The Unknown Terrorist by Richard Flanagan Read Free Book Online Page B

the spectacle of the woman on the table he thought he recognised something familiar about her. Her name—was it Tiffany? Or was that the one at the Minx Club? Anyway, he thought, what did her name matter? She had a great arse.
    He sat down and leant back and felt an odd and deep pleasure—all the sweeter for being familiar—take hold of him. He was thinking of how, for an eternity, people had thought paradise was somewhere else, whereas now it was here; of course, one had to pay, but then whatever pleasure you wanted was yours and you never needed to find out what their names were.
    ‘Ah,’ he thought, ‘how sweet! How sweet!’
    And he leant forward and raised his hand, holding out a twenty-dollar note in his extended fingers. Though a little taken aback when the Doll deftly plucked the note from his hand—for he had not intended to part with it quite so readily—he still felt momentarily enchanted; life no longer seemed so bad, and it was as if the world spun its peculiar way merely in order to ultimately please him.
    If Richard Cody had no idea who she was, the Doll, now she could see him clearly, recognised him. He was Mr TV, Richard Cody. In the way of a pine furniture catalogue, Richard Cody was dully reassuring: always the same and telling you what you already knew. He made you feel comfortable. But he seemed a little unreal, even spooky, sitting there in front of her, tipping her, talking to her.
    The Doll had heard from Maria that he had become something of a regular in recent months, though normally only on a Tuesday night early in the evening with a few tv executives. The Doll had never been working when he was there, and this was the first time she had seen him in the club. Jodie had turned a trick with him a few weeks before. She said that he had a flat fat cock like a crushed Coke can, and that it was so awful she charged him double, telling him it was her going rate.
    “You’re a gentleman,” said the Doll, smiling as she slid the twenty-dollar note down the side of her knickers. “I like to dance for real gentlemen.”
    Holding his eyes with her own, the Doll then swung round and fell to her knees, so that her buttocks were very close to Richard Cody’s face. She looked over her shoulderat him, and as her arse slowly rocked above his nose, a drink appeared beneath it.
    “Compliments of Mr Holstein, the manager,” said the topless waitress indicating, with a slight flick of her head, Ferdy, who was standing over at the bar with a circle of five fatgutted businessmen. Ferdy raised his glass to Richard Cody.
    Unlike the businessmen, Ferdy Holstein was small in both height and girth. He had originally been a budgie of a man who, after years of weight powders, steroids and the dreary round of gymnasiums, had transformed himself into a barrel-chested budgie of a man. Though nearly bald, he had bleached what hair remained a bright blond. For all that was ludicrous about him, he was still able to manifest menace.
    A piece of bright icing, Ferdy peeled off from the doughnut of suits and walked over.
    “I’m a great admirer of your work, Mr Cody,” he said, “as I’ve noticed you’ve become of ours.” He reached into an oversized pocket of his baggy jeans, pulled out a business card and handed it to Richard Cody. “If ever I can be of help, let me know.” As he spoke, a slight spume of white saliva gathered at the edge of his mouth.
    Richard Cody looked at the card. “Ferdy Holstein,” he mused, then looked back up. “You’ve been in the news, Ferdy,” he said, pocketing the card.
    “Unfortunate event,” Ferdy Holstein said.
    “That drug rape trial, wasn’t it?”
    “I was just a witness,” Ferdy Holstein said. “As far as I could see, it was consensual sex between my business partner and the girl. But I never said I saw everything.”
    “Unfortunate,” Richard Cody repeated. And then he lit up:“Terrible thing to be tangled in a trial, Ferdy—you know what the Thais say? ‘It is