Discoredia, page 4
Sixty thousand pounds? That was a lot of money and a serious amount of investment for a marketing exercise at a single event. Hell, it equated to ten pounds per ticket. It would also make a nice addition to his bank balance.
“Mr. Charlton? Perhaps you have a gap in your schedule next Friday?” there it was again the soft, slow, deliberate voice that had been so hard to say no to even before the golden carrot of sixty thousand pounds, in cash, had been dangled before him.
“Yeah, sure.” Warren agreed without checking his diary. He had taken the bait and was being reeled in. Had it ever been in question that this meeting would take place? When he looked back on the call he would doubt it. What did these guys, Dylan and Woodrose, want? It didn’t seem to matter. They would pay. He would agree whatever. He shook his head as if to clear it. What was wrong with him? Bloody wake up and concentrate.
“Three p.m., Mr. Charlton?”
“Yeah. Fine. Thanks.” He agreed again, like a robot following its commands, obeying its programming.
“Fine. That’s excellent. We shall see you on Friday, Mr. Charlton. Thank you for your time.” The phone went dead.
Warren walked over to the cupboard that held his supply of spirits, and poured himself a Whisky. Downed it. Neat. Poured another. To this one, he added some ice and then held it. He was driving soon so he put it down again. Why did he feel like he needed a drink so much? He must be overworking. Mr. Dylan had a quiet voice and he had been nodding off whilst talking to him. That must be it. Overtired. Fatigued. In need of an early night. He went to his desk. Three in the afternoon on Friday, well what do you know, the only spare time he had that day. Stroke of luck, eh? He wondered what on earth this looocrative proposition would turn out to be and what it would involve. Drugs came immediately to mind. It had to be something illegal when there was that much money involved, in cash. He’d get Steve to sit in, in case things turned ugly. It would be nice to pocket sixty grand but there were limits to what he would get involved in and he could always say no. Or could he? Yeah, of course he could. He could always say, “No.”
CHAPTER 6
The meeting was something Warren could do without. An unnecessary hassle in an already annoying day. It started well enough. Tickets had been sold out for weeks, acts confirmed, preliminary sound and light checks completed that very morning, and a few final touches made to the main hall decor. Such a shame it had all gone wrong after dinner.
First the agency providing the stilt walkers, fire eaters etc. called to say they had double booked, loosely translating as, We’ve been offered more money elsewhere so will you match that? The small matter of a signed and sealed contract made little difference when referred to. A threat to never use them again, and to ensure that every promoter in the country heard of their incompetence, turned out to be a more effective approach. This small matter rankled him enough, but the meeting with the Environmental, Health and Safety, and Licensing Officers from the council had been the true cause of his irritated demeanor. Noise restrictions and a request to see a full list of the door supervisors headed a long litany of, to his mind, interferences in his business. He was confident that a call to Councilor Preston, who, for a fat bastard, sure fit well in his pocket, would ensure that the authorities were directed to concern themselves elsewhere. But still, two bloody hours he’d wasted with them, and they’d already taken up Steve’s morning by snooping around and asking stupid questions. Perhaps he should give Steve a raise? He was certainly more of a right hand man than just a Head of Security. He dismissed the idea, Steve seemed happy enough and he hadn’t asked for more money so why pay it? A moderate sum as a New Year’s bonus if all went well would be a cheaper option. A five hundred pound bonus, cash in hand, sounded a lot better than a ten pound a week raise to be shared with the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Thinking of money brought his mind back to the meeting. Two forty five––they would arrive soon. The money was the prime reason he agreed to meet with whispering Mr. Dylan and his employer (or had it been the compelling, mesmerizing voice at the other end of the line?), and it would make giving Steve a bonus a lot easier, but something didn’t seem right. No businessman gave away sixty grand for access to a crowd of ravers, especially when most would be too battered to know what was going on. His gut feeling was that the meeting would be a waste of time and he would have more chance of the Dali Lama turning up to stomp along to a Producer and Scorpio back to back than of ever seeing the color of this Woodrose bloke’s money.
