Kissing the Dragon - Prologue. Prologue

Scanning the dimly lit corridor of the motorway services motel a second time, the man takes a deep breath before rapping a leather gloved knuckle on the door to room 1201. Soft sounds of movement come from inside, and he plasters a copy of an airport purchased Spectator magazine against his chest. The door opens a fraction, wide enough for a pretty but baffled male face to peer at the publication before raising his eyes and taking in the man. After a moment’s evaluation the expression relaxes and, stepping back, the younger man swings the door wide. Without speaking, the man slips into the room as the door snaps shut behind him.

“It’s seven-thirty. You’re over an hour early,” says the young man. A statement: neither irritation nor judgement.

Lounging seductively against the back of the motel door he is offering the newcomer an evaluation. Check out the goods, so to speak. Apart from close-cropped peroxide blond hair, yellowing at the tip and darkening at the roots, and a badly executed tattoo of barbed wire around his right forearm, he is stunning. Eyes of emerald, aquiline nose and plump lips, he could have been a catwalk model had life’s fortunes been more favourable. Lean but not skinny, he has to be in his early twenties, lithe and well proportioned. Dressed in ripped denims and a simple tight white vest that does not quite meet his waistband, he knows how to dress for effect, to accentuate his toned stomach muscles and sex appeal. The man allows himself the briefest of smiles. Up close the younger man is far more beguiling than the promise of his online photograph. In person the disconnect is there, as always, the absence of warmth, the dark well of emptiness left by some private emotional betrayal deadening once beautiful eyes.

“Yes, I’m running ahead of schedule,” says the older man. “Hope that’s not a problem.”

“Not for me,” replies the lad, with a bored shrug. “You foot the bill. You call the shots. Out of interest, you don’t read that shit do you?”

With an enigmatic grin, the man squints down at the cover before rolling up and stuffing the magazine into his back pocket. Standing awkwardly next to the door, he scans the compact motel room: a standard layout of double bed with neutral blue duvet, pine desk housing a small television, white kettle and plastic ice bucket, and a matching blue plaid two-seater sofa. Two worn white towels are neatly arranged at the foot of the bed while condoms and a tube of lubricant lay on top of one of the bed’s white pillows next to what he assumes to be the boy’s mobile phone. Only the scratched and scarred white paintwork around the walls, the dark waterstains mottling the navy carpet and patches of nicotine jaundiced ceiling hint at the room’s misuse and tiredness. But the cloying warmth of the central heating comes as a welcome relief from the bite of a vicious winter’s eve.

“Paid cash for the room. So you’ll need to cover that too.”

“Sure,” says the man, reaching a hand inside his jacket pocket and pulling out a bundle of notes. “Let’s get that out the way. One fifty plus the room.”

“Unless you want overnight. Which’ll be another ton. Room’s paid until midday tomorrow.”

“No. I need to be somewhere tonight.”

“In which case thirty-seven for the room, plus one-fifty,” says the boy, staring levelly at the man.

With a quick nod, the man hands over a fan of fifties.

“Two-fifty. Cab fare and tip. Sure you’ll make it worthwhile.”

“Look,” says the young man, stuffing the banknotes into his back pocket and then folding his arms. “I don’t know if he told you but this is a favour. I ain’t been taking any new jobs. And just so’s you know, I don’t do bareback, chem, or any of that hardcore shit. Stuff like fisting, CBT, bondage, scat. Happy to role-play, if that’s your thing.”

“It’s okay. I’m an old fashioned kind of guy.”

“Vanilla?”

“If that’s what it means. What do I call you?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Hey, come on.”

“Sandy. You?”

Without letting on, he knows the boy has lied about his name.

“You can call me Black.”

“Black? That’s an unusual name.”

With a nonchalant shrug, the man grins but offers no more.

“Come and sit then, Black,” says not-Sandy, confidently strolling across the room to the small blue sofa and nodding his head at the spot next to him. After shucking off his bulky backpack, the man moves over and sits. Perched on the edge of the seat, he hugs the pack into his stomach, but allows the boy to lean against him and rub a hand along his upper thigh.

“First time?” says the boy, grinning.

“Something like that,” replies the man, glancing sidelong at him. “Got anything to drink?”

At the remark, the boy’s eyebrows flicker with uncertainty. He glances around the room, probably trying to locate a minibar. Even the man knows this chain of motels provides neither minibars nor fridges in the rooms.

“Don’t think this kind of outfit has booze.”

“No matter,” says the man, unzipping the backpack. He reaches in and begins rummaging around among clothes and other items. For a second he pauses, bringing out a small colourful biscuit tin secured by two thick elastic bands and, while still peering into his bag, holds the container out to the boy.

“Grab this for a moment.”

Not-Sandy hesitates, a frown of uncertainty clouding his face, before he reaches for the tin.

“What’s this?” he asks, turning the tin over in his hands.

