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still felt twin trickles
of sweat making their ticklish way down my spine and between my
breasts and hoped they wouldn’t leave damp patches on my
blouse.
    Glancing down,
I cursed, noticing a run in my left stocking and prayed it wasn’t
visible from the front. I patted my hair to make sure it hadn’t
escaped from its neat chignon. I’d taken a lot of care to make sure
I looked respectably presentable. I had a feeling that first
impressions would be important in this position.
    The door flung
open suddenly, startling me. A small, sharp-faced teenaged Goth
stood in the doorway, so androgynous in appearance that I had to
heads-or-tails in my mind over whether it was a girl or boy. I
chose boy, but I wasn’t one hundred per cent confident in my choice
as there were no discernable lady or man lumps to give me any
decisive clues about gender. He stared up at me through his
carefully sculpted jet black fringe, thick black kohl encircling
his big, pale blue eyes. He wore black skinny jeans, a belt studded
with small silver skulls, a striped black and purple t-shirt and
chunky black combat boots. His left ear held six silver piercings,
his right ear five, and his nose three. He wore a silver skull ring
with red jewelled eyes on his right ring finger.
    “Hi,” he said
in a friendly voice, “you must be . . .” His eyes dropped to his
hand where I could see something scribbled in black pen. “Ms
Chalmers, right? I’m Niq. That’s Niq with a Q, by the way”.
    No help there
even. That could be a girl or boy name. “Very pleased to meet you,
Niq with a Q,” I said politely.
    “Follow me,
please.” His voice was also decidedly ungendered – not too deep for
a female, not too high for a male. The boy/girl led me down a
hallway to a lift and repeatedly stabbed the up-button with a
black-painted nail. I thanked the heavens for the building’s frosty
air-conditioning and stole a surreptitious look around me while we
waited. The walls were bare redbrick and the floors polished but
well-scuffed dark hardwood. A stairwell led both up and down
stairs. Besides the front door, there was only one other door on
that level, and it remained firmly closed. There were no paintings,
rugs or plants. It was pure jailhouse and as quiet as a tomb except
for the clunking and clattering of the lift slowly grumbling its
way down to us.
    As we waited
for the lift, the inner door was thrown open and four of the
biggest men I’d ever seen in my life spilled out into the hallway,
laughing at something one of them had said. They were tall,
broad-shouldered and seriously muscled. They were dressed
identically in black polo shirts with a gold H embroidered in script on the pocket, tucked into black cargo pants,
with black utility belts around their hips and the same black boots
that Niq was wearing. The four men stared at me with open curiosity
and I smiled at them sweetly, eyes huge with sheer astonishment at
their size. They looked intimidating, but nodded at us with a
reassuring affability as they passed.
    “Guys,” Niq
acknowledged indifferently, barely casting his eyes in their
direction. They didn’t notice, their eyes fixed on me as they
clumped downstairs. The word SECURITY was plastered across the back
of their polo shirts in gold lettering. As I watched their
retreating backs, they all threw me flatteringly attentive glances
over their shoulders as they left. One of them turned back a second
time to give me a cheeky wink. I decided that I liked this place
already.
    The lift
landed with a thumping shudder and the wooden doors slowly opened
with an agonising screech. We stepped in and Niq repeatedly pressed
the button for the second floor. The doors reluctantly closed. A
nervous energy seemed to radiate from the little Goth as he chewed
on a thumbnail while staring up at me intently through his fringe.
He seemed, not hostile, but strangely excited by my presence. What
was that about?
    “You look like
that chick in that lame ad. You know,