Chapter Three
Ciara
The club was in the belly of deprivation in downtown South Shields. Only the odd charity shop or bargain basement among a neglected terraced street. I’d left the car in a carpark across the road, but now I worried that even my clapped-out red runabout wouldn’t be there when I got back. At the end of the street the venue stood, a block of black painted vertically down the side, the red letters standing out, telling every passer-by exactly what to expect, not least because of its name.
Trouble .
I’d worked in these places before. I knew what to expect. But despite that, it hit me with a deep thud of dread. An omen, maybe? Or maybe it just stirred up a memory. The same red writing, the same seedy feeling. Pausing, I stared back up at the building. It must have been a shop at one point. In the middle of the wall, the brickwork changed. It was like a giant patch had been stuck to its side. A window hurriedly bricked up.
I should probably have walked away. Found something else. But money was tight. Tighter now that my arsehole landlord was putting the rent up. Again. I should probably find somewhere else to live too. A different job. A different bedsit. Yet life liked to show me how much it could suck. And recently I’d evaded the attention of the Polish. It had given me time to start over, to get back to Uni. And for once, just once, there was a tiny hint my life might just be getting a little better.
Sighing, I pushed against the glass interior door, the outer door already wedged open. My pride would have to wait. The money couldn’t.
Inside, the place was dimly lit, despite not being open to the public yet. Or at least not according to the opening times painted crudely on the black door. The bar was lit by a red back light shining through the optics of liquor hanging against the wall, the light refracting, sending shattered beams cascading down onto the bar top in front. Two people hunched over on stools to the left-hand side, sipping at half-drunken pints and chattering in low voices to the man stood in front of them, wiping glasses with a tea towel.
The place had that stale alcohol smell. And cigarette smoke. There had been an indoor smoking ban in public places in Britain for years, but clearly, these guys didn’t care. If my stomach could sink any lower, it would have done.
No one seemed to notice me as I stepped in, moving cautiously forward. The men on the stool were still deep in conversation, while the man behind the bar occasionally frowned. He had long hair tied back in a ponytail and a bushy beard dangling off his chin a good few inches. The arms poking out of his t-shirt sleeves were thick and covered in tattoos, all the way down to his hands, which seemed to move erratically, the grey shading and dim light making them almost demonic.
“Hi,” my voice squeaked, shrill and loud in the space between us, “are any of you, Terry?”
“Aye,” the man behind the bar answered. “You must be Ciara, huh?”
I nodded. The nerves in my stomach now straining in my throat, tightening their grip around my vocal cords. This place had an atmosphere. A threat in the air that I just couldn’t work out. Yet really, inside, it wasn’t unlike the strip clubs I’d worked in before.
“Yes, for an interview,” I answered eventually, the two men on stools turning round to scrutinise me.
Terry watched me for a moment. His eyes sweeping over my body, resting in the usual places, and moving on again. Then he nodded.
“Great. You pass. Can you start tonight?”
“Don’t you want me to pull a pint or something first?”
“Nah. You’ll be ‘reet.”
“You know it’s bar work I’m after? I’m not a dancer.”
“Aye. Just bar work.”
He smiled. An attempt at reassurance, but it didn’t fill me full of confidence.
“What do you want the bar staff to wear?”
“Just a white shirt will be fine. I’ve got a waistcoat and some other stuff here for you. You a size 10?” he asked, his glare back on me.
“10-12. Ish.”
“Good. See you tonight. 9pm.”
“Thanks.”
Back out on the street, I glanced at my watch. Just enough time to get to my lecture.
*****
“You’re fucking kidding? You want me to wear these?”
I held the denim shorts up in front of me. Shorts? Try fucking knickers. There was no way they were going to cover my arse. The edges were frayed where they’d been hacked off to make them smaller.
The girl behind the bar nodded, totally unphased that she wanted me to wear next to nothing.
“Where’s Terry?”
“Not in yet,” she shrugged, looking disinterested as I continued to stare at the cut-off denim shorts and the fake leather waistcoat she’d handed me when I turned up.
I could just go. Turn around and not come back. But then I was at the mercy of sleazy Stu and there was no way I was giving him the excuse to offer me alternative ways to pay that rent. The shorts were degrading, but not as much as being made homeless or paying my rent in favours.
Fine.
“Where’s the changing rooms?”
“Back there,” the girl pointed, “the door behind the stage.”
And they were as delightful as the rest of the place. I pushed through the door into a dark corridor that ran along the back of the building, following the hallway to where light seeped under another door at the far end. The sign was written on a piece of paper in a thick black pen and stuck on the door at head height: ‘changing rooms’.
