One hundred and eighteen

At ten p.m. Rosario left her apartment and made her way through the backstreets to work. Dressed in a flowing blue silk dress and matching heels, she was wearing her best paste earrings, with a full length woollen coat to keep out the cold.

The pianist wasn’t feeling well. She was upset after the brawl down near the port. But, like everyone else at Club Souterrain, she knew it was the one night that she had to turn up. The last Thursday of the month was when the club’s owner was there.

The curious thing about the club was the secrecy that surrounded it. The staff were forbidden ever to discuss the day-to-day running practices, the clientele, or what went on behind the steel security doors at the back.

Everyone knew there was an underhand side to the business, but no one had ever told Rosario what was really going on. She knew almost nothing about the Falcon, except that he was a gentleman of means, who preferred to keep to himself.

As the pianist climbed down the staircase from the Hotel Touring in her heels, Saed was leading Ghita and Blaine to a manhole cover in the Hyatt’s parking lot, a crowbar stuffed down his shirt.

Assuming they were hotel customers, the guard at the gate had greeted them with a smile, and got on with his work.

Forcing his full weight down on the crowbar, Blaine managed to dislodge the iron cover. It came away with ease, as though it had recently been removed.

A tubular shaft descended into the earth. It was awash with cockroaches and spider’s webs.

Blaine shone his torch down the hole.

‘There are handles,’ he said.

‘I’m not going in there,’ Ghita whimpered. ‘Not for anything.’

The American touched a hand to her arm.

‘Not even to get your old life back?’ he said. ‘Not even for your father?’

Saed went first, his small hands swinging from one rung to the next.

Then it was Ghita’s turn. She let out a pained squeal as she went.

After her, went Blaine. He struggled to pull the manhole cover back into place before lowering himself down the shaft.

The further they went, the more the cockroaches, until there were so many that they all melded into a seamless seething landscape of them. Taking his lead from Saed, Blaine switched off the lamp and allowed his eyes to adjust to the subdued light.

They descended for five minutes, until they reached the main sewer pipe. There was a residue of pungent sludge at the bottom.

‘It’s raw sewage,’ said Blaine.

Ghita gagged, and moaned a little more, but coaxed herself to be brave.

‘I’m pleased I didn’t wear my Jimmy Choos,’ she said.