12
S he examined my fake ID, frowned, held it between two fingers and pressed, “You’re twenty-one?” She wasn’t stupid, and I bet she’s looked at a thousand IDs and references, many of which I’m sure were fake. Her name was Betty, and she was possibly the most intriguingly beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Sitting in the soft armchair, I felt intimidated by her beauty. Long jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail, blood red lipstick, and high cheekbones and could’ve easily been a model with those striking features and sharp blue eyes and elongated limbs.
It was hard to gauge her age, but at a guess, she was in her mid-to-late thirties.
I nodded, knowing I looked younger, but 21 was the golden number to be considered for a job in the Savile Gentlemen’s Club.
They instructed me to enter through the main entrance, which was palatial enough without seeing the club itself. Twenty girls and two guys were waiting expectantly to be interviewed for one of four available positions – a kitchenhand, two wait positions, and a dealer. I’m sure they’d take one look at me and know which position I had applied for.
When my name was called, I was escorted down a ‘staff only’ hallway into a windowless room containing shelves of Savile uniforms and supplies – aprons, buttoned shirts, blazers, beermats, etc.
“Petra Black?” she didn’t believe me, and I felt like walking out, holding my head in shame. “You’re a student at Gotland?”
“Yes.” My cheeks burned, deciphering whether I should come clean and tell her my ID was fake and apologize or keep digging the hole. The chances of them hiring me were slowly dying before my eyes.
“And what are you studying?” she asked, running her critiquing eyes over my clothes, which included a pair of black dress pants and a blue buttoned shirt creased with wrinkles because I couldn’t find an iron and a pair of white sneakers with smears of dirt on my feet.
“Marine biology,” I replied honestly.
“Oh? That’s interesting, and you want to work here at Savile Gentleman’s Club because…?”
Swallowing over a lump in my throat and clasping my hands to stop them from shaking, nerves were pummeling throughout my body, “Money.” I couldn’t think of another reason why anyone would want to work as a kitchenhand.
She didn’t like that answer and passed my fake ID back, making the interview seem as if it had come to an end. All she had to do was contact Gotland to find out if there was a 21-year-old Marine Biology student named Petra Black.
“But mostly because I find places like this intriguing,” I added, not that it would make any difference because she was ushering me out the door.
“Really? How?” Now I had her attention as she held the door open for me to leave.
The Kaisers had a place like this in Larsson and Gunner, and I would turn up after school to help in the kitchen while my foster Mom organized the staff. Her job was what Betty did, and I wondered if my foster mom still worked there.
We weren’t allowed in after opening times because it was an 18+ club, and the last thing those types of men wanted to see was prying kids while they drank expensive whiskey, gambled, and conducted other dubious activities behind velvet curtains while their wives were home tending to their children.
“I guess I have a fascination with the dark side since my life is so dull,” I replied as we walked back to the entrance area, realizing how short that interview was. I was only there for a few minutes, and it seemed long enough for Betty to decide that I wasn’t good enough to be a kitchenhand in her swanky club.
“Huh? The dark side,” she seemed amused, then stopped dead, and I almost smacked into the back of her. “Let us go the other way.”
I looked past her to find two delivery men awkwardly maneuvering a large table through narrow, sharp spaces, blocking our way. I followed Betty as she turned back down the hall, past the supplies cupboard where our interview was, to the double doors at the very end with gold plaited handles, which opened out into the gambling area of the club.
A sea of red-patterned carpet with many tables covered in sheets to protect them, high ceilings with huge gold-plaited chandeliers, and the faint scent of wood polish greeted us. This was not my scene, and Betty knew that, but I assumed if I was shoved in a kitchen where the visitors wouldn’t see me, then it wouldn’t matter.
I gazed about the room, and my lips parted in awe at the immaculate details. I could only see a small portion of the enormous room. Betty arrived at another set of double doors, dark wood with gold plaited handles, swung them open, and ushered me inside.
Knowing I’d never return to Savile again, I took one last look at the space. I spotted a figure standing behind a dark glass viewing room overseeing the club. It was two stories up close to the ceiling, and it stirred my curiosity to explore this place, like Gunner and I explored the club in Larsson as kids.
The closer I got to the exit, leading me outside into the sunshine, the sadder I became that I was leaving. Savile reminded me of the Kaisers and the love I received from good people on the edge of the law, although I didn’t know this until I grew older and Gunner filled me in on activities that went down.
When we were about ten years old, Gunner showed me a news media article on his phone where an Italian restaurant was shot up, three people were killed, and Gunner informed me proudly that his father ordered that hit.
“How do you know?” I didn’t believe him because he often came out with farfetched stories, and it wasn’t until I was older that I found out that many of his implausible stories were true. As the truth emerged of what and who this family was, my fear and caution grew, and naturally, I started to distance myself from the family that I was indebted to.
“I overheard Dad talking about it with Mikky,” ten-year-old Gunner told me boldly. I’d roll my eyes and laugh, and Gunner would get annoyed that I didn’t believe him.