Inside was open plan, but better than I was expecting. Several mirrors were fixed to the walls, light bulbs surrounding them like the dressing rooms of a film set. One side of the room was lined with long thin lockers, places to leave clothes and belongings.
I wriggled into the shorts, forcing them up my legs and glancing at myself in the mirror. I might as well have been on that pole in the centre of the stage after all. I tucked the white shirt into the waistband and pulled the leather vest with the club wording on the back over the top. The thick-soled boots that came up past my ankles really set the whole outfit off. Could have been worse, they could have been handing me a set of heels to parade around in.
Stuffing my clothes safely into the lockers, I turned straight into the path of another woman. Tall and bleached blonde, her boobs already hung out of the vest top she was wearing, her make-up already on point and thick, long false lashes which fluttered over her cheeks.
“You new?”
I nodded.
“Dancer?”
“No, just the bar.”
“You’re not wearing that right then,” she answered, waving her hand in front of my outfit.
“Really? There’s a way to wear it?”
“Here. I’ll help.”
She stepped forward, pulling the shirt from the shorts and popping open the last four buttons, before rolling it up and tying it in a knot just under my chest. Then she nodded, as if pleased with her work, standing in front of me, waiting for something.
“You done?” I asked, much too abruptly, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Actually, no. One more thing.”
She plucked another couple of buttons undone, this time from the top, before patting me on the shoulder and stepping to the side.
Maybe this was worse? I would have swapped the exposed stomach and cleavage for the heels. Still, it was better than sleazy Stu.
The place was filling quickly when I got back out onto the floor. A buzz of excitement in the air, or maybe that was testosterone, the booths I passed already packing men of every conceivable shape and style. Suits, jeans, bikers. There didn’t seem to be a dress code. Just a come in and spend your money code. And they were certainly doing that. In the first hour, we’d gone through two bottles of vodka and a full barrel of beer.
The first set of girls had been up on stage and the crowd had gone wild. I recognised the blonde girl from all the way back here, watching as she tied herself in knots around the pole, an item of clothing coming off at each turn until eventually she was naked. And then the next one and the next one, routines similar and the outcome all the same.
I loaded a tray with drinks for a table of men looking out over the stage, wandering between the booths and the mismatch of tables with the glasses carefully placed on the round black tray. I edged in beside them, lowering the drinks and sliding them across the table, careful not to stoop too low so they didn’t confuse me with the girls on the stage. But it seemed I hadn’t succeeded.
Fingers trailed up the back of my leg, skimming over the bottom of my buttock, hanging out the ridiculous shorts. I stepped sideways, but not enough to stay out of reach. The hand followed, groping one cheek, sliding round the inside of my leg. This man was about to be wearing his drink.
But suddenly his grip loosened, and his head hit the table. Repeatedly. The noise was loud even over the music. Chairs scraping backwards, the heavy thuds of a skull against the hardness of the wood, the shouts of men. Fuck. The place was erupting around me. Men ran up behind the assailant, dragging him backwards, others yanking the man whose hands had been on me moments ago up to his feet, blood pouring from a nasty gash on his forehead. And then he was marched out, his friends looking at each other in confusion.
Behind me, the assailant fought against the men holding him. He was angry, with dark hair and a thin nose that ended in a point. And now I could remember his lips on mine.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Could ask you the same question,” he grumbled, shrugging off the men holding onto him.
“You two’ve met?” The man on his right asked.
“In a fashion,” I answered, my eyes gazing over the men stood behind me all wearing black leather waistcoats over their t-shirts.
The man who assaulted the punter glared at me.
“You still pissed I pulled out in front of you, huh?”
He shook his head. “You work here?”
“Nah. This is just a hobby.”
He rolled his eyes, and the men beside him laughed. Terry came running up behind them, his face tight. Guess I wouldn’t be working here much longer. But it wasn’t me his attention was fixed on, and it looked like the biker was going to be getting his marching orders, too.
“Demon! Demon!” Terry rambled, looking worried. “What the fuck happened?”
“Why the fuck you not got anyone looking after your staff?” The biker growled angrily. “These fuckers here were touching up one of your barmaids. I want them gone.”
Terry nodded, looking pale, and beckoned for the rest of the punters on the table to get to their feet. The men on either side of the biker ushered them out, their backs turning towards me. And on the backs of their leather waistcoats, three skulls wearing crowns were embroidered. The top rocker read Northern Kings, the bottom rocker read Newcastle upon Tyne. And I knew a motorcycle gang cut when I saw one. Extra Fuck.