Bad Life

It was on the way there. I didn’t know Christopher personally, but I had heard of the notorious male brothel’s name.
That place was Newcontan. Newcontan was the nickname for the male brothel tucked away in Portsmouth’s back alleys. As soon as I figured out where Newcontan was, I headed straight there. Yet even after fighting with the pimps and nosing around, questioning old clients, I couldn’t uncover so much as a clue about Christopher. Back then I had almost no information—just that a boy in his late teens had been sold around 1996 and the name Christopher. There was no way I could find him. But this time was different.
I knew Christopher’s age, birth year, hometown, even his nicknames “Christine” and “Cherry,” °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° and I had a photo of him. This time I was certain I would find a lead in Newcontan. As soon as I arrived in Oxford I bought a train ticket to Portsmouth. Even at the slowest pace I could reach before ten that evening—perfect timing to hit the brothel.
Where there’s a port, there’s a sex house somewhere nearby. No one knows when or why the custom began, but Newcontan, too, sat close to the harbor. Stepping out of the taxi, the smell of the sea hit me. I strode across the avenue lined with pubs and restaurants. The weather was fine, and the streets were crowded. I even saw tourists snapping photos.
Blending into the crowd, I slipped into a quiet side alley. A few turns later the tourists vanished. Families disappeared. No more women on the street. Before I knew it I was walking shoulder to shoulder with hunched men who moved swiftly. Following that path, I came upon a cluster of modest inns and small pubs—Newcontan.
The brothel wasn’t much different from any other. There were no street solicitations. In the ’90s you’d sometimes see skinny young men rolling joints and waiting for customers, but that ended long ago. Now well-dressed men drifted through the streets. Almost no women. But men dressed as women turned up here and there.
I scrutinized the drag queens with more care than I ever had before, but it was hard to recognize faces. The photo I had was fifteen years old. Even if someone walked around barefaced I might not recognize them; with wigs and makeup it was nearly impossible to pick out the boy I knew. I never intended to scan every single face, but I’ll admit I’d hoped for a lucky break.
I paused in front of what looked like a strip club catering to straight men. The bronze sign depicted a woman sitting with her legs spread and chest thrust forward. The club was called “Moulin Rouge.” What bullshit. I flung open the door and went in. True to the brothel’s reputation, Moulin Rouge featured male singers and dancers—except every performer on stage was dressed as a woman.
The instant I entered, the roar of the music pressed against my chest. Through the flashing lights and laser beams skimming the walls and floor, drag dancers vied for attention on the lavish stage. I wandered around, scanning each man seated around the stage sipping drinks and talking. I didn’t see who I was looking for, so I headed for the bar.
The bartenders had all changed since my last visit years ago. But by luck one of the regulars—the man I’d been following—was hitting on a bartender. I strode over, dropped my duffel bag to the floor, and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. The bartender shouted, but the music was too loud for me to hear. I pulled the man around, held him tight by the neck, and spoke casually.
“Long time, Teddy.”
Teddy’s jaw dropped the moment he recognized me.
“You—bastard…!”
“What kind of bastard jumps to that right away?” I hoisted Teddy by the collar and slammed him onto the floor. Bottles and glasses shattered. Heads turned. The bartender stamped his feet and grabbed my arm, but I shrugged him off and planted myself in front of Teddy, who groaned on the floor. He glared up at me, and I grin back.
“Let’s talk.”
“What the hell do you want, you crazy bastard!” Teddy yelled.
“I don’t know anything.”
Ignoring his protests, I asked,
“Want to talk here or step outside?”
He fell silent. The murmurs around us grew, and finally Teddy raised his hand. I picked up my bag and waited for him by the door. Teddy apologized to the customers, snapped at the staff clearing the mess, then stomped over with a sour look.
We wordlessly stepped outside. Teddy led me to a quiet pub a little distance from the club. The patrons were mostly gay men in their forties and fifties, and the atmosphere was calm. We sat side by side at the bar. Teddy rubbed his neck and glared at me with annoyance. I smiled broadly.
Teddy had once tried to rape me years ago, back when I was fighting pimps and searching for Christopher. Even then we had fought, but we’d stopped short of going too far—no one wanted to tangle with a pimp’s connections. Still, one particularly stupid pimp egged Teddy on to rape me and film it. They hadn’t counted on me being so hardened. Had I not smashed Teddy’s skull with his own drink glass, the tainted cocktail might have done the trick. Instead I’d caused a scene until Teddy sobbed out a confession. I’d then tracked down the pimp and broken one of his limbs. That was years ago, and Teddy was still working as manager at the club then.
Teddy stared fixedly at the bartender making cocktails, lips sealed. He still seemed a bit afraid of me. I grinned at him.
“Hey.”
Teddy didn’t answer.
“Man, when someone calls you, you look.”

With a deeply annoyed expression Teddy glanced at me.
“Well? Spit it out if you’ve got something to say.”
“I don’t need to be rushed. I’ll talk soon enough—and I’m short on time, too.”
I took my wallet out.
“Your club hires only drag performers, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But do you have any like this? Name is Christine, real name Christopher.”
I pulled out the photo and showed it to him.
