Discoredia, page 2
The others knew who he meant.
* * *
They met him over the Internet. He was one of those people you talk to on the forums but never expect to meet, but meet him they had. He said he split up with his girlfriend, needed a good night out, was planning on going to Rottrave, and wanted to know if he could tag along. They said he’d be welcome to join them, told him which ferry they were catching, and arranged to meet. He seemed nice, and introduced himself as Wayne rather than his online moniker of Techno667, and they spent the night in the bar before heading to their rooms. Alison nearly got off with him but the rolling motion of the ship had coupled with the Bacardi and cokes she’d been knocking back, the resulting queasiness stopping the drunken romance dead in its tracks.
A day in Amsterdam had followed with an exploration of the coffee shops being favored over the more cultural delights of the Van Gogh museum or a visit to Anne Frank’s house. And then they had caught the coach back to Rotterdam and gone to the rave. It had been an awesome night, until the early hours of the morning when everyone had been kicked out. They lost Wayne by then; the last time they’d seen him he pointed out some dude in a Feyenoord shirt, and said he’d sold him the best pill on the planet. They looked for him outside but he was nowhere to be seen. Then again with the crowd that was milling around it was like looking for an Iraqi W.M.D., a thankless task.
The rumors were flying, a rape, a murder; they hadn’t known what to believe. Besides, the four of them were well wrecked. Once they’d gotten a grip of themselves they’d taken a taxi into town, loitered around until McDonald’s opened, had something to eat, and spent the afternoon in a bar watching Ajax vs. P.S.V., a crap game that ended nil-nil.
They fully expected him to be on the boat when they caught it that night but he wasn’t. Rich proclaimed that he was probably sat in a bar somewhere, stoned, with no idea of the time, and wondering where they were. Alison had an alternate theory: she thought he might have pulled; she seemed to think he was pretty fit.
They waited for him through the doors to the ferry, watching the procession of stag and hen parties, young couples, people of all shapes and sizes, creeds and colors, but Wayne wasn’t amongst them. Alison reported him as missing at the Customer Services desk, but they set sail from Europort on time, the Captain apparently refusing to wait for someone he “guaranteed” was either wasted on pot or shacked up with a hooker. They wished they had his mobile number, but they never thought to exchange numbers. They didn’t even know his surname.
* * *
Brian’s question at the breakfast table went unanswered, and after picking at their meals, they headed for the ferry’s Duty Free. Alison stocked up on D & G, Rich went for a crate of lager, Brian bought his mother a bottle of Baileys, which he’d put aside until Christmas, and Jess bought a giant Toblerone. She said it was for her Dad; they all knew different. Back to their rooms to pack and then to the lobby to wait to disembark. The atmosphere within the group seemed subdued, as if somehow they knew something was wrong. The four of them had been friends since nursery, but for once, none felt able to really talk to the others, it was like a funeral, where family who haven’t been in touch for years daren’t show how pleased they were to see each other.
“Disembarkation in ten minutes,” said a voice over the tannoy, before repeating the message in Dutch, French, and German.
The ten minutes seemed more like ten hours. Perhaps it was the comedown from the drink and the drugs, they certainly had plenty of both over the weekend. The only conversation was stilted. “Can’t wait to get home,” “Need a bath,” “Are your ears still ringing? Mine are terrible,” “I feel rough as a badger’s arse.” The ship’s doors opened, the boarding ramp was in place. The four of them walked down it toward the Terminal. Was it cannabis induced paranoia or were the crew watching them? What was that Steward saying into his radio?
They passed through customs, past the police with the sniffer dogs. One of them took an interest in Rich but his clothes reeked of gear so what can you expect? The handler let him pass anyway. Even if he had been stopped he wasn’t bothered, he finished the last of the resin they’d bought in ’Dam on deck before breakfast.
Then someone approached. “May I have a word?”
