Outside the restroom again, Clyde was back at his stool at the bar, casting a look around the orange lit room, which, compared to the main floor, was intensely bright. But Zo Sasaki hadn’t yet returned. It was obvious why he was so jumpy. The ‘orange room’ was quieter than the main club. The other people scattered about here didn’t seem as interested in dancing, but chatting quietly at the booths with drinks, more like a café interior. It was easier to be spotted or overheard. That was great for an eavesdropper, but bad for him; he didn’t plan on loitering and botching his own scheme.

“HERE’S HOW WE’LL GO ABOUT IT,” he said to me, sitting in the breast pocket of his shirt. “I’M HEADED UP TO THE NEXT FLOOR TO LOCATE HER,” he pointed his arm up at the railed balcony overlooking the central dancefloor, “WHILE YOU WAIT HERE. WHEN SHE’S FINISHED OUT THERE, I’LL GIVE YOU THE SIGNAL. THEN YOU BECOME OPERATIVE.”

He snatched me up and put me down on the polished bar tabletop. Then checked his wristwatch.

“YOU SHOULDN’T NEED MORE THAN AN HOUR, AND I’LL COME BACK FOR YOU HERE.”

The bartender, a young dark-skinned woman, turned briefly and flashed Clyde a sidelong smile.

“HI CLYDE,” she said.

“I WAS NEVER HERE,” he said coolly, keeping his eyes on the dance floor. Then he rose and began to cross the room, and down the couple of lit stairs back out to the central floor.

My stomach screwed up with nerves as I watched him get further away, until eventually he was swallowed up by the flashing darkness and crowd. I didn’t have to do this; I could just ring Raf and –

But my phone was gone. It must have been at the bottom of Clyde’s pocket. Oh damn, looked like I was stuck in the orange room for the next hour, regardless.

The bartender was sending me curious glances When I caught her eye, she continued to watch me levelly, and then carried on wiping the table down.

“AMANDINE,” she said, pronouncing it the French way, ‘Ahmon-dee’ – “WHO MIGHT YOU BE?”

Her politeness veiled whether she actually recognized me or not.

“Jerry.”

“AND WHAT’S THE LATEST DISPATCH WHERE YOU’RE FROM, JERRY?”

“Uh…long night.”

Picking up my tone of voice, she said:

“YOU’RE TOO PURE FOR THIS PLACE, ANGEL.” She gave a casual shrug. “ALL CUT AND THRUST HERE. DOESN’T SLOW DOWN FOR ANYONE.”

I frowned.

“I might be tougher than you think,” I said trying to flex my biceps without it looking deliberate.

Leaving this unremarked, she gave me another smooth, polite smile, and said:

“CAN I ASK: WHAT BRINGS YOU TO A DANCE CLUB IF NOT FOR DANCING?”

“How do you know I don’t dance?”

Someone waved in my peripheral vision. My eyes flicked up to the second balcony railing, which Clyde was now leaning against, surveying the crowd below. He wasn’t looking at me, or reacting to anything in particular. It must have been someone else waving for their friend. The entrance into the orange room was clear, no sign of Zo.

I looked back at Amandine.

“DEPENDS…DON’T OR CAN’T?”

“Okay. Both.”

She just smiled as if to say ‘I was right,’ and turned back to the bar. My eyes were magnetically drawn back up to the balcony, where Clyde had his forearms folded loosely over the rail.

“IT’S HOW YOU HOLD YOURSELF,” Amandine finally explained, giving me a sidelong glance. “YOU’RE TENSE…” She cocked her head slightly at me, as if hating to be honest, “…JUST A LITTLE BIT.”

“You take dance lessons?” I said with interest.

“I’M ONE HALF OF STUDIO MANAGEMENT,” she corrected.

I turned from the entrance of the orange room to face her with interest.

“Are you running classes right now?”

She looked away.

“POSSIBLY…”

"How do I join up?" I said, thinking of matching Jen's lessons.

She paused, her brow drawing together.

"OH...NO, SWEETIE."

"Why not?"

“WE’RE ALL BOOKED OUT," she said hastily.

"Oh...What about next season?"

She cleared her throat.

"SOME FAST-PACED STUFF WE GOT GOING ON." Shuffling on her feet a moment, she finally turned to look at me. "SOMEONE YOUR STATURE MIGHT...FIND IT A LITTLE TOUGH GOING..."

