Water of Death by Paul Johnston

antediluvian rags I keep under my bed. Eventually I put him out of his misery by flashing my directorate authorisation.
    â€œWhat’s the problem?” he asked, now even more worried.
    â€œDon’t worry, we’re not doing an inspection.” He’d probably heard that one before. All the city’s tourist premises are subject to spot checks for black-market activities and inspectors often go in disguise. They’ve also been known to pretend they’re on other business to gain the confidence of staff – just one of the many ways the Council keeps a grip.
    â€œDo you know Frankie Thomson?” I asked.
    â€œFrankie who?” he asked, squinting into the sun.
    â€œFrankie Thomson. He’s a cleaner here.”
    â€œOh, him.” The auxiliary looked unimpressed. “The piss artist. Makes more mess than he cleans up, I reckon. I haven’t seen him today.” Then he got a bit more excited. “Why? What’s he done?” Typical guardsman’s suspicious mind.
    I ignored the question. “Who does he knock around with? Have you seen him sneak his pals in?” Citizen staff have been known to do that after doing a deal with bent auxiliaries.
    He shook his wig emphatically. “No way. They don’t get away with that here. We run a tight ship.”
    I looked up at the sign above his head. “Looks like your funnel could do with a clean.”
    He stared at me uncomprehendingly as I walked inside.
    â€œDon’t mind him,” I heard Davie saying. “Heat’s fried his brains.”
    â€œSuch loyalty,” I muttered, then pushed open the inner door. We were immediately enveloped in a fug of bittersweet smoke. The lights were low and it was hard to make things out. The same couldn’t be said for the music. It wasn’t loud enough to bring the walls of Jericho down but it would have made a fair start. The pounding of the bass and drums came up your legs from the floor like unfriendly boa constrictors and set your inner organs in violent disarray. I was all shook up, and not just because they were playing “Paranoid”.
    A female auxiliary loomed out of the murk wearing a torn vest that made a major exhibition of her breasts and leather shorts that must have hurt like hell – what the Tourism Directorate imagined a rock chick looked like. She clocked us immediately and the false smile died on her purple-painted lips.
    â€œWho’s in charge?” I shouted.
    She pointed to the bar and went back to her customer. There was an old-fashioned propeller fan doing not much to clear the air in the middle of the cavernous room. As it was early afternoon, only a few of the tables were occupied – mainly lone tourist guys with beer bellies, joints between their fingers and Prostitution Services Department women leading them on. The one who met us was already grinding her backside into an oriental’s groin. His hands were on her breasts through the rents in her top, his eyes rolling back in a half-stupor. He had his lower lip between his teeth like he was trying to get his priorities straight. Meanwhile the woman was going for world championship lap-dancing gold.
    Another female auxiliary appeared in front of us. This one was middle-aged, with short grey hair, a matching grey skirt and a hard set to her jaw. The boss. I pointed to the door at the back marked “Strictly Private” and followed her over. Davie went to check out the bar.
    â€œAnd you are?” she asked, closing the sound-proofed door.
    I shook my ears back into action. “Dalrymple.”
    The auxiliary’s eyes opened wide.
    â€œDon’t worry, it’s only a routine enquiry.”
    â€œSince when did you handle routine enquiries, citizen?” She reached into a drawer and took out her barracks badge.
    â€œHave we met before?” I leaned forward. “Knox 42?”
    She shook her head. “I know you though. You catch the bad