He was in plain clothes but his manner screamed police. He held out his left arm, the four of them looked over, looked into an office where they could see an older man in a suit. They also noticed the two uniformed officers that stood by the door. It was clear they had no choice. Besides, what did they have to hide? They hadn’t done anything wrong. You were allowed to take drugs in The Netherlands weren’t you? All at once they weren’t sure. Was it legal or did the Dutch turn a blind eye? Surely they weren’t going to be busted for smoking dope in Holland; it was what Holland was there for. Rich, the youngest of the four, but also the most feisty, decided to ask, “What’s all this about?”
Detective Inspector Sellers, according to the badge he flashed at them, answered, “Just a few questions about your friend Mr. Thomson.” They assumed he meant Wayne. “He was involved in a particularly nasty incident over the weekend and you may be able to help our enquiries.”
CHAPTER 3
“Environmentalists were dismayed today when they lost their battle to prevent the opening of Discoredia, the new super-club that will hold its first event in three months time, as scheduled, on New Year’s Eve.
Set in the heart of twenty square miles of forest, the six thousand capacity club was granted a license for four all-night events per year at today’s council meeting. Objections stating that the traffic, noise, and crowds, associated with these events, would irreparably damage this area of outstanding natural beauty, combined with concerns that dealers and junkies from throughout the country would descend upon the area, were rejected.
Speaking at the meeting, club owner Warren Charlton answered his critics by reminding them that, without his investment, the site would still be littered with scrap vehicles, burnt out caravans, and refuse left by the large group of travelers that were evicted by the council over two years ago. Councilman Clive Preston agreed that the council had not had the funds to carry out the necessary clean up operation and been reliant on assistance from Mr. Charlton. However, he denied accusations that this swayed the Council’s initial, controversial, decision to allow the club to be built, and also today’s decision to grant the venue its operational license, pointing out that the environmental impact from such a small number of events per year would be negligible.
After the meeting, Denis Fielder, speaking on behalf of the Against Discoredia Action Group, argued that local businessmen should use their resources to help the community without expecting something in return. He also suggested that Mr. Charlton should have cleaned up the site and allowed it to revert back to its natural state, rather than building a ‘Disneyland for Druggies’.”
* * *
The TV fell silent and the weary smile that played across Warren Charlton’s thin, pale lips said it all. He’d won. After 18 months of hard work, in the face of some extremely stubborn opposition, he had won.
For Steve Lang this was the most relaxed he’d seen his boss in those 18 months. The building of the club, themed as a castle, had taken its toll even though it was, in essence, a simple construction of girders covered in wire mesh and rendered with cement carved to look like giant blocks of stone. The cost soon run over a budget that was already well past a hundred thousand. The fit out of the interior had hardly gone smoothly, with further expense incurred at every turn.
Admittedly, Warren wasn’t short of a bob or two. His town centre club Valhalla was the club of the moment and riding high on hardcore once again as the height of fashion. But could he afford to waste that much if today’s decision had gone against him? The losses would be huge. On top of that would be the money he already paid out to artists booked for the opening event, not to mention outlay on advertising, flyer and ticket printing, and all the other costs involved in putting on a large-scale event. Steve had, in fact, heard that Warren could have been forced to declare himself bankrupt if the decision had gone the other way, but he doubted things were quite at that level. Besides, wasn’t it Bob who provided that particular snippet of information? How come toilet cleaners always seemed to think they know everything? He often wondered if they bugged the bogs.
If someone asked Steve, and he knew them well enough to give an honest answer, he would have to say that, personally, he felt that Discoredia would never turn an actual profit. Christ, they were only looking at four bloody events per year. And the potential for additional trade, conferences, and the like, was merely an afterthought. Secondary ideas, on which next to no work had been done, and little was planned. Nevertheless, it was Warren’s dream, and if the losses were offset by profits elsewhere then the acceptability of it all was his call, and his business. When all was said and done he could’ve bought a football club and lost his money that way. There’d been a zoo owner Steve read about in the paper a few weeks ago who’d done just that, a story that made him stop and think. The poor sod lost so much coin he committed suicide by jumping in with his own lions.