As I walked down the street in the sunshine toward the bus stop, a woman met my eye and smiled and I realized I was smiling first, thinking about Gunner. Those few years under the Kaisers’ roof were the best years of my youth, and I ruined them.
My smile quickly drained away when I saw myself in the reflection of an Apple store. I needed to buy a new phone and SIM card with a different number to rid myself of that creep in a Scream mask. How did he get my number? Either Shaun or…
Cheetos. Maybe it was Cheetos. I hadn’t seen my twin for a few days, but I hadn’t been to the sports field where I’d seen her twice before, and…it’s weird how she just turned up in the Student Job Search Center and offered to organize a fake ID. Freaky coincidence.
I didn’t have her number, so I couldn’t contact her until she contacted me first. It irritated me that I’d have to give my new number to everyone in my contacts, including the school admin. Maybe I should keep my original number and scare off the creep in the Scream mask another way.
The Scream creep had cooled down a bit with his messaging and I hoped he’d grown bored and moved on to someone else to terrify. Not that I was startled by him, well, I was at the beginning, but now he annoyed the living crap out of me. But what irritated me even more was that I kept checking my phone to see if he’d messaged me.
What the hell was the matter with me? Checking to see if that weirdo had contacted me was deranged, but I recognized the signs of loneliness. I was alone and sometimes sensed the tinges of solitude when I struggled to make new friends because pretending to be someone I was not made me cautious for fear they could see through my disguise.
Petra Black, no, Riley Laws, no, Annika Kaiser or Annika Boyce – my mother’s surname before the Kaisers adopted me. When I was born the stars aligned to give me a hundred and one names and none of them I was comfortable with. What a mindfuck.
It just occurred to me that I wore a mask just like the Scream creep. Maybe I was no different. He deliberately fooled people, just like I did. Perhaps the only difference was that he was trying to scare people, whereas I wasn’t. However, we’re no different.
My bus wasn’t due for another hour, so I walked around the block and found a small square of lawn with a fish pond surrounded by sky-high buildings blocking out the sun. Parked up on a bench, eating roasted peanuts, and checking my phone with salted-covered fingers was a good way to fill in time.
The family that looked after me under the Witness Protection Program still hadn’t replied to my ‘just saying hi’ message I sent two weeks ago. Maybe they hadn’t received it, so I sent it again and then scrolled back over all of the messages Scream Creep sent me. I’d have to be a certified loser to yearn over him, yet there I was rereading every word in case I missed something while self-loathing burned my insides.
When classes start, I throw myself into assignments and schedules, and everything bugging me shrinks into proportion. Less free time means less time to dwell on stupid masked men.
But…how did Scream Mask know that my room was broken into? I only asked the one who wrote TRAITOR on my door. I never stated which side of the door or where the door was. Falling asleep wasn’t easy, even though there was a chain and bolt on my door, so it was impossible to get in even with a keycard. It didn’t stop me from lying in bed staring at the door, imagining the handle moving, and hearing wheezy breath every time the wind blew.
Yeah, it’ll be better once school starts. Maybe, shock horror , I could make a friend like a normal person, and then I wouldn’t spend so much time alone thinking about problems that swell and multiply inside my head.
Savile Gentleman’s Club flashed on my screen, and I scanned my things to see if I had forgotten something, which must be the only reason she was calling.
“Hello?” I answered with great caution.
Betty’s leveled, emotionless voice, “Petra Black, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me. Did I forget something?” I asked, rummaging through my bag for my wallet, then panicking when I couldn’t see my phone. Oh, that’s right, the instrument in my hand that I was talking into. Everything was here.
“Not at all,” her tone warmed which relaxed me a little. “Are you still nearby or have you gone back to campus?”
“I’m sitting at a fishpond a block away waiting for the bus,” I explained, confused by her question since I assumed I’d never hear from her again.
“Oh good. Would you mind returning to Savile to pick up your uniform?” I could hear people talking in the background and the tinkering of glasses.
“Have you got the right person?” I questioned, perplexed. “I’m the one with the glasses.”
“I know which one you are as you were here only ten minutes ago. I’m offering you a job, Petra... a kitchenhand position,” she stated and fell quiet.
“Really? I thought I did terribly at the interview,” I said, then wished I could take those words back.
“Would you like to work at Savile, Petra?” throwing the question out there to clarify the reason behind the call.
“Yes,” I barked when the word caught in my throat, then cleared my throat and repeated, “Yes, please.”
“Great. Fantastic,” she seemed genuinely pleased. “Come back and pick up your uniform and I’ll give you your new work schedule and pay rate.”
“Oh my gosh, thank you so much. I’m leaving now to come back.”
As excitement fluttered about in my chest, I walked briskly back onto the pavement with a big smile on my face, then paused in awe when the old Victorian-style Savile building came into view.
Life was about to take an interesting turn. I just didn’t know how interesting that would be.