The Midnight Club

CHAPTER TWO - Two Hours Before Midnight

THE BEAU

The text arrived two hours before midnight.

Unidentified Number

Location A, 40m. PC, F, Age 27. 50.

I rubbed my eyes, then stared. My thoughts snagged on the last number and my mind went quiet.

50?

A mistake. It must have been a typo.

In seven months I had never received a mistaken text. Everything about the Midnight Club's administration was precise, controlled; it was only the rendezvous nights that brushed against chaos. But that number—a knot formed in my stomach—was too high.

I waited. The tick of my clock filled the room.

No new messages arrived.

I deleted the text, my limbs heavy with dread.

PC, priority client. They must be important: the sum was five times more than a regular night. Who is she? I pushed the thought away and stood. It was better not to know.

I had to hunch so my head wouldn't smack the ceiling. My room was crushed into the corner of my apartment building's tiny loft. The ceiling was slanted, choking the room. Book stacks and sparse furniture competed for the rest of the space, leaving a sliver of wooden flooring between the desk, the bed and the door.

Offering a room like this was likely illegal, but I was grateful for it. The landlord charged little.

I crossed the small space to the wardrobe, then shifted folded clothing to reveal the black and gold box in the corner.

The walls of the room were thin enough that I could hear the couple in the apartment next door. They were quiet tonight, but soft murmuring still filled the silence.

Something hollowed out in my chest when I opened the box.

The suit within cost more than anything I owned. More than a year's rent. More than two years' rent. More than full meals for eighteen months. The items I was required to use throughout the week—the moisturisers, skin masks, vitamins, gels—alone could cover meals for years. The cologne could cover a month's rent for the entire apartment block.

They were 'leased', tools provided to an employee.

That's what the Midnight Club was all about: feigned extravagance. Sleek veneers, lacquered on wealth. Performances.

Dressing didn't take long. My body moved automatically, slipping on the sleek suit, latching the cufflinks, slicking back my hair; arranging my features into a blank mask.

A part of me was bothered by the fact that putting on the costume had become so easy.

For the briefest moment, I glanced around the room and felt like a stranger.

Soft laughter seeped through the walls.

I left the apartment.

It took seven flights of stairs to reach the ground floor. The stairs were old, and the wood groaned with each step. Sound leaked out of the apartment doors that lined the walls of each floor. Voices and laughter, mixed with the drone of televisions. I pictured families gathered around screens, ensconced by the warm glow of lamplights.

A gust of cold air hit me as soon as I stepped outside. I welcomed it; it forced my mind back to the task at hand.

The last few months had been strange—at some point, a cotton wool sensation had settled over my thoughts, and had never left. It made it difficult to focus. The feeling intensified on rendezvous nights. Moments like this became blurred, hard to remember.