"I'm fit," I said, making a show of flexing my chest and rolling my shoulders. "More than I've ever been in my life."

She gave me another askance look as if waiting for me to laugh and play the whole thing off like a joke. When I said nothing, she said quietly:

"I'VE GOTTA INSIST ON A HEIGHT CUTOFF…HEALTH AND SAFETY LAWS. I DON'T WANT THAT LIABILITY ON MY BACK."

Putting my hands on my hips and bowing my head, I turned back to look at the balcony for a long while. Clyde remained at the railing, watching the crowds somewhat boredly. Meanwhile, a couple of people materialized out from the darkness of the main dancefloor, into the sharp illumination of the orange room. No show from Zo.

Then it occurred to me: when she re-entered she might come up to the bar for a drink. The foot traffic in the orange room was pretty light right now; there was no one for me to hide behind.

“I should be on the floor,” I mumbled, accidentally saying it out loud.

Amandine hesitated, seeming to think I was headed to the dance floor to start dancing.

“WHY DON’T YOU STAY BACK AND MAYBE I’LL COACH YOU A LITTLE,” she offered.

“Okay,” I said, shuffling around on my feet with unspent energy.

She put a bar towel aside and evaluated me.

“WHAT DO YOU ALREADY KNOW?”

Not knowing what she meant, I tried to mimic some moves I’d seen out on the dance floor earlier.

“MM, NO.” She immediately shook her head. “NO DANCING. STOP THE DANCING. YOU’RE TRYING TOO HARD. START IT SIMPLE. MOVE TO THE BEAT. WALK TO THE BEAT. TIME IT. WALK WITH ME—”

She began walking in a popping, gliding, shuffling way. I watched enviously. She wasn’t even dancing, she was just walking, but doing it in a dancing way.

I tried to do what she was doing, slowing my movements down.

As if forgetting I was there, she was murmuring the song lyrics to the club music, adding her own little vocal flourishes. Her voice was smooth; she’d obviously had vocal training. I stopped, getting distracted by her singing, then started into walking again, remembering I was supposed to be watching her dance, not listen to her sing.

She turned to see I’d stopped moving.

“NOT AS EASY AS IT LOOKS…” she said coolly. “PICK IT UP. COME ON, WALK, TIME IT …” her voice transitioned into a murmuring song again.

I tried to mimic her with my eyes closed, trying not to be so self-conscious. If a stunt coordinator directed me to jump from a burning building I could probably do it, yet I couldn’t dance in front of a stranger. Not even dance; walk.

She was laughing now. I opened my eyes to find she’d stopped moving and was just standing watching me.

“WHAT ABOUT THIS…?”

She transitioned from glide into a series of popping and locking crump moves, and then back again, accented with some Bollywood-esque flourishes.

“That’s too fast,” I said. “I need formal instruction.”

She shook her head.

“NO ONE HERE IS SHOWING OFF WHAT THEY LEARNED IN DANCE SCHOOL. THEY’RE JUST JAMMING. THERE’S ONLY TWO THINGS YOU NEED: THE ABILITY TO KEEP TO THE BEAT. AND CONFIDENCE. AND THAT’S ALL THERE IS TO IT. NOW SHOW ME THE MOVES.”

“I can do a standing backflip,” I shrugged, shuffling my feet awkwardly.

“THAT’LL HELP FOR LATER,” she conceded. “AND YOU’RE FLEXING GOOD. JUST WATCH AND PRACTICE. PRACTICE UNTIL YOU STOP THINKING IT. WHEN YOU FORGET THAT YOU’RE DANCING, THAT’S WHEN THE DANCING WILL HAPPEN.”

With a tight, impassive smile she added:

“…AT HOME. THE FLOOR’S TOO CRAZY HERE.”

The Orange room was practically empty.

"Crazy? There's only one other person in here."

She fixed me with a look

."ONE IS TOO MUCH FOR YOU. AND DON'T YOU DARE GO OUT THERE--" she nodded out to the central floor, "--UNLESS YOU WANNA GET FLATTENED BY A PARADE OF SHOES. THEN I'LL BE THE ONE SCRAPING YOU OFF THE FLOOR BEFORE CLOSING TIME."

I sighed, bowing my head.

