He sees Christopher and nods. London accent, polished edges.
“Evening, gentlemen. In you come.”
Christopher nods back. The bouncer scans us and clocks the weapons under our jackets without changing expression.
“You know how it works. Cloakroom on your left. Weapons stay there, you'll get them back on the way out.”
I hand mine over. So does Henderson. Christopher was carrying too, which surprised me.
The music is the first thing I notice. It’s low and heavy, something with bass I can feel in my sternum. Then the light, red and thick and set low in the ceiling. The bar is long and black, and the bartender is a woman in a backless dress. There are dancers on three small stages, women working the room in various states of undress, and alcoves along the back wall with heavy velvet curtains that are partially drawn.
I don't look at any of it for longer than I need to.
Christopher leads as he knows the layout. We pass the bar. Women look at me, but I gaze past them. Henderson is a half-step behind.
The corridor off the main room is narrower, darker, quieter. Another door at the end, with another man in front of it, smaller but harder.
“Chris.”
“Gav.”
“Mm.” He looks at me and Henderson, then back at Christopher. Shakes his head once.
“No.”
“Gav.”
“You know the rules. Members and guests on the list. You ain't brought guests.”
“Mate. Please. Just radio it through.” Christopher is not charming his way through this, not performing. He is asking.
There is a pause. The bouncer looks at me properly for the first time, weighs something, finds it heavier than he expected. He puts the radio to his ear, turns slightly, speaks low. He waits for a reply, then comes back and opens the door.
The room is quiet after the club. It’s smoky. Small and circular, a round table in the middle, five men playing cards. A single low lamp lights the table. The walls are green silk and the rest of the room is in shadow.
They stop when we walk in, except the one at the head of the table, who finishes his hand, lays it down, takes a long pull on his cigar, and looks at us through the smoke. He must be Vellcottt.
Heavy-set and bearded, with rings on every finger and both thumbs, tattoos climbing out of the collar of his shirt. One in particular at the base of his throat which is a dark shape I can't quite read. He is quiet, but his personality still seems to fill the room.
He ignores Christopher, sizing me up. “Lads,” he says to the table, without looking away, “have a breather. Go and see Nina at the bar, tell her to make you something nice.”
The other men push back their chairs, gather their chips, and go. No complaints. Two of them look at me on the way past, but neither of them meet my eyes. The bouncer closes the doorbehind them, and I hear the lock turn. My heart beats a fraction faster.
Henderson's shoulders don’t move, but I know he has heard it too.
Vellcottt sits back and rests one hand casually on his thigh. The other is under the edge of the table. He shifts slightly, and his jacket falls open just enough to show me the shoulder holster and the weight of what's in it, then gestures at the chairs opposite him.
When we don’t sit, he gets right into it. “So.” His accent is East London, pulled through a cigar. “You must be the older brother.”
“Yes.”
“You know what your brother did, don't you?”
His patronizing tone grates me. “He accumulated a debt.”
Vellcottt taps his cigar into the crystal tray and lets the silence sit for a moment before he speaks. “See, the thing about my business, and I run a very particular kind of business, Mr Ravenscroft, you know that, that's why you're here. The thing about my business is it runs on one thing. Respect. That's it. That's the currency. People come through my door, they play, they enjoy themselves, they settle up on time. Everybody eats. Everybody's happy. My girls get paid. My boys get paid. The people above me, they get their piece. Everybody's looked after.” He slows his speech to emphasize his last line. “And it works because everyone respects the arrangement.”
Vellcottt takes another pull on the cigar. “But your brother here—and I'll say this for Chris, I've always liked him, he's good company, he tips the girls properly, which you'd be surprisedhow many of you lot don’t. Your brother has been taking the piss. Six weeks. Six weeks I've been waiting. Polite reminders, polite conversations, polite, polite, polite. And what have I had back? Nothing. Not a pound. Not a word. Silence.”
