Secret Skin Page 2

  She was smiling again. Laughing quietly.

  ‘What?’ I asked, smiling back.

  ‘Many of my men do this, justify why they are here, with me. My wife doesn’t understand me they say. Always the sex is so bohh-ring!’ laughing again as she mimicked her clients.

  ‘Perhaps you just need to fuck someone else eh? Get yourself going. Are you sure that’s not why you’re here?’

  I smiled my answer. She waved her hand. ‘No matter.’

  ‘So can I ask you some questions?’

  ‘Yes, okay.’

  I had a list of prepared questions, but still slightly unsettled, I rattled them off as if it was my first day on the job. ‘What is your real name? How old are you? Where are you from? How did you get here? How much do you earn? Do you have a pimp? Where do you stay? Do you have a work visa?’

  She grinned and shook her head. Then stood up and walked over to me. ‘Okay David,’ she said covering my notepad with her hands. ‘Enough. You have so many questions. Ask me next time.’ She pulled me up by my elbow, ‘Now you go. I have to show my face. People will be looking for me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Next time, we already take longer talking than three men take fucking.’

  ‘How will I contact you?’

  ‘You won’t. Give me your card. I will call you when it is quiet.’

  ‘When?’ I asked rummaging for a business card.

  ‘We will see, morning is better. Oh David,’ she said, ‘don’t forget to kiss me on the way out.’

  ‘What? Why?’ I said, as she pulled open the door.

  ‘You never know who is watching,’ she whispered.

  She held my face, pulled me close and our lips touched. A sharp tug of desire pulled me in. Lost for a moment, I closed my eyes and then heard her say, ‘You’re a regular client now David. You must act like one.’

  When I opened my eyes I was looking at the closed door of the apartment and standing in an empty corridor, feeling alone but unexpectedly content.

  Chapter Two

  The Media Rooms were the place to network. Its restaurants and bars took up the first and second floors of a business hotel at the heart of Dubai Media City and in the cooler months the rooftop as well. Drunken editors would commission more work there in one night than in a month of carefully crafted pitches. A debilitating hangover seemed a reasonable price to pay for such enjoyable efficiency.

  A successful free trade zone, Media City allowed foreigners 100% ownership of their business. This included me, operating freelance, a solo entity servicing the needs of tax free companies and corporations that couldn’t retain staff. A common problem as the over-inflating city hit the peak of its first building boom.

  Downtown the half built Burj rushed to become the world’s tallest tower and the headline grabbing Palm Jumeirah geared up for its soft opening. Marketing slogans described it as the eighth wonder of the world. Locals believed these worn out claims without reservation, blind to earlier projects that already cracked and crumbled back into the sand.

  Bigger always equaled better in Dubai, but if you wanted to grow outside the free zone you needed a sponsor from the local population.

  The sponsor retained 51% of your company and there were countless horror stories of people investing in these deals only to find that when they wanted access to their capital the sponsor had already cleaned out the accounts. Unless you had wusta – quite simply power, influence and the right family name – you had a gambling addict’s chance of ever seeing your money again.

  In the financial free zone the Emiratis had even created a British legal district so that international investors could feel confident doing business there. Nice idea, but the local exchanges still wobbled like a drunk on a tight rope.

  ‘Oi, Bryson!’ shouted Martin Newman above the heads of the fashionable rooftop crowd. A long-term British expat from the old school of darkies, danger payments and denial he would have liked a beard on his aging baby face. Instead, he wore the cracks and wrinkles from too much drink and sun with boyish pride. Compulsively competitive and with a generous inferiority complex, he was likeable but often highly annoying.

  ‘Bryson! Pull up a pint and tell us what you’ve been up to with those whores of yours.’

  Every woman within hearing distance glared at me.

  He was also the editor of Arabian Outlook. The magazine destined to publish my wonderful exposés of Dubai.

  ‘Hey!’ I called back, explaining to those nearest to me, ‘It’s just research honestly. It’s not what you think.’ The tuts and disdain quickly disappeared as my audience returned to talking about themselves and sucking on the straws of their overpriced cocktails.

  ‘And don’t come over here without a Heineken and a Chivas from the bar, not if you want to work in this town again,’ he yelled.

  ‘Yeah. Right. Of course.’ I muttered under my breath, cursing him. I contemplated telling him where to stick his drinks, and then bought them anyway. I needed him.

  ***

  ‘So tell me again, what car do you drive?’ he said, already slurring his words. He grabbed both drinks from the tray in my hands and downed the whisky.

  ‘A dodgy hire car Martin. You already know that.’

  ‘Yeah!’ he said, booming, even managing to pronounce the exclamation mark. ‘Yeah that’s right. It’s purple isn’t it?

  ‘It’s a black and red mini cooper Martin, it’s a modern classic.’

  ‘It’s a poof’s car!’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I said, ‘if you don’t watch out I’m going to come out of my closet and shove my dingaling right up your jacksie.’

  ‘Ha, ha, haaaa!’ he boomed again, ‘Give as good as you get son, go on.’

  A fair haired and healthy twenty-something sat quietly next to him. He was obviously trying to impress her. Normally he would have taken more offence.

