The Girl Who Had No Fear. Marnie Riches

down the street in sequinned hot pants. Twenty seconds in, he realised she was holding the hand of another girl. ‘I can’t even dance. And I’ve got psoriasis.’

      They stood together outside the club, staring at the two bald bouncers on the door, who were chatting animatedly to a group of bearded men wearing make-up. The taller of the two bouncers refocused his attention on Elvis. The beady-eyed stare of a man who made snap judgements about other men for a living.

      Feeling stripped naked, Elvis blushed. Dropped his gaze back to his paunch and took out his phone. There was a text from the carer, marked urgent, asking where Mum’s incontinence pads were hidden.

      ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he told George, texting,

      bathroom cupboard above hot water tank

      with a practised thumb. ‘I should be at home with Mum. She’s really not got long left.’ He sighed heavily at the thought of having to say goodbye to the only parent he had left. A once-robust woman who had been reduced to a frail husk. Inside three months, the doctor had estimated. He would have to deal with all the admin, alone. And clear her place, alone. Oh, and bury her too. He had been able to think of nothing else for a year. Knew he should be over the moon to get away at all and spend some time as an unencumbered thirty-something man with no responsibilities. But he wasn’t. ‘Nightclubs aren’t really my thing, either.’ Touching his hair, where George had gelled it into spikes, rather than a quiff, he felt a stranger to his own skin. She had made him trim his sideburns to conform with ordinary proportions. ‘Or men. Obviously.’

      ‘Sorry, man.’ Patting him on the shoulder, George offered him a cigarette, which he took gratefully. Lit her own and exhaled thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got so much on your plate. And a needle to find in a haystack. We both have.’

      ‘What do I even say? Or do? I don’t want to …’ He looked up at the rainbow flag; followed the line down to the muscular, perfectly groomed men who chatted animatedly to the bouncers beneath it. Winced.

      ‘Look, Elv— Dirk. You’re in the workplace,’ George said. ‘Just try to make conversation with the men in there. That’s all that’s expected of you, right? Ask about drugs. Dealers. Anything unusual. The sort of detective work you do every day of the week. How is this any different?’

      George had the keen focus of a woman who knew better than most what to look out for on a busy street scene. Not a cop’s eye, Elvis assessed. But the intuitive gaze of someone who had lived on the other side and could easily sniff out the shifty, the disingenuous and the downright illegal. ‘I wish you could do this and I could be the barman in a nice, easy straight club.’

      George guffawed with laughter. Pointed to her simple black jeans and T-shirt. ‘I’m hardly dressed for a night on the town.’ Patted her bosom. ‘And I’m lacking the correct kit, let’s not forget.’ Checked her watch. ‘Listen. I’ve got to go. My shift starts in five and I don’t want to be late on my first night.’ She squinted into the near distance. ‘So, there’s squad cars parked up if there’s trouble?’

      He nodded. ‘You know the number to call.’

      He didn’t like the way it smelled inside. Air freshener and beer and testosterone. The stairs leading down into the club were sticky underfoot, lit with blue neon treads. Every time he passed a man, he felt certain he was being checked out. He held his stomach in, conscious of having the figure of a man who ate too many frites with mayonnaise, sitting for too long in the pool car on stakeouts or tending his mother and compensating for the stress with the cake he had bought to fatten her up.

      At the bar, he was careful to order just a Diet Coke, though something stronger might have helped him through this hell. Should he ask the barman about drugs? Too obvious. Was the barman giving him a funny look? Had he already sniffed him out as a straight cop? Elvis opened his mouth to ask a question but realised there were men standing behind him, clamouring to be served. He would never be heard over the din of dance music, anyway.

      After twenty minutes of scanning the dancefloor to get a feel for the place, wondering why the hell middle-aged bearded men might want to drag up and wear full make-up, like bad pantomime dames, Elvis decided to be brave and head to the toilets. Remembering that his prejudices were founded only on his late father’s bigotry and that nobody was likely to try to bone him unless he asked. Nobody would probably want to bone him, anyway. He found himself unexpectedly saddened at that thought.

      ‘Oh, Olaf’s such a silly bitch! Guess what? He went to the hairdresser’s and asked for—’

      ‘Fuck off, Jef. I don’t need you telling everyone about my grooming disasters.’

      ‘I don’t need to tell them. They can see for themselves, you daft cow!’

      Overblown gales of laughter ensued.

      Standing at the urinal, Elvis listened to the inane banter of three of the most catwalk-ready handsome young men he had ever seen, gathered around the sinks where they were primping their hair. What would they be talking about had they been straight? Football. Obviously. And they wouldn’t have congregated in the stinking toilets. There was a rhythmic knocking sound coming from one of the cubicles. Hastily, Elvis zipped his trousers and left without washing his hands.

      Perching on a balcony above the dancefloor, he scanned the club for signs of drug use or dealing.

      ‘Hi!’ He was startled by a man’s voice bellowing in his ear. ‘I’m Frank. What’s your name?’

      Blushing in the dark, Elvis swallowed hard. Was he being hit on? Thought of a name that was neither Dirk nor that hateful damned nickname that Van den Bergen had bestowed on him, now inextricably linked with his professional persona – Elvis. ‘Antoon.’ He reached out to shake Frank’s hand. Frank, a balding boulder of a man who clearly ate iron for breakfast, laughed nervously, raised an eyebrow and shook his hand. Firm but sweaty.

      ‘Very formal, Antoon,’ he said. ‘So, what brings you here? You’re new.’

      Elvis opened and closed his mouth. Half-relieved that he was being hit upon. Appalled with himself that he wasn’t sure where to go with this conversation. ‘I’m from out of town,’ he said. ‘I just fancied coming out. Kicking back. You know?’

      Frank started to laugh. Stroked his cheek. Elvis shrank away from his touch and folded his arms across his chest.

      ‘I spy a man in the closet!’ Frank said, smiling. ‘Are you married? Fancied a walk on the wild side?’

      ‘No, it’s not like that,’ Elvis said, feeling the sweat pool around his armpits and pour into the waistband of his jeans.

      ‘Ah, shy?’ Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggie of white powder. ‘Fancy a bit of chemical courage?’

      This was more like it. ‘Maybe,’ Elvis said. ‘Is that coke?

      ‘Yep. I’ve got some meth too, if you’d prefer.’

      ‘Cool. Where did you get it?’

      ‘Why?’ Frank’s brow furrowed.

      Stop acting like a cop, Elvis chastised himself. You’re undercover! This is not an interview down the station of a door-to-door. Screw this up and Van den Bergen will never respect or trust you again. ‘I hear there’s a bad batch going round. You can’t be too careful.’

      ‘Oh, I think this is good gear,’ Frank said. ‘My dealer is the go-to man in chem-sex circles.’

      ‘Chem-sex?’ Elvis gulped.

      Frank ran his forefinger down Elvis’ sweaty chest, over his moobs and gut, which he could no longer hold in. What the fuck should he say next?’

      ‘There’s been a couple of guys from the scene died lately,’ he said, reasoning that if the newspaper had printed stories about the canal deaths, then it was fair game. ‘Aren’t you worried?’

      Raising an eyebrow, Frank smiled and leaned seductively against the balcony.