The Siren's Code

Madame Jojo's

A heady mix of mother and mistress, Madame Jojo was a lady of indeterminate age but utmost discretion. Her eyes seen to the depths of so many souls she was wise alright but happy to keep her stature and morals under one of her many silk throws as she relieved others of theirs for a non negotiable fee; there were few men, or women for that matter, who wanted a wise woman as they unwrapped their secrets, dominant perhaps, but not wise. She must be loaded, Jay thought though as he approached the small snakewood door, unassuming if you didn't know what you were looking for but exotic if you did, and the hardest wood around, "not by chance," Madame Jojo may add you if you ever thought to ask.

He wondered why she didn't retire on her gains from the downfall of others, her boudoir never touched by no one, not the police, state or gangs, she must have something on everyone, a web of immortality deeper than the furthest corners of the dark web.

She didn't judge of course, treated each client with the respect they may or may not deserve, and gave them what they wanted, but Jay didn't go in for the weird shit. At least that's something he thought as he reached out to bang the door knocker – nothing fancy just a nipple with a ring – but you never needed to, as with everything at Madame Jojo's the door was opened to you, calm, discreet, welcoming.

Walking down the dark corridor the fragrance hits you like an old lover. So familiar, yet arousingly exotic, the forbidden fruit of human desire. The walls adorned with a framed history of scandal dating back at least a hundred years, from the banana wars, to assassinations, coups, debt write-offs. Photographs of dignitaries, dictators, freedom fighters. US soldiers, Russian generals. To leak other's secrets would be to admit one's own dark secret, so there they stayed suspended in a clandestine vacuum.

The reception was probably once a brightly coloured room, every inch painted and decorated from the faux pillars with green lotus flower trim, to the ochre ceilings and red walls. Gold cornices, bamboo panelling, treasures adorned the wall, ornaments across the furniture, all subdued with years of dust. As always he was asked to remove his shoes and add them to the pigeon holes by the door.

He sat on a velvet chaise longue pulling off his sweaty socks, consumed by a place so full of misdemeanours that you and yours could slip nicely in. Books worthy of the British Library, a Tibetan dorje and singing bowl, a rocking horse, Ming vases, Faberge eggs, a blue diamond and musgravite necklace – everything that should probably be in a more righteous setting, a reflection of the people who frequented her hospitality perhaps.

Behind the reception desk was a bar, where one could wait as if waiting for their table to be ready at a restaurant, bottles of absinthe, tequila, and ancient rum, but the dust on them suggested most were past that stage, they would sip tea and wait quietly for the main event, whether your poison be physical, mental or a combination of the two.

He wondered if Remi was aware he was taking on a brothel when he became proprietor of the island. He imagined as far back as Spanish Conquistadors, Pirates and Padres rubbing shoulders in this murky underworld. The interiors a tribute to those who could not pay or never left alive, the antiques and ornaments keeping secrets or their own, further back even than Madame Jojo. But as far as he knew she hadn't lost anyone yet on her watch.

An elephant foot vase filled with peacock feathers and silk flowers, so out of place in this world but so fitting in this place, Aztec masks, Mayan carvings, silk kimonos. One day, if she is in fact human at all, they will taxidermy the Madame herself and her boudoir will attract collectors and aficionados from far and wide, come to see where history has been hiding.

As he was beckoned through into the womb like inner sanctum, lit by the glow of orange lanterns, the air thick with stale bodies, old smoke and a rich musky incense, his internal noise started to dissipate, like a snake shedding its skin, he glided over the dark wooden floorboards onto the threadbare Persian rugs, all genuine he had no doubt, lead by his hostess to his designated safe space; a thick futon raised off the floor, with tubular bolsters at one end, in faded opulence.