The Sad Man. A Dani Lancing Story

The Sad Man Part 4

 Eight

Saturday 16 October 1999

 

He wears black jeans and a chunky fisherman’s jumper with a leather jacket over the top. Without his uniform he feels almost naked. He gets off the tube at Piccadilly Circus and threads his way through the throng of tourists – each one taking photos where they appear to be shot by an arrow from the statue of Eros, Greek god of love. Tom notes the laughter, the colours – the buzz of being in one of the world’s most beautiful and entertaining cities.

He heads away from the crowds into London’s red-light district, Soho.

It’s half-past one in the afternoon. Sunny, but chilly. The colours seem to fade as Tom heads into the smaller greyer streets. He avoids rubbish and sticky congealed gobs of chewing gum. At night the area blazes but now red lights are unlit and neon signs do not shine or flash, they look drab in the afternoon light though they still offer live girls, sex showsand full nudity. Tom ignores it all – even the many open doors with smiling women – little more than girls, most of them. Some call out to him, others sway slowly to music only they can hear, fingers beckon. Most of them are lovely looking, even those who shiver half naked in the cold. Tom looks ahead, not catching their eyes – he knows how it works. These are the new girls, for some it is their first week. They are the draw – acting like brightly coloured flowers, pulling the drones into the doorway. When the men go upstairs they will be serviced by older, less lovely women – those who have been doing this for years and have lost their lustre. It makes his heart shrivel in his chest.

            ‘It’s awful, can’t you help them?’ Dani-in-his-head asks.

            ‘No. Turn over any rock here and all you find is this kind of sadness, this kind of abuse. I can’t help.’ He strides on, getting faster.

            ‘I wish you hadn’t joined the police.’

            ‘If wishes were kisses . . .’

He turns into Walker’s Court and past the Raymond Revue bar. Two men lie in sleeping bags in the doorway, a small dog between them. Above them a poster announces: Glamour! Tom marches on. Walker’s Court is a thin pedestrian alleyway, an arcade of pornography that spills out into Berwick Street market. Everywhere there are breasts and penises – blown-up in photos or posable in rubber. He pauses before the small door to a shop called Pornucopia. Stuck on the widow, lopsided, is a small printed sign – made-to-order sex toys here. Tom walks inside.

At the front of the shop are racks of books, they are old and dog-eared but none of them pornographic. Mostly they are kids’ books. It is a strange Westminster bylaw that says bookshops can carry a certain amount of hard-core pornographic magazines. So dirty magazine shops carry piles and piles of regular books – nobody buys them, nobody comes in to read them – but they are there. He sees a copy of Black Beauty at the front of a stack. At the back of the shop there is a pile of magazines full of photos of women fellating horses. It is an irony not lost on Tom Bevans.

There are no customers in the shop, just a single sales assistant sitting on a stool behind the counter, reading. He has a large bald head and wears a T-shirt two sizes too small. He reminds Tom of a giant baby. Surrounding the counter are boxes of sex dolls – most are moulded on porn-star bodies and are pneumatically well endowed. Others hold just heads with huge mouths – they look incredibly startled – or vaginas in boxes.

            ‘I’m looking for Finn.’ Tom doesn’t pull out his warrant card, which makes him feel self-conscious.

The giant baby doesn’t even look up from his magazine. ‘No idea,’ he gurgles.