Looking out of the glass door behind his desk he considered going outside for some fresh air. The layout of all four towers was the same, the top floor smaller than the other three levels, with doors leading onto the battlements from which you could see for miles. His hand rested on the door handle but he decided not to venture out; it was too cold. Besides, he wanted a good look at his two guests before they got their eyes on him.
As if their arrival had been bidden by his thoughts, a large black car emerged from the cover of the forest and entered the car park. Looked expensive too, but it was difficult to tell the marque from here, something classy though, a Bentley or a Jag. From his vantage point, he lost view of the car as it pulled up directly in front of the gatehouse, but he knew that Steve, who would have seen them approach from the security office above the main entrance, would be with them before they had opened their doors.
There they were, three individuals coming through the entrance and crossing the courtyard toward his castle. Steve was in the lead followed by a tall thin gentleman who walked with the ramrod straight back of an ex-serviceman. Comparing him to Steve, Warren guessed he must be at least an inch over six foot and the way he walked made him look like the guy who led funeral processions, was that the undertaker or did they have another name? No matter, that’s what he looked like, whatever they were called, and his white hair only complemented the image. Behind him was a far less impressive specimen of a man. Short and podgy, and taking three steps to his employers one, Mr. Dylan, it had to be. He looked like the perfect man for administration and the wrong man to have watching your back in a fight. Like Mr. Woodrose, his hair was white, but rather than the perfectly maintained short back and sides of the man he followed, his looked more wispy, curly even, and definitely thinner. The small round glasses he wore only served to highlight his bookish appearance, and despite both men wearing white shirts, dark ties and black, possibly navy, suits under long black overcoats, he didn’t think they could look more different.
With that, his visitors passed out of view as they walked through the large double doors, complete with ominous portcullis suspended above, and into the main hall. From there they would either turn left to use the toilets, or right into the ground floor of the south tower, up a flight of stairs to the VIP lobby, and up another flight of stairs to the office. After mentally completing the journey, Warren sat behind his desk and waited. The knock at the door came within seconds. They must not have needed a piss after all, he mused.
The first thing that struck Warren about Mr. Woodrose was his skin. Pale as alabaster, and almost as translucent, his face looked like it was wrapped in tissue paper rather than body tissue. The blue veins in his temple stood out like the motorways on an ordnance survey map, and their rhythmic pulsing was made all the more pronounced by the solid set of his eyes and mouth. The perfect styling of his hair, and ruler straight parting, only served to enhance the throbbing of his veins even further. While Mr. Dylan appeared out of breath after climbing the stairs to the office, Mr. Woodrose, who was clearly the older of the two, looked more as if he had teleported into the room, than come in from the blustery weather outdoors. The second thing that grabbed Warren was Mr. Woodrose’s hand, and its coldness. He didn’t notice him walk across the room, let alone extend his right hand, nor had he realized that he was standing and extending his own, but the cold, he couldn’t avoid noticing that. The handshake chilled him to the bone, the blood in his veins turning to ice and spreading the chill all the way to his shoulder.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Charlton. Hector B. Woodrose,” said Woodrose as he released Warren’s hand from his glacial grip.
“Yes, pleased to meet you, too. Welcome to Discoredia.” All very formal. Had Woodrose shaken Steve’s hand out there in the car park? He would have to ask later.
“This is my assistant, Mr. Dylan, with whom you parlayed on the telephone.” The voice was clipped, the pronunciation precise.
Thankfully Mr. Dylan was keeping quiet. If Warren remembered rightly he had a voice that could easily put you to sleep. Dylan also failed to offer his hand, another thing for which Warren was thankful after his recent experience. Instead, Dylan’s right hand remained thrust in his pocket, and his left clutched a briefcase, which evaded Warren’s inspection of the two gents as they traversed the courtyard. From his viewpoint, it must have been hidden by the man’s body.
