But he can tell I don't believe myself. It's so black down here, my eyes invent ghosts to make up for the sensory deprivation, ripples of black on black. It's as quiet as purgatory.

And then Sloth chirrups and looks up with a sharp jerk of his head. Swimming is not the only thing he does better than me. I strain to listen. My heart drops into my gut. "Is it them?"

There is a low rumbling sound, almost indiscernible, but it's building, like house music rising to a dancefloor crescendo. I stand up in a hurry. "Water?" There are reports every year of kids who have drowned in the drains, caught out by flash floods that come out of practically nowhere while they're messing around in the tunnels smoking dope or looking for ninja turtles.

But Sloth clucks in irritation, shutting me up so he can listen. It's something else. He bats at my face with urgent pawings, the way he does when I've overslept. "All right, all right," I say, staggering to my feet and in the direction he guides me, towards the epicentre of the noise. It better not be a wall of water.

The sound reverberates through the tunnels, ramping up to a teeth-rattling earthquake. There is a glow up ahead, as if of civilisation. Hope sparks in my gut. I stumble forward, round a corner, into blinding artificial light. I make out huge metal ribs lining the tunnel like the belly of a robot whale. And then a whip of gla.s.s and metal thunders past inches from my face.

The blur of one shocked pink face staring out the window, mouth open in a perfect O of surprise, is the only witness to the near-death of Zinzi December by Gautrain.

Brixton is not quite the new Melville, but since House of Nsako and now Counter Rev the area is definitely on the up, complete with irate residents complaining about noise levels and cars blocking their driveways. I walk up to the entrance, limping only slightly. It took hours to wash the smell of drains out of Sloth's fur, and I'm wearing a longsleeved top under my '60s pinafore dress to hide the worst of the scratches. Otherwise, we're pretty good, considering the traumas of the day: having to talk my way past Gautrain security, finding a taxi in Sandton willing to take a filthy, wet and stinking zoo girl downtown so I could rescue my car.

The sharecall phone number Vuyo gave me was for a taxi company, Quick-Quick. The operator was able to check the log for Sunday morning, 02h46. "Yes, we received a call," she said, gruffly. "Pick up was for 14 Highbury Road, Brixton. Some kind of club. Counter Revolutionary? Heading to Morningside. So you gonna pay for it?"

"Pay for what?"

"Customer never showed. Our driver waited for twenty minutes. Could have got two more fares in. That's lost income. That's" But I'd already hung up on her.

The doors of Counter Rev are dramatically oversized, glossy black with huge silvered handles in the shape of a reversed C and R facing off against each other. Hip hop booms from within, breezy lyrics over a richly malevolent melody. The bouncer is wearing dark sungla.s.ses and a red and black jacket with a gold helmet insignia pinned to his lapel, accessorised with ma.s.sively bunched shoulders and a hefty dose of aggro. But when I hesitate outside, he drops the att.i.tude and lifts the velvet rope.

"Going in?"

"Waiting for someone," I say. "Thanks." Said someone is going to be another hour at least. I'm crazy early, but tonight isn't about seeing Gio.

"Warmer waiting inside," the bouncer says. "Just saying."

"Ah, but I'm not allowed to smoke inside." I tap out a cigarette from a box of lights purchased specially for the occasion. "Just like the song? I fought the law."

"Law won," he agrees and flicks a cheap plastic lighter under the tip of my cigarette. Smoking: still the number one ice-breaker known to humankind. His eyes flick down to the bruises on my wrist.

"The Sloth going to be a problem?

"You tell me."

"But there's no official policy?"

"Right of admission reserved."

"Who decides that?"

"I do."

"You're not a man of many words."

"Not what they pay me for."

"So who doesn't get past you?"

He ticks off the offences on his fingers. His knuckles are lined with fine scars, and two of his fingers are splinted together. I'm guessing amateur boxing. No bouncer sees that much action in a nice part of town like this. "If they don't make the dress code. If they're already drunk. If they're known dealers. If I don't like their att.i.tude."

"Do I make the dress code?"

"Yes."

"Do you like my att.i.tude?" I drop the remains of the cigarette and crush the tip under the toe of my boot.

His demeanour changes abruptly. "Hey, you one of the new girls?" he says sharply.

"Maybe I'd like to be." I have not been expecting this tack.

"Because the staff entrance is round the back. Joey know you're here?"

"I'm not sure."