“Fine. Thank you, Amandine...for showing me that stuff.”

“OH, NOW WE’RE CUTE,” she said smoothly. “BUT YOU SAID YOU WERE TOUGH. GIVE ME SOME ATTITUDE.”

“Um…” Lost for words I started flexing my arms again.

She leaned over the bar and swatted one of my raised fists with one finger.

“AND WHO ARE YOU GOING TO BEAT DOWN WITH THOSE LITTLE MITTENS?”

On impulse, I tried to channel Jennifer and send a high karate kick into her palm. With perfect reflexes, the slender fingers caught my ankle mid kick, I trembled on my standing leg for a moment before she let go.

“YOU’RE ADORABLE,” she chuckled, poking a finger under my armpit to tickle me before lifting her upper body off the bar again, “AND NEXT TIME, IT’S MANDI.”

A woman’s voice came from across the room:

“WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN TEACHING HIM, EM?”

Another dark-skinned woman came over, looking from Mandi to me. “HE’S GOING HARD.”

“RIGHT?” exclaimed Mandi, “HE’S MY NEW CREW MEMBER. GOING TO BE BACKUP DANCING IN MY NEW MUSIC VIDEO.”

They both laughed.

“I’M LIANA,” the woman said, traipsing over to the bar, and, standing in front of me, brought a fingertip down to nudge around my head with uninhibited curiosity and affection.

“YOU ARE THE DAMN CUTEST LITTLE THING,” she chuckled. “AFTER SHE’S FINISHED WITH YOU, YOU ARE GOING STRAIGHT INTO MY CARRY AND I’M GOING TO HIT THE FLOOR WITH YOU.”

Mandi’s face went flat.

“NO, LIA.”

“NOT ON THE FLOOR,” Liana amended, turning away from me to face Mandi. “HE’LL BOUNCE AROUND MY TOES. I’LL KEEP HIM ON A SHORT CHAIN.”

Amandine blinked with incredulity.

“HE’S TOO SMALL—”

“WE’LL BACK UP, GET A CIRCLE HAPPENING—”

“IT’S DANGEROUS—”

“WHY ARE YOU SCHOOLING HIM IF HE CAN’T USE IT—”

As the women continued to debate their voices were muffled by a rumble of talk and activity as a large group of people swept into the bar space. Mandi swished away to prep for incoming drink orders. The group drifted apart, some of them fronting up to the bar, others drifting around the room for empty booths. Amongst the crowd, a flash of striped shoes made me start.

I’d missed Clyde’s signal and now Zo was back in the orange room. My heart thudding, I leapt down from the bar, onto the padded seat of one of the stools, and slid down one of its four legs like a pole until my feet hit the resin floor, shiny like a bowling bowl. The people pressed up to the bar were busy debating drink selections and hadn’t noticed me.

A metal footrest rail ran around the bottom of the brick bar curb to a sharp corner at the opposite side, in the direction Zo had gone. A new song had started pumping in from the main floor, making voices indistinct; tones and buzzes. The air was clammy at head height but on the floor there was a sweeping, sucking cold draught that ran straight into my shivering flesh.

Now I had to rely on my own two legs. Past the brick bar, the floor seemed to expand out everywhere; it was virtually all that could be seen, apart from huge blocks that were the dark chairs, and poles that were table legs. The low music thumped through the floor, through the soles of my shoes, as I weaved amidst dim patches, avoiding areas of intense orange light, dashing under cover of huge wooden benches as I went.

With the influx of people the space turned into something like a tourist attraction, a crowd of foot traffic flashing past the orange globes of light. The air danced with sounds; chanting, crackling voices, piercing clinks and clanks of bottles and glasses, combining in a thundercloud of noise to my delicate hearing.

The room was filling up with towering legs; in motion and pressed against wooden chair frames.

Between the tables and chairs, enormous pairs of shoes vaulted through the air, thumping the ground in front of me and launching off again past me. As shoes swung through space, they tilted, exposing me overhead to unnatural glimpses of soles and worn off treads caked with clumps of dirt, a mashed, dirt-stained wad of chewing gum, wet grass, trampled foot particles, some dry and others shining with moisture. My pulse clapped on as half undone laces cracked against the hard flooring and flew out past my face like whips, connected to sneakers with soles so dirt-stained they were like black railroad tracks.