“Just weed,” says the man with a frown before snatching the box back from the boy. “Helps me sleep.”

“Want to stay away from that shit,” says the boy, unimpressed, wiping the hand on the front of his vest as the man stuffs the container back into the bag. “First step down a slippery slope.”

“Thanks for the concern but I know my limits,” he says as he pulls out two miniature bottles of Beefeater gin and sets them on the coffee table in front of them. “Gift from a generous member of the cabin crew on my flight over. Gin, vodka or Baileys?”

Not-Sandy laughs then, a good sound, open and attractive. Only the bruised shadows beneath his eyes show a jadedness, a tiredness at the profession he has resigned himself to.

“Where you in from? You got a touch of an accent.”

“What do you care?” snaps the man, and then catches himself, irritated because he thinks he has masked his roots well. “Sorry. I hate my accent. My father was from Reykjavik. Mother’s from Nova Scotia. Moved around a lot with the old man’s job. Home’s here now. What’s your poison?”

“Nothing for me.”

“And make me drink alone?” asks the man, tugging back the hood of his grey fleece. “Not very hospitable.”

“Okay, okay. Give me a vodka.”

“Tonic?”

“Coke.”

Even as the boy speaks, the man produces two miniature bottles of Smirnoff from a compartment in the pack. Only as he sets them down does he notice the boy appraising him.

“Don’t get me wrong,” explains the boy, his eyes coming to rest on the man’s lips. “I appreciate the business. You’re a good looking bloke. Could pick up someone decent in a second in any one of them bars along Compton Street. Or is that not your cup of char?”

“Let’s just say I prefer discretion.”

“Understood,” says the lad, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue. Many of his clients confess to having wives or girlfriends at home. His motto has always been: any way as long as they pay, “Lucky me, then.”

With a soft snort, the man reaches back into his pack, moves a book and a few items of clothing around, before producing two miniature cans; one tonic water, one coke. He places both on the table.

“Don’t suppose you have any ice?” asks the man, knowing the ice machine stands at the far end of the corridor. The boy jumps up and, eager to please, grabs the ice bucket from the desk.

“Something I can do,” he says, making for the door. “Give me a few minutes. And for God’s sake relax. You look as though you’re getting ready to bail.”

A couple of minutes is all the man needs. While not-Sandy exits, setting the door on the latch, the man hurries to fetch two tumblers from the bathroom. With swift precision, he empties both bottles of gin and a can of tonic into one glass. After checking the lids for almost invisible pin-pricks, he arranges the two bottles of vodka and the can of coke unopened in front of the other glass. An evaluation made, he finally pulls off his leather gloves, removes his jacket and fleece, and places the backpack on the floor by the side of the sofa. Unbuttoning his silk shirt to reveal a well defined chest, he kicks off his unlaced boots, sits back and smiles out across the room.

Moments later the boy returns with the ice, his grin widening at the sight of the man lounging into the sofa, an arm thrown across the back, his legs crossed at the ankle resting on the coffee table.

“That’s more like it,” says not-Sandy, with an appraisal that stops at the man’s crotch. “Sure you even need a drink?”

“Help loosen me up,” says the man, this time patting the seat next to him.

Not-Sandy hurries to sit, snaps open the vodkas and the can of coke, and pours his drink. He scoops up and drops a fistful of ice into each of their glasses, then hands the gin and tonic to the man. Eyes on each other, they clink glasses, and the man pauses to watch as the boy swallows a good half measure of the bubbly brown liquid.

“Bottom’s up,” he says, raising his glass in the air once before knocking back his drink and sliding the empty tumbler back onto the table.

“That’s the plan. After you’ve finished the drink,” says the boy, with a glint in his eye. In a few swift movements, he knocks back the rest of his drink and slams the glass down onto the table. With that, he twists his body deftly and straddles the man’s lap. The man responds in kind, his hands pressing into the boy’s hips, grinding his buttocks into his erection. Not-Sandy runs confident hands down from the man’s neck into his chest, squeezing his pectorals and each of the nipples, before caressing his hands back up to behind the man’s head and grabbing handfuls of his hair. Yanking his head back, he drills his hot gaze into the man’s eyes.

“I don’t normally do this—,” says the boy, bringing his mouth down towards the man’s.

“No,” responds the man, rolling his head away to one side.

If not-Sandy is surprised, he shows nothing. Almost seamlessly, his lips find their way down to the man’s neck, his tongue licking upwards from the hollow of his throat and nipping at his chin. The man responds by bringing his hands up to the boy’s chest, feeling the hardening nipples beneath the material and teasing them with his thumbs. The boy leans backwards and grinds his backside into the man’s hardened cock, riding him like a rodeo cowboy. On the fourth grind, the man stands effortlessly bringing not-Sandy’s with him, the boy’s legs wrapping around his waist. After carrying him to the bed, he leans forward and arranges the boy down on his back.

