The Betrayed Read Online Free PDF Page A

much busier than the previous night. Nearly all of the private dining rooms were occupied, with the parties in full swing. Rosie went over to Reception and didn’t have to wait long for the next punter to arrive. A large, thespian-looking man, his face almost totally obscured by his wide-brimmed hat, signed himself in. Obviously a regular, he walked right up to Rosie and, with a dramatic and exaggerated wave of his hand, theatrically demanded, ‘Take me to the Hard-On Room!’
    The Hard-On Room was a magnet for gay men from every walk of life. If you have the compulsion – and more importantly, the money – then anything goes. It was, for a certain sector of society, an extremely fashionable, fun and funky place to spend an evening. With its contemporary, subterranean feel, and live stage acts, it was always busy.
    Rosie ushered the man and his enormous hat into the room and saw that tonight was no exception, it was packed. Strewn around the plush interior, like disregarded, damp towels on a bathroom floor, lay half-naked men, ogling the special stage act. Rosie averted her eyes as she led the excited toff to the bar for a glass of champagne. The bar was four-deep with flouncing revellers, with handsome young men in leather thongs, serving the vastly over-priced champagne to rich closet queens. A handsome, dark-skinned, twenty-something Adonis, Mikey – one of the regular club boys – handed a glass of champers to the man in the hat, who then disappeared off to watch the action on the stage.
    ‘How’s the new job?’ said Mikey, flashing a pearly grin.
    ‘Don’t you start,’ Rosie said, half-shouting over the blaring music. ‘This is my last night, so make the most of it.’
    ‘Do me a favour, Rosie darling,’ said Mikey, nodding over at the end of the bar. ‘Take that bottle of Cristal to booth number five. I’m run off my feet here.’
    Rosie gave him a wink and took the tray, with the champagne and four, tall-stemmed glasses, and made her way down the dimly lit corridor to the booth. She paused for a moment at the door, and reminded herself that whatever she felt about what was going on inside, she mustn’t let it show on her face.
    ‘Champagne’ she called, knocking gently at the door.
    After knocking again, there was still no reply, so she eased the door open, being careful not to upset the tray. On entering, despite her little pep talk, Rosie couldn’t stop a gasp from escaping. It was a sight so shocking, even by the standards of the Keyhole Club, that she felt the blood drain from her cheeks.
    In the room were five men. She recognised one of them instantly – Pascal, one of the pretty boys who worked at the club. He was no more than a boy, really. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. He had a ball strapped in his mouth, and his eyes were wide with pain and fear.
    One of the other men was holding Pascal’s arms, two others held his legs outstretched, while the fourth man, who was stripped to the waist, was having his fun. The floor was littered with empty bottles and a variety of sick sex toys. And, on the mirrored table were thick lines of cocaine, rolled up bank notes… and a hat. A familiar hat, in fact. A leather, pork pie hat which Rosie instantly recognised as the exact same sort of hat that Hate-’em-all-Harry always wore.
    If the hat was all that Rosie had seen, she might have left the booth and dismissed it as a coincidence. But then she noticed something else. The man with his back to her, having his fun, had a large Celtic cross tattooed on his massive, hairy back. Johnny had the exact same Celtic cross – with ‘Eddie’ written underneath it – on his back. Rosie had often thought it was a shame that Johnny had chosen to have the name of his psychotic twin-brother needled into his flesh.
    A voice inside Rosie was screaming at her to get out of the booth, but curiosity got the better of her. She leaned forward and, peering into the dim light, she saw, tattooed under the Celtic cross, one