Eventually Warren spoke. He’d spent the past couple of minutes lounging on the large, wine-red leather sofa that dominated the front half of his office. Apparently he was studying the game of chess they had been playing for the past few days, but more likely considering what he’d seen and heard.
“Disneyland for Druggies? What a prick. Must’ve forgotten we had to ditch the rides when the glass roof went over budget. Y’ know Steve, it would’ve broke my heart to refund the money we’ve made on advance ticket sales if them council bastards hadn’t done as they were told. All’s well that ends well though, eh? Cunts.” Warren always used “we” and “our” to refer to the business, despite the fact that “I” and “my” would be far more accurate. His use of profanity had also increased in recent weeks, as it always did when he was tired and under pressure.
“Guess so. We’re almost at capacity already, aren’t we?” said Steve, who had a habit of speaking as though his stake in the company exceeded that of an employee. As the Head of Security, and one of the people who actually seemed close to his employer, he admittedly saw himself as more than a basic member of staff. But still, that wasn’t exactly a directorship was it?
“Yeah, keeping some back for sale on the night as usual, but we’re almost there.” The tiredness in Warren’s voice was clearly noticeable. “Mind if we continue this game later? Need to collect Shelly, then I think I’ll have an early night so I can get stuck into things tomorrow.”
“No problem,” said Steve. He was glad to get off, particularly after starting work early today. He’d driven Warren to the council meeting and then back for a celebratory whisky. They’d limited themselves to one each, although it had been at least a double, since they would both be driving later. As for leaving the game, of which Warren had made a single move since they arrived, he wasn’t fussed. He wasn’t even that keen on chess, more often than not he lost, and this game was certainly heading that way. It did help take Warren’s mind off things, and since it seemed that he was the only member of staff who could put up a bit of resistance playing wise, he was challenged most frequently. For Christ’s sake, it wasn’t surprising, really. Alex Oddball struggled with draughts.
“See you tomorrow then,” Steve continued as he rose from the other sofa, picked up his jacket, and made for the door. If Warren were taking an early night he would expect a report on the night’s business, plus the takings, by ten o’clock tomorrow at the latest.
“Aye, ’bout ten yeah?” Warren asked without needing to.
“Sure,” Steve replied from outside the door as it swung shut.
* * *
A split second later the door clicked shut leaving Warren alone with his thoughts. As he looked at the back of the door he considered how he had come to rely on Steve over the past few months. He was certainly a good guy to have around. He had a sharp wit at times and a surprising intellect for a five foot ten, and almost as wide, “brick shithouse” of a man. Fair enough, there was no denying that he was the kind of bloke who could break your arm before you’d finished the thought, I’m gonna twat ’im. With his close-cropped grey hair and fondness for black clothes, he was more than an adequate fit for the stereotypical door supervisor, or bouncer, in layman’s terms. But behind his gruff exterior Steve had a love of nature programs, he worshipped Attenborough, and had extensive general knowledge. Warren genuinely appreciated the fact that they could talk about more than work. Steve’s slightly shady background also made him keenly streetwise, and it was this particular attribute that had saved Warren’s skin on more than one occasion, most notably, when he first started out in this business. For this he was eternally grateful. Still, much as he liked Steve’s company, he was tired, and sometimes it was nice to be alone.
Once Steve’s footsteps down the stairs faded away, Warren turned his attention to their game. He studied the board and pieces for a couple of minutes, the silver figures based on Arthurian legend, and picked up Merlin. He’d lost the piece a couple of days earlier to one of Steve’s pawns, but no matter. This had been a deliberate ploy to expose Steve’s queen, Morgana le Fey, and they were into the endgame now. As he turned the piece in his fingers he studied the detailed features of the legendary wizard. The face on the piece looked wise, which he supposed was a compliment to the designer. He felt himself wishing he could wave a magic wand of his own and make it New Year’s Day, with his inaugural event over and deemed a resounding success.
