Read Original Skin for Free Online Page A

from beneath the bar, and holds it to the vodka optic, gathering up a healthy double measure. He opens the beer fridge and removes a bottle of Holsten. Takes a swig of vodka, then dilutes the burn with the lager. He’s not worried yet, but his mind is racing. He wonders if he will be blamed. How they got in. How they got out . . .
    It occurs to Harry that he has not yet checked the rest of the building. There is another bar downstairs, with a dance floor, pole, and large flat-screen TV where they show pornos to get clients in the mood. Upstairs there are five private bedrooms with doors that lock, and three where the policy is very much open door.
    In the old-school boozer where Harry used to work, there was always a rounders bat next to the till. He wishes he were there now. But there hasn’t been any trouble in the two years he has run the place. The members are like-minded and friendly. They know the rules and play the game. They take no for an answer and leave when asked. Harry likes working here. With two students running the bar and a bouncer on the door for three hours on Friday and Saturday nights, the place works like a dream. At the last count they had more than a thousand members, and there can be upwards of fifty people who make this their regular Friday-night outing, turning their backs on regular pubs and clubs for an evening where they can be who the fuck they like in the company of people who don’t judge, and are grateful for the attention.
    Harry’s mind whirs with the same grinding difficulty as the computer fan. He tries to imagine who would break in, and why they would go straight to the machine. He has had plenty of time to get to know the clientele over the past couple of years, lounging at the end of the bar with a mug of coffee, nodding appreciatively at the lads and ladies in their eclectic wardrobes. He could write a book on the sights he has seen. The people. The pervs. The giant, hairy Asian man in the dog collar and leotard. The big one in the gold mask who made a noise like a heifer in distress when he reached orgasm. The woman in her seventies who had to be helped out of the love swing when her hip came out. The fat lass in the pirate costume who cried rape when one of the four men she was fucking tried to put it in her arse . . .
    He taps the keyboard again, unsure what to do. Wonders about the potential consequences of inaction. Suppose he confronts a burglar? Suppose they have seen the footage on his private files? He can’t afford to be blackmailed. Would simply have to admit culpability to the bosses and look for another job. He doubts there would be charges. But who would target him? He shakes his head and downs his vodka. Perhaps somebody is looking for information. Perhaps a member wants to find out more about somebody who caught his eye or pissed him off.
    Perhaps they want to delete their own information. He knows from experience that members are notoriously shy about giving real names and real addresses, so doubts anybody would think it worthwhile to even try and get a name or phone number for another member.
    His train of thought is derailed by an unmistakable creak from upstairs.
    He closes his eyes, takes a breath, then picks up the nearly empty bottle of Holsten and upends it; a dribble of beer running over the blurry blue ink of his tattooed forearm.
    He pulls open the door to the stairway and peers into the gloom. The cord-carpeted stairs disappear into darkness halfway up, and there is nothing appealing about climbing them. Harry pauses, already half decided.
    There is another creak.
    “Fuck.”
    He puts his foot on the bottom stair. Puts a hand on the banister and pulls himself up, trying to stand on the corners of each step so as not to make a sound.
    As he reaches the top step, the last dribble of beer runs over his wrist. The sudden coldness makes him jump and he lets out a small exclamation, which he follows with a curse.
    Harry knows he has given himself away.