“Get yourself ready,” whispers the man into not-Sandy’s ear, untying the legs from around his waist. “I need to grab a quick shower. Get rid of some of this travel stink.”

“Need a hand?” calls the boy, sitting up. The man scoops up his backpack, grabs a towel, and heads for the bathroom.

“Nope,” says the man, turning at the door. “Get yourself stripped and ready. Give me five minutes. And leave your underpants on.”

Once inside the bathroom, he locks the door and places his backpack on the basin, careful not to touch any surfaces. From the side pocket of his pack, he pulls out a pair of latex gloves and snaps his hands into them. After flushing the toilet, he sets the shower running and then sits down on the toilet seat. As an afterthought, he yanks out the puzzle book and begins to complete a full page crossword. Twenty minutes later he steps back into the room.

As anticipated, the boy has passed out on the bed wearing only tight red and white Aussiebum briefs, outlining his cock and balls. Uncertain about his level of incapacitation, the man slaps the boy’s cheeks a couple of times but witnesses not so much as a flicker of a reaction, just shallow breathing. After loading a pillow behind the head, to make the boy appear more comfortable, he stands back to appraise his work. Exhaling heavily, he peers down, spots the jeans on the floor and retrieves his banknotes. He also checks the boy’s pockets and all other items—shirt, jacket, satchel—but seems unsurprised when he finds nothing else. In truth he never expected the boy to carry something so valuable around with him, especially on an outcall. With those suspicions confirmed, he nods to himself. The boy’s older friend will need to be dealt with next.

After unzipping his backpack, he places the open bag onto the bed beside the boy. From the coffee table, he grabs the empty can of tonic water and gin bottle, and tossed them inside. Next he carefully washes and dries the glasses. Finally he returns to the bed, pulls out the battered tin from his sack, snaps off the elastic bands and prizes off the lid. Inside he has all the items he needs neatly arranged: tea spoon, hypodermic needle, small rubber hose, tea candles, matches, and, of course, a plastic bag of heroin. Three hundred and fifty milligrams. He scratches the light stubble on his chin while staring down at the boy. Even a hardened user could be taken out by that kind of a dose. Deep down, part of him disapproves of the method of disposal; too easy, too efficient and painless. But replicating an overdose using this particular victim will send the right message.

After pressing the boy’s fingerprints liberally on the each of the items, the man begins prepping the heroin. Once completed, leaving all the items carefully on the bedside cabinet within easy reach of the boy, he injects the solution into a clearly visible and accessible vein. The hose issue not even needed. Finally—because every artist should provide a signature—he shakes out the brand new green silk handkerchief, ties the material carefully around the boy’s wrist before placing the empty needle next to the body.

While stepping back to admire his handiwork, he removes the surgical gloves and stuffs them into his jeans pocket. Satisfied, he shrugs back into his other clothes, finally pulling on the leather gloves and backpack. In the voyeuristic age of ubiquitous CCTV, concealed above each street corner, into lift ceilings, at ATMs, in supermarkets and especially motels corridors, he understands only too well the importance of meticulous preparation and groundwork, of clear entry and exit protocols.

At exactly 10:45pm, with the hood of his grey fleece back up, he cracks open the motel door and peers out. The dim corridor stands empty and silent. Quietly clicking the door shut behind him, he strides to the nearest fire exit, where earlier that evening he has used his crowbar to nudge the camera to face the wall. He pushes the heavy bar on the door, and the exit gives way easily, a blast of chill wind welcoming him on the fire escape at the side of the two-storey building. After ensuring the door closes firmly but quietly behind him, he retraces his steps down to the ground floor and then along the back of the motel. With soft footfalls scrunching in the frozen grass, he passes behind the tight regiment of fir trees planted along the back of the buildings encircling the service station. Heading to his left, hidden from sight, he strides past the clatter of fast food kitchens and bank of dumpsters. A hundred yards on, he stops before the station’s toilets, using a wooden crate to climb in through the window he left open earlier.

Once he has flushed the surgical gloves, he emerges as he had entered, out from the third cubicle to the end of the row in the gents, removing the hand-written ‘out of order’ sign without any other patron noticing. Even at that time of night, the restaurants buzzes with travellers and he blends easily into the ebb and flow of bodies. Escaping through the main doors, head bowed, the hood of his grey fleece still up, he emerges again into the chill night air. Unhurriedly now, he makes his way to where he parked the generic black Honda in the parking lot three rows back from the entrance. Once there, he leans against the car door and checks his phone display: 10:57. After thumbing a message and waiting for three minutes, he pushes the send button.

-One down, two across finished. No token. You?

Almost instantly the phone buzzes with a return message.

- Nada. Place clear.

-Understood. Three across?

- Yep. Instructions to follow.

The man peers around the car park and expels a deep breath. With practiced precision, he snaps the back off the cheap phone, uses his thumbnail to remove the SIM card and drops the item into a deep drain. Clicking the cover back into place, he climbs into his car and drives out into the nighttime traffic.