Mickey Finn Part 3

This is part 3 of Mickey Finn - Find click here for part one and here for part two

Karla stood outside the coffee shop with a large skinny latte in her hand. Her black bra was clearly visible through her white, cotton vest top further accentuating her already impressive breasts. She had a friendly face, welcoming eyes and a joyous smile but that was offset by her manly stance, broad shoulders, and powerful looking arms, arms that could break a man’s nose. She looked like a swimmer or handball player except she was sucking on a cigarette like a child may suck on a lollypop. 
Skinny latte? Who was she trying to kid? She’d never be skinny. Her mother called her big boned but she was just being polite, big was the word. She watched the world go by and tried to think how she could track down that sleaze bag. She was no detective, no Archer Stanley. She was just some Welsh Government clerk who didn’t know the first thing about catching a crook. Would she even recognise the scumbag again?

Karla guessed the best place to start would be the club. Maybe someone there would know him, maybe there would be some CCTV. She drained her coffee, stubbed out her cigarette and headed into town.

It was 2pm on a Sunday, the club was closed, of course it was. Why had she thought any differently? She hammered on the door just in case but she wasn’t hoping for much. The wind whipped down the street, she struggled to light a cigarette then she contemplated the situation. The clouds in the sky and the wind on her face told her that a storm was blowing up the Bristol Channel. Sunday afternoon shoppers scurried back and forth, she looked to see if she could see him amongst the throng but that was a long shot. Maybe she could call the hospitals, the wanker looked the worse for wear when she’d finished with him, maybe he’d dragged himself to A and E. But they wouldn’t tell her anything, patient confidentiality and all that even if he was a rapist. A seagull roared its disapproval at the wind, the squawk echoing around the buildings. Drops of rain pitter-pattered the pavement and then the club door creaked open.

‘We’re closed lady.’

The voice belonged to a youngish man, mid twenties. He was wearing scruffy, dirty clothes.

‘Hey, it’s Mike Tyson.’ Karla was confused. ‘Great right hook on you. He went down like a ton of bricks.’  Karla realised she’d been recognised.

‘Did you know him?’ She asked.

‘Seen him a few times in here,’ he shook his head. ‘but apart from that not really.’

‘Is your boss around?’

The man laughed. ‘I’m Matt, I am the boss.’ He held out his hand to her. She shook it.

Karla looked at the man more closely, a few wrinkles round his eyes and greying temples maybe he was older than first thought.

‘Any CCTV of the incident?’

The man shook his head, ‘no, it gets wiped at the end of the evening if the police haven’t been called.’

‘And you didn’t call the police?’

‘Nah love, not worth it.’

‘Can I speak to your doormen?’

‘What’s this love, wanna say sorry to him do you?’ The man laughed.

Karla’s phone bleeped in her bag, she ignored it.

‘No,’ her voice rose,  ‘I want to get him locked up. He tried to rape me. In your club.’ If looks could kill, the owner would be dead and buried.

‘Sorry, love.’ He held up his hands like Pin Prick had done the night before but this man looked genuinely sorry. ‘Doormen will be on the door again on Wednesday. Come then if you want.’

Karla lit another cigarette, mumbled her thanks and moved off. The rain was heavier now, there was a Costa across the road, Karla decided she’d have one more skinny latte and maybe a pain au chocolate while waiting for the rain to stop.

As she bit into her pastry something troubled her. Maybe the swamp dweller had done this before. She had been thinking that he might do it again but why had she assumed she was the first? She may have been the latest. If that was true, there would be women out there with stories to tell. Had they been to the police? Surely the police would have been more interested in her story if they’d had previous reports of rape, so the likelihood was they hadn’t told tales.  But how could she find out? She got out her phone, there were three messages, all from Josh.

‘Wanker’ she said quietly as she popped the last bit of dough in to her mouth. She went to Twitter and wrote a message.

‘Was nearly drugged and raped last night in Real Deal. Anyone else had similar experience? DM me, strictest confidence.’ Did she want to do it under her own name though? She scrambled around opening up a new account and then sent the message with the hashtag Cardiff and realdeal. Then she tweeted again with a brief description of the dog turd.  She’d see what response that got. In the meantime she had to get home, she’d let this consume her day, it was time to get back to life. She realised she was hungry - all she’d put in her stomach was 3 coffees and a pain au chocolate, she needed some real food, some wine and a nice hot bath.