Massage Parlour

I generally don’t go in for spas or massage. It’s the pampering that puts me off — the soft music, the hushed tones, the candles. I don’t like being made a fuss of. Stuff designed to soothe and calm actually raises my stress levels. If anything, I’d prefer the Turkish bath approach — some moustached brute slapping me about, bending me in half with a grimace and a grunt. But even that has its pitfalls. I tried it once in Istanbul at the age of twenty, and came away limping.

Some kid outside the hammam tried to polish my trainers afterwards — insisted on it. They were barely holding together, canvas and rubber. I declined politely. He pleaded. I pleaded back. In the end, he hurled his kit at me in frustration. I still wonder what he’d have done if I’d said yes.

Anyway. I digress.

This time, I had an actual backache — possibly from slouching at my desk job, coding JavaScript and sitting through pointless Zoom meetings. It was a Saturday morning. I was alone. Delphine was out shopping and the boys were with friends. I remembered a sign I’d seen: “Massage – £20” with an arrow pointing toward the industrial estate. That beat the £50 spa in the town centre. And the roughness of the location appealed. Less likely to be panpipe music and Himalayan salt lamps. More... real.

I called ahead. A woman answered in broken English. “No need book,” she said. “Just come.”

It was a hot, bright morning. I walked past the timber yard and van hire depot, past sunburnt signage and oil-streaked forecourts. The building itself was corrugated metal, two storeys, with a neon sign glowing faintly in the window. A little seedy. All the better.

Inside was a big, open space. Reception looked like a cocktail bar. An unsmiling woman sat behind a monitor.

“I called earlier,” I said.

“Take a seat.”

She gestured toward a grim, red vinyl sofa that looked like it had been wiped down too many times. It reminded me of those porn casting couches you wish you’d never seen online. The sun had striped it with light and shadow from the blinds, zebra-like.

She picked up her phone and spoke rapidly in a language I didn’t recognise. Another woman appeared, dragging a suitcase behind her like she’d just arrived from the airport. She disappeared into a door behind the desk without a word.

Then, a third woman appeared at the top of the stairs. She beckoned. I followed her up the metal staircase, feeling the heat intensify with each step. Upstairs was hotter. The room she led me into was basic — massage table set diagonally, small chair, a single towel.

“Two minutes,” she said, closing the door behind her.

I undressed, leaving my pants on. Draped the towel over myself. Sat on the table. Only then did I notice the monitor — a grainy four-way CCTV feed showing reception, corridors, and this very room. There I was, pixelated in my underpants. It felt less like wellness and more like surveillance. I wondered if this place was legal. Wondered if the cameras were there to deter theft or something darker — maybe to monitor the workers. A kind of silent control.

She returned. No small talk. Just the sound of oil being rubbed into hands — cold, thin, possibly sunflower. Her hands were bony, deliberate, not unskilled. But there was no rhythm to it, no pacing. No “harder or softer?” Just a task being completed.

Halfway through she said, “Turn.” I did. More oil. More prodding.

Eventually she said, “Done.”

She left. I wiped myself off, dressed, and made my way back downstairs. Nobody was at the desk. I stood awkwardly, then called out.

A new woman appeared.

“I just had a massage,” I said.

“Twenty pounds. Cash.”

As I paid, yet another woman walked through the door with a suitcase. This one looked different — stylish, like a flight attendant. Lipstick, heels, sleek hair. I stepped outside into the sunshine, pleased to have survived the experience. Pleased I hadn’t witnessed anything worse. Not especially relaxed, but somehow satisfied.

“Sometimes the benefits come the next day,” I told myself