The Doll's House

There were mirrors everywhere, behind the bar, over the bar, on large pillars dividing the dance floor. Large glass chandeliers hung low, glistening in the changing waves of light – blue, red, purple, and an electric mix of black and gold. He spotted a pair of lovebirds stuck into one another at the back wall, the guy’s hand on the girl’s breast. Not yet midnight, and the vibe was already pumping through the roof. Neary’s was the kind of place where you left your hang-ups and crappy life behind you at the door. It was all about the beat, a rapid shift of mood from bloody boring to full-on pulsing escapism. The nightclub, like the front bar, kept you always wanting more, with its mix of locals, wannabes and newbies, all smiling at one another, like prisoners who’d been granted a few hours out of jail.

Stevie wasn’t the kind to hang his baggage at the door, but he’d learned enough over the years to keep it to himself, unless things dictated otherwise. ‘Leave the women guessing’ was his motto. Different strokes for different folks. Most of them only wanted a bit of proper attention. If Neary’s had given out Oscars for insincerity, Stevie would have smiled himself to the front of the line. Not long back, the place would have been packed with cleaned-up construction workers and their fat pockets on a Friday night. Not now. That day was long gone. Still, there were a few survivors huddled at the bar, watching the girls dancing from the mirror angled above them, holding their pints in one hand and ambition in the other. The numbers of well-dressed guys had shrunk too, hanging out somewhere in Negative Equity Land. But Neary’s had an appeal that swelled, despite the changes in who had what money in their pockets. Even in a recession, people needed escape.

Mick and Jason behind the bar, wearing black shirts and pants, were good-looking guys, but not so pretty that they couldn’t drift into the background. Mick gave Stevie a wave, and once he’d received the nod, he pulled Stevie’s pint as another track started up – faster, darker, feeling infinitely more dangerous. Stevie never sat down in Neary’s, not at the bar, not anywhere. Sitting was for the settled, and Stevie made a point of never being settled. He might be in his early forties, but he’d no intention of looking or acting it.

Below one of the high glass tables he spotted long, smooth, tanned legs with silver stiletto sandals. Stevie had a personal fondness for ankles. Good legs and ankles made a woman. It didn’t take his eyes long to travel up to where the hemline of her skirt offered better prospects. He could hear the giggles from some young girls behind him. Stevie had taken them in too, even before he’d placed his order with Mick. Big wavy hair, barely out of their school uniforms, with their pink and purple mobiles, blackened eyes and skinny bodies with big boobs. More hormones than sense, just the way he liked them. He smirked when he thought about young Ruby. They had yet to get fully acquainted, but he had a feeling their time would come soon enough.

Some guys with money were already hovering around them, exchanging looks with each other, perfect smiles at the ready. But they had competition tonight, young testosterone bods – college boys, no doubt with rich parents filling their pockets.

Stevie could never get enough of the place, the music bouncing, flashing lights, loud conversations, laughter, clinks of glasses, some eejit or another shouting or thinking he was the next big thing. Everyone in Neary’s wanted something, and once inside, the gravitational pull of the earth wouldn’t take you the hell out of it. Just as Stevie was thinking about the giggling skirts behind him, figuring they might have to wait for another night on account of Silver Stilettoes, he heard his name called.

‘Hiya, Stevie, my man.’

‘Ah, hiya, how’s it going?’ Stevie had no intention of sticking around for the answer from the fool. He simply smiled, turning as if he was looking to meet someone else.

The guy was one of those eejits who came into the garage: mouth, money and all too fuckin’ clean and pretty for Stevie’s liking. Not one of them understood anything about cars, except how glossy and cool the latest models looked. Stevie had no problem dealing with those suckers in work. They were easy fodder, easily screwed. But here, in his domain, the association wasn’t to be encouraged. He had done the guy out of a fortune last week, told him the suspension was gone in his car. Set the rich eejit back a right packet. It had been like putting a duck into water.

‘Jesus, Stevie, can you not do better than that?’ he’d asked.

‘Like what?’

‘Christ, I thought you were a pal.’

‘Ah, sure there’s only so much I can do – it’s the boss who sets the prices, the one who’s never here.’

‘Exactly, Stevie, so surely we can sort something out.’

‘It’ll mean jigging the paperwork – you’ll have to fix me up direct, cash only, no cheques or any jumpy credit cards.’

‘Sure, Stevie, you know there’s never a problem there.’

As Stevie had walked away from him, he’d muttered, ‘Wanker,’ below his breath, then turned back. ‘Don’t forget to mention me to your mates,’ he’d said, his perfect smile pasted all over his lovely face.