I raise my voice above the screams, “Everybody calm down! It’s just the lights! Listen to me! Everybody listen!”
The crowd has become a series of dim shapes shifting in front of me. Like a herd of cattle in the middle of a starless, moonless night. “Quiet!” I roar, but they continue to scream and shout, pressing together in the dark. I shout across the room, “Markus!”
“Boss!” he calls back.
“Shut them up, will you?”
Markus’ voice is like a boom box. He shouts into the room, a voice that rattles the wall and jingles the chandelier. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
Slowly, the crowd goes quiet.
“Right,” I say, as the dim black shapes stop their panicking. “You all need to congregate at the front of the house. We need to make sure everyone is here. Think of it like a fire drill. Markus, go and get Irish and the boys—”
“We’re here, Boss,” Irish says.
“Alright, good,” I say. “Get a couple of men and go check on the power, eh? The rest of you, come with me outside. We need to secure the house.”
“Yeah, Boss.”
“Okay, everyone,” I say, addressing the shadowed crowd. “Follow my voice to the exit. We’ll sort this out in no time. Probably just a power cut, nothing to worry about, but we have to be sure. Okay, come on.”
I begin backing toward the doorway, but then a voice giggles from the top of the stairs: “Oh, he-he-he-he, what a clever boy he is!” There are tears in the voice, bitter tears, and everyone stops moving and looks up the stairs. And then the lights flicker and bloom into life. Markus stands on one side of the crowd, arms spread to stop them from dispersing. Irish, Knives, and the men from downstairs stand just beside the staircase, looking up uncertainly.
Cassandra stands at the top of the stairs. Her dress is torn and ragged, fluttering around her legs. A huge gouge goes up the middle right to her belly, exposing her bare vagina. Blood marks the insides of her thighs. A line of blood is pressed into her neck. And her face is battered with two, big black eyes.
No. Cassandra, no.
She lifts a trembling finger, and the crowd turns their heads. All of them, turning their heads directly to me. “He—he tried to rape me!” Cassandra cries, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He tried to rape me! And when I fought, he did this!”
The crowd gasps and stares hatefully at me; stares at me like I’m a piece of dirt, like I’m already in the prison yard, like my guilt is unquestionable.
***
“Monster!”
Mason climbs up the stairs to Cassandra, takes off his jacket, and places it around her shoulders. She nods timidly, playing the part of a woman who’s just been assaulted brilliantly. I look over the crowd, taking in their expressions. None of them are in any doubt. They are all certain I did what she said I did. Several people take out cell phones and start dialing.
Irish and Knives step forward. “Boss?” Irish says. “Shall we get the phones?”
“I didn’t do this, lads,” I whisper. “I didn’t fuckin’ do this.”
“Yeah—no shit,” Irish says. “But the phones?”
“No.” I bite down and then shake my head violently. “No, stand down. Don’t want anyone else getting in trouble. Stand down.”
I turn and glare at the men, and all of them shrink back from my gaze. More makeup? I think desperately. More makeup.
“Mason!” I call. “Mason, listen to me—it’s makeup. The bruises are makeup! The blood is probably fake blood!”
“What a poor excuse for a man!” Mason barks. “What a poor excuse!”
“No, fine, he wants to turn me into a liar!” Cassandra lips her finger and rubs the bruise under her eye, licks her finger again, rubs it again. Can I be the only one who sees that little smile? The bruises don’t flake or come away. It’s not makeup. Jesus Christ, she did this to herself. “You see!” she sobs, forced tears sliding down real bruises. “You see! Your games won’t work here!”
“Your games won’t work here!” Mason repeats.
“Police,” somebody in the crowd mutters. “I think there’s been a rape—or an attempted rape. We’re at…”
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” Irish roars. “You don’t talk about Boss like that—”
“Irish!” I snarl. “You’re making it worse. Be quiet. Markus, Irish, Knives, come here.”
The crowd parts as Markus pushes through it. The three men stand in a half-circle around me. “Listen,” I whisper, so only they can hear. They lean in close to me. “This is bullshit. We all know it. But we also know that the men and women in this room have considerable influence. We have to play this smart. That means no fighting, no arguing. When the police get here, complete co-operation?” Markus and Knives nod, downcast. “Irish,” I hiss.
“The fuckin’ pigs’ll do you,” Irish mutters.
“Maybe for a little while, but I didn’t do this.”
“And if they fix you up?”
“We’ll deal with that when it comes to it, alright?” Irish doesn’t respond. I grab him by the shoulder, shaking him. “Alright?”
“Alright,” he sighs.
“You three are in charge while I’m gone. All three of you have operational control, but Markus has final say on everything. He’s Boss for the time being.”
All of them nod. I step back, lean against the wall, and wait.
The room splits into two: the rich guests gathering in a huddle on one side, my men on the other. Soon, sirens blare out across the night air toward us.
When the police get here, Cassandra lets out a long wail and throws herself into theatrical sobs.
I’m cuffed, shoved into a police car, and driven away.