  ‘Hello,’ I said to her. She smiled politely.

  ‘This is Verity. She’s lovely. Australian. And bloody talented. She’s the new deputy news editor over at City Syndication.’

  We smiled again, acknowledging each other, both feeling awkward as Martin swayed back and forth.

  ‘Did I ever tell you how me and your boss….’ started Martin.

  ‘Carl,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the fella, we used to drag race round the back of Spinneys. We’ve got the same car you know. We used to work together you see, in the Sudan. We go back a long time me and him.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, another statement posing as a question.

  ‘Yeah, you know, we even did the Paris-Dakar Rally one year. Fucking laugh that was. Gonzo wasn’t the word. You should have seen the bar bills! Fuck me, they were massive, you know?’

  Not really sure who he was talking to we both mumbled agreement. I pointed over his shoulder and said, ‘My goodness, look who’s here.’

  He turned to find out who and shouted, ‘Oi, oi!’ at nobody in particular.

  ‘Hey’, said Verity, while his back was turned, ‘Are you David Bryson?’

  ‘Yeah. Why? What’s the old fart been saying?’

  ‘Oh nothing, ignore Martin, he’s just pissed.’

  ‘No kidding,’ I said inspecting the back of Martin’s head as he boomed at random strangers and laughed to himself about old times.

  ‘No, Carl was talking about you today. He described you as “a safe pair of hands.”’

  ‘Wow,’ I said, genuinely surprised. ‘You mean I actually have a reputation?’

  ‘He wishes he could offer you more work, but he says they don’t really have the budget for freelancers.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that story. They do have a budget but it’s not anything you could make a living from. It’s always a scrabble for the pennies in this game.’

  ‘Oh Christ, I know what you mean,’ she said with an appealing Aussie lilt. ‘I was freelancing back in Sydney until I took this gig.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Just ov
er three weeks.’

  ‘So how do you like Dubai, the shopping mall state?

  ‘Well, it’s trying to be Miami without the vice…but it’s more like a Disneyland for adults.’

  ‘Welcome to the Arabian Dream,’ I said. She considered this for a moment, raised an eyebrow, and then lowered her voice as if conspiring against the fashionistas around us.

  ‘You know, in my interview, the CEO asked me what I’d do if a local slapped me in the face during a meeting.’

  ‘You’re shitting me?’ I said. She shook her head. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I’d slap the bastard right back. The CEO wasn’t too impressed. Carl loved it though.’

  ‘I bet he did.’

  ‘He hired me on the spot.’

  ‘Good on him, and good for you.’ I said raising my glass to a mutual clink.

  ‘How about you?’ she asked.

  ‘Two summers, one winter…no slaps yet. Christ that first summer was hot though.’

  ‘Presumably you have a card?’ she said, offering me her own.

  ‘Sure.’ Everyone from cleaners to imams had a business card in Dubai. With such a transient population it was the only way to remember who was who. We swapped cards in a brief but playful tug-of-war.

  ‘Oh ho, what’s this, chatting you up is he?’ said Martin. ‘Well keep your mitts off him Verity, he’s got a job to do with a bunch of ho’s for me,’ and like a pair of embarrassed teenagers I stumbled over Verity’s protesting words and she stumbled over mine.

  ***

  A few drinks later Verity was being schmoozed by someone far more attractive, sober and wealthy than either Martin or me.

  ‘Ah women,’ Martin said. ‘I love them, but they just don’t love me. Boo hoo fucking hoo.’

  ‘Don’t worry old son, I hear there’s a secret underground club in the desert where affections can be negotiated at very reasonable prices.’

  ‘That’ll be next to the secret burial ground for illegal abortions then?’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that one; supposedly contractors are getting twitchy about what they might dig up the further into the desert they go.’

  ‘The rumor mill never stops turning here does it?’

  ‘Five star Arabian gossip beats sweat shop Chinese whispers any day.’

  ‘Hah! So, hookers,’ he said, ‘tell me.’

  ‘I’ve got someone lined up already,’ I said, ‘You’re still covering my expenses right?’

  ‘Sure, but you’ll need your wits about you for that, my boy, don’t go sticking your dick in any of them.’

  ‘Martin for somebody who publishes one of the most well respected, right-on magazines in the Middle East and Europe, you’re a bit of a social bulldozer.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s just a product Bryson. Don’t take it so fucking seriously. It sells well, that’s the main point. We give people what they think they want, something that seems new and different and authoritative. Then, by being popular, we receive fat gobs of revenue for all the advertising we sell. And I get a new car.’

  ‘What do you drive again?’ I said.

  ‘A second hand piece of shit. Hey fuck all that. Guess who’s back in town?’

  ‘I give up.’

  ‘Vladimir Orsa. Apparently he’s in Dubai, doing a little business.’

  ‘He’s the one that wants to be Nicholas Cage in Lord of War right? Back door arms dealer.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So are you going to do an exposé on him?’

  ‘Bugger that. I want to do some business with him.’

  ‘You’re a wonderful man Martin. I’m inspired.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ he said laughing, gesturing to an already overwhelmed waiter for yet another round.

