The Deadly Space Between by Patricia Duncker Read Free Book Online Page B

still fixed on the television.
    ‘It’s Roehm. For you.’
    My mouth went dry. She took my place on the sofa and seized the packet of crisps.
    ‘Hello.’
    There was a long pause at the other end as if he had already vanished.
    ‘Hello?’ I said again.
    ‘Would tomorrow suit you?’ The same cool, slow voice, disengaged, indifferent.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Good. Meet me at seven thirty in the Earl of Rochester, Old Compton Street. Your mother knows where that is. She tells me that you like the food in L’Escargot.’
    ‘Yeah. I do. OK.’
    ‘Fine. See you tomorrow, then.’
    Click. Hummmmm. Roehm disappeared. I put the phone back in its cradle and bit my lip. When I looked around the door I saw that she had settled down into the hollow I had left and eaten all the crisps. She scrunched the empty bag, disappointed.
    ‘Have we got any more?’ She looked up, childish, demanding.
    ‘I’ll go and see. You haven’t eaten any supper, have you?’
    ‘No.’
    I went off to light the gas, shaking my head free of her image. She didn’t ask what I had arranged with Roehm. I wanted to tell her, to boast. She never gave me an opening.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Old Compton Street was not like any other street in Soho. I realized, with a flash of curiosity and panic, as I looked into the video store, that this was London’s gay ghetto. It was a cold wet night, but the street was illuminated, ready, en fête. All the red bulbs flashed and glared around a bevy of leather men suggestively wielding chains and whips on cover after cover of the lurid, empty boxes. There were one or two videos with images of women, some flaunting buttocks and breasts, others wearing uniforms reminiscent of the Waffen SS. I looked inside. A man bristling with silver jewellery and tattoos smiled at my hesitation.
    ‘Hi there,’ he said, ‘can I help you?’
    I fled down the road, looking for the pub. It was an ordinary Victorian pub with stained glass and tiles. Inside the music was turned down to levels that made conversation possible. All the men behind the bar wore white T-shirts and had shaved heads. Every single face turned towards me when I came in; the polished bar reflected my reddening cheeks. I noticed my school scarf with a twinge of horror. I looked like a boy in one of Gide’s novels, much too young and unwittingly asking for it. There was no sign of Roehm.
    ‘Yes, darling? What can I get for you?’
    The man behind the bar was brisk and knowing. He wasn’t young. There were very few young men in the pub. I muttered, ‘A half of Flowers.’ The beer appeared before me. I had intended to guzzle it down and then wait outside, but he vanished away to serve someone else while I was still fumbling for the money. I was completely unnerved by the fact that the men didn’t just take you in and look away as locals do when you enter their strange, flyblown cafes. A good many of them just went on staring. I leaned on the bar, mortified. I couldn’t face the mirror and so began reading the cocktail suggestions and the notices about Happy Hour. A man in a checked shirt and leather trousers with thongs up the sides caught my elbow as he pushed past.
    ‘Sorry, love.’
    He turned sideways and smiled. He had a heavy florid face and a wide smile.
    ‘New girl here, aren’t you?’
    I nodded, turning even redder. It seemed to me that everyone was listening and I was too self-conscious to speak.
    ‘What’s your name?’ He settled onto the stool beside me.
    ‘Toby.’
    ‘You on your own?’
    ‘No. Well, sort of . . . I’m waiting for someone.’
    He gave me an amused, private smile. But he was neither threatening nor unfriendly. I began to relax.
    ‘I see.’
    He paused, smiled again.
    ‘Maybe I’m the man you’ve been waiting for?’
    I was terribly serious. I took everything seriously. While it was happening I didn’t even realize that I was being picked up.
    ‘I don’t think so. He’s called Roehm.’
    My companion burst out