Perhaps he could’ve done things a bit cheaper? Surely there was no need for the office, with its wooden paneling, concealed cupboards, and walk-in safe. There was even less need for the two full sets of armor, one with a broadsword, the other a battle axe, which flanked the glass door that led onto the tower’s castellated battlements. The solid silver chess set, the 50″ Sony TV, which doubled as a PC screen, and the imported Italian sofas, had all cost thousands of pounds each, rather than hundreds, and were again, unnecessary. The aquarium that filled the corner behind, and to the right, of his desk, was also far from being essential, and the bonsai trees, growing from the gaps in the themed concrete that encased the aquarium, were another extravagance, being direct from Japan, not the local Garden Centre. True, they provided a welcome distraction from his work, and studying their painstakingly slow growth helped him take time from his hectic schedule, but again they were a luxury, not a necessity. In fact the office was as well furnished as his home, a reflection of the amount of time he currently spent at each.
Putting Merlin down he walked to the aquarium. Taking a pinch of food from the silver pot by its side, he sprinkled it over the surface of the water, watching each of the fish come up to feed. That daily task complete, he picked up the water bottle next to the fish food and began to spray the leaves of his miniature trees. The daily ritual usually helped him unwind, but today it was just another job that had to be done. He needed sleep.
He was well aware that the whole idea of building a castle in the middle of the forest solely for the purpose of holding a bi-monthly rave, reduced to quarterly, was a preposterous concept. Las Vegas, or closer to home Blackpool, maybe… but here? It had been a crazy idea from the start, but hadn’t he gone a little crazy after losing Elle? He had, and he knew it. If he hadn’t thrown himself into the project what would he have thrown himself into? More drink than he was already using to block out the pain? More drugs than the dabbling he’d indulged in since his teens? A river?
His inability to find the lunatic, who randomly decided to slaughter the only woman he ever loved, ate at him like a virus that couldn’t be shaken off. The Lord (if he existed, and on this he was unsure) knew he tried, via all of his contacts and all of the avenues his money opened up for him, both legal and not.
Still, he was over the worst and he still had Shelly. It was hard to look at her sometimes, she was so like her mother, but it was for her that he carried on. She had no idea how much she was worth. Even if he was forced to declare himself bankrupt, due to the turreted folly he stood within, there was enough money to ensure she never wanted for anything. An extravagance Discoredia may be, but he was still keenly pennywise and far from a fool with his money.
Thinking of her broke him out of his reverie and he checked his watch. Time to go. It would take five minutes to get from the highest of the four towers to his car at the other end of the courtyard.
Home straight now, he thought, and straight home as well.
CHAPTER 4
Christopher Beasley was desperate to score. To be fair, he was always desperate to score, but on this occasion, he was more desperate than usual. And not only was he desperate but he was pissed off, cold, and as the drizzle drifted down from the heavens, starting to get wet. He was far from happy.
The Halloween all-nighter at Valhalla was only two days away and everywhere was dry. No Es and no speed. How the hell was he going to manage the best part of twelve hours dancing frenetically to high volume techno without a pill and a little ’phet? It was nearly five o’clock, a full four hours since he dragged himself out of bed, and so far all he had to show for his efforts was a damp hoodie and a runny nose. His first port of call had been Ste Hump’s. Not in. Then he tried Stu Wilson––good ole Stu-shclin shared a joint with him but that was all; he was keeping the rest of his stash for himself. Kev Porter, out. Archie Logan, in bed with the flu. Even Jimmy Walker didn’t have anything and according to him no one did. “Beasley old lad, it’s as dry as a nun’s minge,” had been his exact words. So here he was, walking halfway across town, the rain getting heavier, his hoodie and jeans wetter, and his nose runnier. He wiped it on his sleeve and pressed on.