  Chapter Three

  The following morning my penance was a headache, nausea and dehydration. As atonement I poured an unforgiving amount of coffee into a mug and nursed it to the beating heart of my business empire, the spare room.

  The half hour of clarity caffeine gave would help me deal with any lingering jobs and the energy to respond to emails that might be waiting from other time zones or early rising clients. Then I could go back to bed.

  By the time the computer’s operating system got going so had I. Virus software automatically scanned and sorted the emails that trickled into my inbox. The pleadings of penis extenders, Nigerian bank scammers and promoters of naughty nubile nuns went directly to the recycle bin along with all the old friends urging me to sign up to Facebook.

  Bandwidth hogging PR emails of political handshakes, celebs and business men – all tomorrow’s news – took a detour to the PR folder and were ignored.

  A reply to a feature pitch on Dubai’s property standards from a British broadsheet demanded my attention. ‘Too populist,’ they said, ‘try the tabloids.’ Inevitably if I sent it to the tabloids the response would be, ‘Too high brow, send it to the broadsheets.’

  I’d been pitching these worthy story ideas for a fortnight and so far failed to entice any editors to open their check books.

  I’d work on it though, make it right.

  Then two late payment excuses arrived from household name publications I irregularly wrote for and fouled my lazy morning after mood even further. Never again I swore to myself and fired off revised invoices with added late payment charges.

  Only one other email landed in my inbox but the forwarded subject line read like a warning. As it was from an existing editorial client I had to open it, the next job could come from anywhere.

  From: Joe Thompson (Editor)

  To: David Bryson

  Subject: FW: Where are you?

  Bryson,

  Sunday’s article was well received but I’m not your social worker. If you’re having problems with your family please deal with them direct. Keep the ideas coming though.

  JT

  -----Original Message-----

  From: The Brysons

  To: Mr. J. Thompson

  Subject: Where are you?

  Dear David,

  We saw your byline under an article on Middle East tourism at the weekend. Is that where you are now? I had a hell of a time persuading the paper to give me your contact details, of course they refused, data protection act or some such nonsense. I won’t go into things too much here son, not on an open line, just to say this:

  You didn’t have to leave.

  We miss you.

  We’re here if you need us.

  That’s it. Your editor said he would forward this email.

  We’d like to hear from you just to know that you are safe. Please respond.

  Love Dad (and Mum).

  How simple, how effective. My editor would only see a sweet loveable father and a concerned but not overly pushy mother.

  Whereas I knew instantly, even cut off by more than three thousand miles, that my manipulative bastard of a father and the kinky peroxide bint he’d dumped my real mother for were after something. As usual.

  I would never let them back in. They always seemed so polite, so mild mannered, so caring. But they hid behind a façade of respectability. They shared little apart from blind ambition, spite and the hoarding of status symbols, at any cost, even the children, their only collateral with any redeemable value.

  From: David Bryson

  To: Joe Thompson (Editor)

  Subject: Nuisance emails

  JT,

  Your first instincts were right, they are not who they say they are, add them to your spam lists and tell reception to deflect their calls. How do I know this? I spoke to my folks yesterday. I don’t know who these freaks are.

  I’ll have some more ideas for you in the next few days.

  Best for now,

  DB

  I stared blankly at the screen as the email left my desk and maneuvered its way through cyberspace.

  Contact from my father, I didn’t need it or want it. I knew at some point I’d have to deal with him again, a composed couple of hours in the far future perhaps
, when I could talk to him without wanting to hurt him.

  Maybe one day, but not today.

  I closed my eyes, stilled my thoughts and focused on controlling my erratic breathing instead. My diaphragm rose and fell in jerks and then began to move more easily with each mindful breath.

  Even the simplest meditation works wonders for worry, but then I always neglected to do the things that were good for me. After much gentle persuasion my inner moppet finally let go. I savored the early morning warmth on my skin and the delicious yearning for sleep that hid beneath the tension.

  Then a shrill vibrating twitter disturbed the tranquility. My mobile phone mangling the film score to Friday the 13th. Some baby faced souse had obviously tampered with its ring tones during last night’s session.

  I looked at the screen. It said: Holy Joe. Answer?

  Irish but not catholic, unmarried but not gay, if Holy Joe hadn’t become a charitable missionary he would have made a good debt collector. Probably the reason why the Christian schism he worked for had sent him to Dubai, their spiritual bailiff.

  A regular around the building sites and docks he always stuck up for the little man: he’d pull truncheons out of policemen’s hands or put his face in front of them when the worker–management synergy broke down. Out of hours he sipped OJs and hustled pool in the old school expat bars where the engineers and roughnecks hung out. Over time soft spoken Joseph Hayes became Big Joe, then Holy Joe once they found out what he did for a living.

  Liberal Dubai allowed non-Muslim, non-Jewish, churches their own little ghetto on the edge of the desert. But if they tried to convert anyone they faced jail or deportation. It made sense, the administration needed the foreigners to do the work but they didn’t want their beliefs to infect the citizens and give them the idea there were alternatives out there.

  His call meant only one thing, a story. The hangover would have to wait.