your glass down on the bar. Your drink slops over. “Look, I'm a dancer, not a hooker. I’m not

interested. Go talk to one of the other girls.”

“Oh… I thought...”

“I know what you thought. But I make my living from dancing and tips. And that’s all.”

“I’d still like to buy you a drink.”

“I can pay for my own drinks.” And turning on your heel, you march away.

Not a hooker…

My Lily…

Pure and white…

My cock strains.

*****

KLEMPNER

Time’s passing. I’ve not learned a thing from my visits to Schauder or Renberger. On the other hand,

I’ve had the chance to think.

I saw Hoodie the first time in the park.

Then I saw him…

… someone who might have been him…

… the second time in the park and lost him a couple of streets away from the square, heading into the

cheaper areas of the City.

Plenty of streetwalkers hanging around there…

A good area for a hooker-hating serial-killer to cruise…

They hang out at hundred-yard intervals, some as singles, most in pairs. Some pacing their pitches.

Others stand by the kerb, displaying themselves to the oncoming traffic.

Where to start?

Then my question answers itself as I see a skinny figure slouching against the brickwork, smoking,

angled to watch the women.

“Hey, McKendrick!”

His head snaps up as he scans for the source of the call. Then, as he spots me approaching, he tosses

the butt in a glowing arc into the gutter and strides out, hand extended, displaying gappy, yellow-

stained teeth. “Hey, Klempner. Good to see you. I heard you were back in town. You back in business,

then? Got something for me?”

Ian McKendrick. The very image of a pimp. Skinny as spaghetti, in drainpipe jeans that make him look

skinnier. White tee-shirt. Black leather jacket. Gold earring looped through one lobe. I don’t much feel

like touching the hand but take it in a cursory hold for a second, then resist the urge to wipe my palm

on my pants. “Nothing for you. But a couple of questions. I’m looking for someone. Thought you might

be able to help.”

“Oh?” The smile fades and his stance turns cautious. “Who’s that then?”

“You’ve read what’s in the papers about this killer on the loose? The one they’re calling The Surgeon.”

“Sure. Bad business. Bad for business.” He frowns. “It’s making the women jittery. They don’t want to

go out. Gotta keep them juiced up. Even then, gotta keep an eye on them all the time to be sure they’re

working for their keep.” The frown deepens. “Why? What’s it to you?”

“Looking after my interests.”

“Yeah? Well, I s’pose it’s not great for your business either. So, who ya’ looking for?”

“I don’t know, but I want to know if anyone’s seen anything.”

“Such as?”

“Some guy who hangs around. Acts suspiciously.”

He sniffs again, reflectively this time. “Dunno where I’d start. That could be half the punters we get.”

“This one would spook the women. Ring alarm bells.”

“Yeah… Can’t say I’ve seen anything. But then, I just watch to see if their money’s good and that the

girls don’t pocket it.”

“How about a single guy wearing a grey hoodie?”

He coughs a laugh, hawks and spits in the gutter. “That all ya got to work on? I can see three like that

from here. Yer prob’ly better talking to the hos.”

*****

Where to start?

Nearest I suppose…

It’s not as though it’s hard to attract attention. Their entire remit is to watch for men alone.

The first pair are classics of the type: too much make-up, not enough clothes. Tits, ass and legs on

display.

Mitch never dressed like this…

She always had style.

This pair have the style of a road accident.

One; tall, blonde with black roots; smokes a roll-up.

The other, with what might be her own hair colour, chews gum with her mouth open. Watery-blue eyes

set in made-up black sockets, face whitened, she’s some variation on the Goth theme…

Takes all sorts…

With a black dress and black jewellery, she has nails like black claws and wears black boots with two-

inch-thick soles…

Must check my tires…

As I approach the pair, heads together, eyes locked on me, they exchange a few words, then Goth-Girl

nods Gum-Girl my way.

Cigarette in hand, she struts across, working it for all she’s worth. Her wide, plastic smile resembles

something I last saw in some Tim Burton movie. “Well, hi there.”

“Hi. You got five minutes?” And as the words fall from my mouth, I know it was a mistake…

The mad smile cracks wider. “Five minutes? Oh, I bet you can do better than that…”

Fucked that up…

She moves inside my personal space, lays a hand on my chest. “Want me to help you along? I bet we

could stretch out that five minutes.”

“No.” I remove the hand from my chest… “Thank you.” … patting the back of her fingers… “I’m looking

for someone.”

“Aren’t we all?” she cackles.

“No, you don’t understand. I just want to talk.”

“Oh…” She champs her gum a couple of times, treating me to a view of the blackened teeth at the back

of her mouth. “For five minutes? Gimme twenty.”

“Twenty? For five minutes of your time? How much are you earning?”

Her smile turns sly. “Wanna find out?”

“No. Will you talk to me or not?”

Back by the streetlamp, Goth-Girl stares at me. A hard glare. Wheels are turning behind her eyes.

She’s…

… familiar…

I know you…

Or I have known you…

“You wanna pay me to talk? Or not? Time’s money. What d’you want to talk about?”

“As I said, I’m looking for someone.”

“Well… if you insist…” Rousing her room-temperature IQ from sleep, she frowns. “So, who…?”

“It’s a man. I’m involved in the search for the serial killer who’s been targeting the street girls…”

“Yeah?” Her mouth drops open. “You got a description?” Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

But Goth-Girl is striding across. Her attention locked on me, eyes wild, rimmed white, she mutters

something into Gummy’s ear. Gummy’s face hardens… “Yeah?” … morphing to a sneer, aimed at me.

“Don’t know nuffin.”

“I’m only…”

But the pair scurry away, resuming their vigil under the streetlight.

*****

From a nearby cafe, nursing a coffee long gone cold, I ponder.

Where do I know her from?

There’s only so many answers to a question like that.

How old are you?

It’s hard to tell under the caked-on layers of vampire cosmetics.

Were you at Blessingmoors?

Of course you fucking were…

In my head, I peel off layered make-up, the costume of a whore, the damage wreaked by the years…

Yeah…

Gotcha…

Mousy blonde…

Timid…

Nine years old…

Who did I sell you to?

You free now?

Or does some whoremonger still own you?

You’re never going to help me…

Did you know my Jenny?

*****