Page 11 of A Night with Damien Spur

And in return politicians, heads of state, judges, royalty, aristocracy, entrepreneurs, each could be whoever they chose.

Damien had seen the Speaker of the House of Commons dressed as Dolly Parton, a judge wearing prison garb, members of the clergy clad in leather and chains, saints and devils, teddybears and puppy dogs, all welcome to enjoy their peccadilloes.

The club was owned by a guy known only as Lazarus. Damien had met him at a party in Paris, held in the private mansion of the fabulously wealthy Countess Clotilde Duchamp, who had “mentored” Damien when he was a young man.

Lazarus had watched as the handsome buck had enthusiastically “attached” himself to a striking lioness with a main of tumbling auburn hair, wild green eyes and long muscly legs in one of the antechambers.

And here was Damien twenty years later standing outside the discreet black door. Ready for the night ride.

The facial recognition lock clicked and he was in.

Aidan was waiting in the hallway. A scrawny, leather-clad grinning ghoul with a bald head and bad teeth.

‘Look, mate, I’ve another two stops to make so can we be quick?’ He took out a plastic ziplock bag from his pocket. ‘Five grams, fish scale, pure as the Virgin Mary, 700 quid.’

Damien said nothing. Just pulled out his wallet, gave Aidan the money and took the coke.

‘Thanks, mate,’ the dealer said.

‘My pleasure. But can you do me a favour? Don’t call me mate. I’m not your friend.’

‘Maybe not but the coke is,’ said Aidan. ‘Oh, and by the way, if you like I’ve got some new little beauties that will let you go all night without any downside.’ He gave him a leery grin.

‘Not my problem.’ Damien brushed him aside.

Cheeky little bastard, said the Voice.

Damien keyed in the code to the second door, his index finger firmly on the numbers, but a red light flashed.

An automated voice announced, ‘Code incorrect. Please try again.’

‘Shit.’ Damien banged the keypad with his fist. ‘What the hell?’ He tried again.

It still didn’t work.

‘Come on, you bugger, let me in,’ he yelled at the machine. ‘Why isn’t there a bloody intercom?’

He pulled out the bag and sniffed a line of coke.

‘1973 – it’s got to be right,’ he muttered to himself.

No, you fool, that’s your credit-card pin, said the Voice.Try 2791.

He entered the new passcode. A green light flashed and the door opened. ‘Yes!’ He punched the air.

There you are, said the Voice.What would you do without me?

Damien passed through the dimly lit corridor and stepped into a candlelit boudoir, all gilt and mirrors, scattered with writhing twosomes and threesomes playing with each other.

A beautiful female lay moaning on a velvet throw, wearing nothing but a pair of Jimmy Choos, while a man and a woman caressed her.

Damien moved on, hardly glancing at the bodies, until he came to a golden cage.

And there sitting on two swings were his Belarusian twins, Kristina and Alina, wearing velvet masks and feathered wings.

‘We waited all night for you to come,’ Alina said in her soft smoky voice. ‘Naughty Damien – we haven’t seen you for a whole month.’

‘We want to play with you,’ Kristina cooed.

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