Captives Read Online Free PDF Page B

white plastic letters. Beneath that someone had blue-tacked a piece of paper which bore the legend: NO PISSING ON THE TOILET SEATS.
        The corridor smelt of stale urine and cheap perfume. It was a smell Scott had come to know well in the last few years.
        'Where the fuck is Rick, anyway?' Scott wanted to know. 'This is the second time this week he hasn't come in. I've got better things to do than argue the toss with punters.' He smiled at his unintentional joke. Zena didn't see the humour in the remark. She raised her eyebrows indignantly and pushed open the door which led into the main area of 'Loveshow' and stalked in, Scott following.
        The music that had been a dull thud in his office now enveloped him, roaring from the speakers mounted on the wall.
         '… Our love is a bed of nails.
         Love hurts good on a bed of nails.
         I'll lay you down and when all else fails,
         I'll drive you like a hammer on a bed of nails…'
        Zena grabbed Scott's arm and pointed with one long finger towards a balding man sitting in a corner, hidden for the most part by shadows.
        'That's him,' she snarled.
        'Okay,' murmured Scott, nodding. 'I'll handle it now.'
        'Don't forget about my stockings,' Zena bellowed after him, shouting to make herself heard above the roar of the music.
         What are you going to do, sunshine? thought Scott as he approached the balding man. Get mouthy? Get scared?
         Let's see.
        

EIGHT
        
        The floor show in the club couldn't have been more aptly named.
        It consisted of a large double bed raised up slightly on a platform no more than six inches high. On two sides of the bed were nine or ten armchairs, each one faded and, in places, threadbare on the arms. Facing the bed, three sofas had been placed end to end. One was leather but the material was so cracked and worn it might as well have been draylon like the others. There were low coffee tables in front of each seat. The carpet, also worn, was dark brown to hide stains more easily. The walls were only slightly lighter and these were decorated with more framed pictures of girls, older than the ones in Scott's office. One or two were yellowed at the corners; one had even come free of the frame and a corner was turning up slowly. Customers were presumably supposed to be excited by the prospect that the girls in the pictures would actually be performing for them but, as one of the pictures featured Marilyn Monroe, that wish was at least a little vain.
        The balding man was sitting in an armchair beneath a photograph of a girl holding a kitten. He didn't seem to notice Scott approaching him; he was too busy looking around.
        There were about six other customers dotted around the place, drinking the warm beer and the grossly overpriced shorts. One man was in conversation with a hostess; she talked animatedly to him while sipping a Coke cradled in one hand and, with her other hand, trying to free the material of her knickers from the cleft of her backside.
        On the bed in the centre of the room two young women writhed in the throes of practised pleasure, chatting to each other as they rubbed vibrators across each other's breasts, their voices drowned by the music.
        A man in his early twenties, a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, sat staring raptly at the two girls on the bed, his right hand, jammed into the pocket of his jeans, moving beneath the material.
        Scott glanced across at the goings-on for a second then turned his full attention to the balding man, who had finally spotted him. Zena sat down beside the man and glared at him.
        'You owe the lady some money,' said Scott, his face expressionless.
        'Why?' said the man, looking first at Zena then at Scott.
        'Because you bought me a drink, then you did that,' she rasped, jabbing her nail in the direction of the