“Please, take a seat.” Warren gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. Steve remained standing by the door. He looked uncomfortable and that made Warren uneasy; perhaps he had shaken hands with Mr. Undertaker after all. Steve also had his hands behind his back, as opposed to clasped in front of him, and that was definitely a bad sign. It meant he was keeping the extendable baton strapped to the small of his back within a moments grasp. What on earth had got him so spooked by these two? They were almost geriatrics for pity sake.
The few moments Warren had been allowed to assess Steve’s stance had been afforded to him while Dylan and Woodrose took their seats, but moments were all they were, as Woodrose looked Warren straight in the eye and made clear the fact that he was waiting for his host to speak.
“So then gentlemen, what can I do for you? Mr. Dylan here couldn’t give me much information the other night.”
Woodrose continued to look straight into Warren’s eyes. For a man who disliked eye contact at the best of times, this was akin to torture. He settled for focusing on his visitor’s tie and the gold pin that held it in place, hating himself as he did so, dismayed at the fact that he was allowing his body language to show such discomfort, particularly here, in his own office. But Woodrose’s eyes seemed to be looking beyond his own, into him rather than at him. The cold, hard, stare of his visitor was simply too intense for him to meet.
“Mr. Charlton, I have been led to believe that your forthcoming event will be the event of the New Year. The best attended, the most high profile, and the most talked about. In accordance with this, I wish to distribute, free of charge, as a brand building exercise, a new chemical variant of MDMA, which has been developed by my very own chemists, and upon which we have bestowed the moniker Pandemonium. If you allow me to distribute these pills at your event, I shall pay you the sum of sixty thousand pounds. What is your answer?”
The bluntness of the approach left Warren stunned. Here was this man, whom he had never set eyes on before, offering him sixty grand to allow him to give away drugs at his club on New Year’s Eve. He may have expected something odd from this pair, but this? This was random beyond belief.
“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. We have a zero tolerance policy toward drugs here at Discoredia. All of our guests are searched upon entry and anyone found with illegal substances in their possession have such items confiscated and if suspected of dealing, reported to the police.”
“A well rehearsed reply, Mr. Charlton. Also, if I may say so, rubbish. A reply more suited to those jobsworths whom we passed on the way here perhaps?” Warren raised his eyes as his guest spoke, but dropped them like a child being reprimanded for telling a lie.
After a brief pause, possibly a moment to savor Warren’s clear discomfort, Woodrose continued.
“Your club plays a type of music so closely associated with drug culture that if you prohibited their use you would be cutting your own throat and heading for the bankruptcy court at a more accelerated rate than you already are. I am also more than aware that, in return for turning a blind eye, you currently take a cut of the profits made by ‘authorized’ dealers, most of whom I have already spoken to, and agreed compensation levels with, for perceived loss of earnings should you agree to my proposal. I sincerely hope that the afore mentioned sum will be more than adequate compensation for yourself?”
Again, Warren was stunned. Who provided Woodrose with such details? Or was he prying, making some lucky assumptions in the hope of glimpsing the truth? Steve’s uneasiness was becoming more evident by the minute, and Warren was sure he was thinking along the same lines. After all, it was his contacts that allowed them to set up such arrangements. And why not? He couldn’t stop the dealers for the exact reason Woodrose stated. The punters demanded the drugs and if they weren’t available they would go where they were. From this, it was a simple extension of logic to decide that, if it was going to go on in his club, he may as well take a cut. And why would he want to stop the dealing anyway?