The floor was alive with bizarre obstacles; a challenge I was intent on mastering: the Kolade and the dancing practice had my nervous system jittering and this espionage mission struck me as the perfect outlet for all that nervous energy. I was keen to impress Clyde with a bounty of classified information only I was capable of obtaining, slipping in and out like a ghost. No one else in this club had that superpower: it made my ego surge.

“OH—!”

Someone gasped in surprise and I thought I’d been spotted.

As if dumped from a tank, a thick spout of chilled runoff slapped onto my head, nearly driving me down to the ground. It seemed to be water. Drenched and staggering, I leapt back under the bench, right before glass exploded into glittering pebbles against the floor. I dove onto the ground, pulling the hood of my jacket over my head before any of the shrapnel struck me.

“OOPS, MY BAD,” a voice said – but not to me – amidst gasps and laughter.

Out from the tables and chairs, I ran, swerving blindly to avoid the shoes that slapped down on almost every side; attached to mind-bogglingly long legs that pistoned up and down. My comparatively tiny legs jolted to a halt as a giant sneaker slammed down inches from my face and – my heart skipping – launched up into the air again and then out of nowhere–

Whap

—one of the thick white cords of the shoelaces snaked out and slapped me square in the face as it flew by. My hand shot up to my cheek as tears blurred my eyes. An instant later pain registered up through my nose and seemingly into my brain.

I stood stunned, rhythmic quakes getting nearer by the second. Then, from the side, a series of bone-shaking clops. I turned to see what looked like a fleshy mocha missile, wrapped in black leather straps with a fierce pointed tip delivering a set of bulb-tipped toes through the air – straight for me. I didn’t even know open-toed heels could have sharp points – until I saw this one zooming for my face.

My scream was immediately cut off as the pointed tip clapped onto the ground once more, lifted, and as it swung forward and up, it hooked up under my jaw, lifting my feet from the floor.

For one loathsome instant, the tip of the clammy mocha bulb that was the big toe slipped forward along the shoe sole and jammed against my face with the suffocating intimacy of a French kiss suffused with foot odor.

Next second the foot’s breath-taking momentum had unloosened me and I was cartwheeling through the air.

The ground slapped my cheek and I bounced and rolled over polished patterned tile. Meanwhile, the shoe was rapidly tapping away over the floor.

From way above, a woman hissed with irritation.

“OH, EWW…”

“WHAT’S WRONG?” came a male voice.

“I NEARLY STEPPED IN SOME TRASH ON THE GROUND,” the woman muttered as her heels clapped away. “SOMETHING TOUCHED MY FOOT, AND IT WAS DAMP AND GROSS AND SQUISHY...”

Their clamorous voices just added to the swell of din, combining with the clapping pain in the bony plate of my brow and ridges of my eye sockets, which oddly felt like a tiny high heel was stamping on my face over and over. The woman’s toe had also been damp, and judging from the briny sting in my eyes, it was not from water spillage, but her sweat.

I stopped at a dark patch on the floor, thinking it would conceal me, but this was a mistake. Now a shadow was dropping; the expanding sole of a shoe, deepening to black as it collapsed over me –

—but at the last second – with an inhalation of surprise from above – the stretched black cello shape of the shoe’s bottom gave itself a small boost, a last ditch attempt to clear the dim shape I cast on the floor. And almost did; everything – toe and arch – connected with the floor with a nerve-rattling crash, but the hard rubbery back edge of the sole caught the very top of my head, dragging me down to the floor and keeping me pinned beneath the rapidly shifting giant’s mass.

The giant’s weight tilted towards their toes, as they did their best to avoid me – to avoid smushing the crown of my head to their treads like gum. But for an agonizing second the person’s heel was balanced there, fighting against my skull for dominance. Then the weight lifted and the shoes, and person, were gone again.

Pain ringed the crown of my head. I groaned up at the ceiling, where the orange lights were becoming unfocused.

More thudding rapidly approaching –

No time to catch my breath. At the urgency of my racing heart, I jumped up again and pumped my legs, slipping and skidding wetly over the shiny floor until I reached my destination, between pairs of shoes, the underside of a table rolled over my head and I was draped in shadow.

I was aching and panting for breath, but also deep into the espionage now, it would waste the risks I’d taken so far to leave now without something to show for it.