“He’s older now. Same age as us.”
Teddy glanced at the picture, scoffed, then said brusquely,
“How could I know from that? That’s a kid’s photo.”
“Have you heard the name Christine?”
Teddy shook his head. I didn’t give up.
“Then introduce me to some of your drag kids. Around thirty.”
“What? You crazy? I’d get fired for that!”
Teddy snapped. I scowled at him, and he shut up. I said nothing, simply stared. After a few seconds Teddy couldn’t take it and bolted upstairs without touching his cocktail. I grabbed my bag and trudged out. I returned to the strip club by the back door this time.
A narrow corridor led inside, heavy with perfume. A half-flight of stairs down revealed the backstage area and a break room. Some guys fresh offstage counted stacks of bills at tables; others, high on drugs, sprawled on the floor. We entered the waiting room at the far end.
The room was larger than I expected. Five or six lighted vanities lined one wall; the opposite side was crammed with wigs, dresses, shoes, and accessories. Two men with wigs on their laps sat on a couch smoking.
“Hey, Teddy.”
The blond-wigged man nodded at Teddy, who replied curtly,
“Yeah, good work.”
Teddy then introduced me to the man with the red wig.
“This is Raymond.”
“Raymond, this is Danny.”
Danny extended his hand with a puzzled look.
“Who are you? A fan? Anyway, pleasure to meet you, Raymond.”
I shook Danny’s hand and sat down suddenly. Danny’s eyes widened. I took out my wallet and thrust the photo at him.
“This is an old pic, but do you know him? Same age as us, named Christine.”
Danny frowned at the photo.
“…I don’t know. Who is he? Harry, you know?”
Harry, the man with the blond wig, glanced at it and shook his head.
“Don’t know. Never seen him.”
I hadn’t really expected strangers to know him on sight, but still I felt disappointed. I swallowed the frustration. Teddy had scurried upstairs, claiming he had work to do. I greeted the two men and chatted politely. Danny suggested asking the next shift when they came down, so I lingered in the waiting room.
After a while Harry, looking younger than I expected, asked,
“Want me to ask my friends? Maybe someone knows him.”
Harry wasn’t exactly my peer, so I doubted his help, but I clung to any hope.
“Yeah. I’m staying at Smith House out at the end of the road. Leave me a note at the front desk.”
Harry nodded and left. Not long after, the performers finished their sets and filtered into the waiting room. I questioned each of them, but no one knew Christine. Even showing the photo drew blank stares. Disappointed, I grabbed my bag and stomped out. I retraced my steps back through the corridor and out the back door.
My strength drained away. Today I should have finally met Christopher—if things had gone right, I’d have met him hours ago back in Chadstone! How much farther would I have to chase him? Could Christopher be dead like the others? George had bragged about how other predecessors had gone mad or met gruesome ends, but he said nothing of Christopher’s fate. I’d clung to George’s words when searching, but it was useless. Chasing him felt like hunting a ghost. By now I even doubted whether Christopher existed at all.
It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other. I slung my duffel over my shoulder and headed listlessly toward Smith House. Tired of jostling through crowds, I slipped into a side alley.
Suddenly a brutal force seized the back of my neck. My bag thudded to the ground. The alley was empty—like an ambush. My arm was snapped backward before I could react. This was no amateur move; he knew how to twist joints precisely. For a moment Teddy’s face flickered in my mind. Revenge? As I tried to turn, someone grabbed the back of my head and smashed it into the wall. The top of my brow split open, blood pouring down. A ringing filled my ears—I’d let my guard down.
“Fuck, let go…! Aaah!”
Before I could brace myself, he twisted my shoulder joint mercilessly. The pain was agonizing. He showed no mercy. My arm was stretched to its limit, threatening to pop. I had no choice but to go limp—or risk dislocating it.
When I stopped struggling he eased his grip slightly. I gasped for air, free from the worst of the pain. Blood trickled from my brow to my chin, and sweat drenched me.
Once I could speak, I spat out,
“What do you want?”
He didn’t answer, only released his hold on my head. Leaning against the wall, I felt a sinking dread. He brushed his hand down my neck, then across my back—and, without missing a beat, let it rest on my hip.
Teddy? Or was it the pimp who had beaten me with Teddy that time? Could Teddy, after going upstairs to the club, have called in a pimp to get back at me? My mind raced as his hand squeezed my hip, kneading roughly. I wanted to twist around and see his face, even if it meant another joint twist. Drawing a breath, I tried to turn—but then he pulled a wallet from my back pocket and dropped it at my feet.
He thrust a driver’s license in front of me.
“Raymond Goodman.”
He whispered in my ear. His low voice was calm and oddly captivating. I swallowed dryly and replied slowly,
“Yeah.”
“Who are you?”
His deep, weighty tone suddenly flipped into a high, affected falsetto. I was too startled to answer. Then he spoke again in that thin, theatrical voice,
“I’m asking—why are you following him around, huh?”
“Following him?” My heart hammered. It wasn’t Teddy or a pimp. A wave of dread washed through me. My mouth went dry; I licked my lips and edged my question.
“Christine?”
Even that single word cracked my voice.