Warren always had strong views on the drug issue. He had plenty of experience with drugs in the past and it hadn’t hurt him in any way. Besides, he wasn’t condoning the use of the real nasty stuff like heroin or crack. In his mind the drug laws were archaic and failed to reflect society in the 21st century. Why could someone go out and get drunk, but not go out and get stoned or pilled up? Which was most harmful to the individual? Too close to call, but since both are harmful in excess, why the difference? Which was most harmful to society? Why not ask a battered wife or child? One nil to drink on that one. Let’s bring back prohibition and legalize E. It sounded ludicrous, but when you thought about it, it made sense. Or at least it did to Warren. Town centers full of youths shaking hands and bouncing around rather than beating hell out of each other. Certainly seemed preferable to him. And the clincher for the politicians? Tax. They would make a fortune from an E tax, more than enough to pay for some hospital beds for those who overindulged and fucked their liver. Besides, people had been using drugs for millennia, so why all the fuss?
All of this, however, was academic. His immediate problem was the cold-handed fellow sat opposite. “Like I said…”
Mr. Woodrose raised his hand and Warren ceased mid-sentence allowing his guest to cut in.
“Perhaps you need some reassurance that I am not trying to trap you into incriminating your good self? Mayhap you suspect me of being in league with the authorities? Let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. Please allow me to demonstrate. Mr. Dylan. Your hand.” The last four words came out as a snarl.
What happened next made Warren Charlton go as pale as the man who sat opposite. Not only that, but he was nearly sick over his own £900 oak desk.
Mr. Dylan, who was sweating profusely, gingerly removed his right hand from his pocket. Immediately Warren noticed not only the handkerchief wrapped around it, but also the blood. Mr. Dylan slowly unbound his hand, folded the handkerchief into quarters, and leaning forward, placed it on the desk. He then placed his hand upon the square of cloth and spread his fingers, or at least, the three that were left. His little finger was a stump ending mid-way between the knuckle and first joint. The wound was fresh, the blood dark and clotted. Warren’s gorge rose in his throat.
“You see I recently took a little sabbatical. Went away for a while. Some of my minions doubted my return and overextended themselves a little. Increased their salaries without the correct authorization. I’m sure a businessman like your good self can understand one’s displeasure at that. Fortunately, for him, Mr. Dylan here still retains some usefulness in the eyes of his master, and as such has been spared the fate of his less valuable colleagues.” Woodrose was licking his thin lips at the sight of the blood. Licking his fucking lips. “But if you should be caught with your fingers in the till then you shouldn’t be surprised if the till closes and they get trapped, should you Mr. Dylan?” There was no reply.
Reaching into his pocket, Woodrose took out a pen. At least, Warren believed it to be a pen. It wasn’t. A thin blade shot out from the handle of a flick knife––gold, engraved, beautiful, but undoubtedly deadly. “You like it, Mr. Charlton? A beauty, isn’t she?” Woodrose was staring at him again, and Warren felt unable to tear his eyes away, despite wanting nothing more than to do so. Woodrose’s pupils were black like oil––black, but with a moving sheen of color.
“I purchased it in Japan.” Woodrose continued. “The blade is made from folded steel like the swords of the ancient Samurai. Unbelievably sharp.”
Without ever taking his eyes from Warren’s, Woodrose gave a flick of his wrist, the knife shooting out to his left. In one deft move he removed Mr. Dylan’s thumb from the rest of his hand. The whole operation––with surgical skill like that it could be called nothing less––was over in a fraction of a second, and the knife was back in the confines of the pocket from whence it came.
Mr. Dylan was more animated than at any time prior to his amputation, but rather than screaming or crying out he simply began to tidy up the mess his hand had become. He carefully wrapped the handkerchief around his newly mutilated hand, and newly independent thumb, and thrust it back in his pocket before a drop of blood soaked through onto the desk.
“Now get back to the car and put that on ice with the other one. If you are lucky, we may save them. Don’t dawdle on the drive back.”
Woodrose was smiling. The crazy bastard actually seemed cheerful. Mr. Dylan made for the door and left. Warren decided to increase Steve’s bonus to around thousand when it became clear that, rather than follow, he was staying right there. It never crossed his mind how strange it was that Steve had shown no reaction to what transpired, that he had remained rooted to the spot as if petrified.
“So you see that I am most certainly not an undercover police officer. And don’t worry about Albert. He’ll be fine.”