"You better go find out. And take your b.u.t.t with you." It takes me a second to realise he means the cigarette.

"Thanks I didn't get your name?" I say, picking up the stompie stompie and putting it in my pocket. and putting it in my pocket.

"Ronaldo."

The staff entrance leads into the kitchen. A man unpacking pre-prepared maki rolls from the fridge directs me to just go on up the stairs. I make a mental note to pa.s.s on the sushi. I walk along a corridor with a row of staff lockers, past an open door leading into a bathroom where a cl.u.s.ter of exquisite and frighteningly young waitresses are touching up their make-up, and up the stairs to the door marked MANAGER. I knock and follow orders when a gruff "Come in!" is barked from within.

The door opens into an austere office overlooking the dancefloor below, a view supplemented by a monitor linked to the CCTV that switches between cameras every twenty seconds or so, including the ones in the bathrooms above the washbasins. A giant of a woman is going through a spreadsheet, if the reflection in the window behind her is any indication. She looks up wearily and s.n.a.t.c.hes off her gla.s.ses as if she's not used to wearing them. Or not used to being seen in them.

"Ag no. No-no-no," says Joey at the sight of me. She has ash-blonde hair ironed straight as an army bed-fold and silver glitter eyeshadow that enhances the difference between her eyes, one blue, one hazel. She is wearing a tuxedo with a corset that somewhat restrains her generous frame, but not her b.o.o.bs, which are doing their best to make an escape and take over the world. She must have made a fortune in her Former Life, which I'm guessing involved grinding up against a pole and many, many different laps. "I don't know who told you to come see me, my baby. But you are far too old. I'm sorry." no. No-no-no," says Joey at the sight of me. She has ash-blonde hair ironed straight as an army bed-fold and silver glitter eyeshadow that enhances the difference between her eyes, one blue, one hazel. She is wearing a tuxedo with a corset that somewhat restrains her generous frame, but not her b.o.o.bs, which are doing their best to make an escape and take over the world. She must have made a fortune in her Former Life, which I'm guessing involved grinding up against a pole and many, many different laps. "I don't know who told you to come see me, my baby. But you are far too old. I'm sorry."

"Can't I even waitress?" I hazard a guess.

"Sorry, my engel engel. That's a little too much exoticism even for our clientele. Dancers only. But maybe some place like the Foxhole would consider a mature girl like you."

"I really had my heart set on working here here." I whine a little and try a petulant look. "Odi said I could."

"Oh, did he now? Well, tough breaks, skattebol skattebol, you're no little Carmen. You can tell Odi he can make calls on staffing when he shows his face around here, not before." Her attention snaps back to her computer screen as if it's magnetic. "Are you still here?" she says, not looking up. I take the hint and head for the bar.

Front of house, Counter Rev is twenties decadence meets electro glam. Great Gatsby by way of Lady Gaga, in shades of white and silver. A ma.s.sive abstract chandelier cut from clear perspex hangs over the oval bar with its low, white neon counter, softly lit from underneath. Odi isn't f.u.c.king around. This is a far cry from the music venue grunge of Ba.s.s Station. The dancefloor is hemmed in by a ripple of booths in cool cream-coloured leather, the curve angled just right to allow each a modic.u.m of privacy while still sustaining maximum potential for seeing and being seen. Opposite the seating above, the DJ booths are three grand archways with raised platforms all fenced off with white bamboo bars strung with ribbons.

"You the new girl?" The bartender says, jerking his head at one of the dancer's cages. He's pretty in a schmodelly kinda way, apart from a long nose and skin too pale to pull off all-white in a white neon glow.

"Just a regular patron. Can you get me a G&T? Hold the G."

"All right," he says, pouring out a tonic water.

"Actually, you know what, give me the full equation." I ignore Sloth's hiss in my ear. "I think I've earned it."

"Whatever you say," he says and pours me a double. Sloth reaches out and tries to swipe the gla.s.s off the counter.

"Frisky little guy," I reprimand, grabbing his paw midswing. "Sorry, he can't handle his booze."

"Yeah, I've heard of that," the bartender says. "You affect the animal?"

"It's a problem," I admit. "Do you have somewhere I could stash him? A coat check, maybe?"

The bartender shakes his head, amused, but the query wasn't for his benefit. There are no more attempts from the peanut gallery to prevent me having my drink. I'm feeling reckless. It feels good.