The Hunger Read online

  It’s a warm spring afternoon and Soho seems darker than ever. I am drunk when I bump into John in a cafe in Greek Street. He can see how I am but he asks me anyway. I tell him things are good. The Club is doing well. I am holding myself together. He nods and I tell him:

  —The meetings weren’t for me. I feel for me it’s better to find my own way through this.

  He nods again and says something I don’t hear, then we shake hands and I make my way to the Soho Hotel. I’ve got a room booked. Two Wraps, a Regular and a Paid-For. I pound the living daylights out of them and with every thrust I sink deeper into a dark pit. As soon as I begin pounding I want it to be over. To be somewhere, anywhere, other than in this hotel room. As I’m pounding I think:

  —Too much sex is more tedious than celibacy.

  Esurio is at the bottom of the bed, trying to get the best angle to see into as many holes as he can at the same time. At one point he runs his tongue up a Wrap’s thigh and blows into her pussy. I’m amazed how narrow and pointed his tongue is. The Wrap shudders and wonders how I do it. He senses what I’m thinking:

  —The monastic life is not for you, Lincoln.

  I imagine how many paintings I might do if I wasn’t banging all the time.

  —And if you think about how many paintings you might create in a cloister, the answer will be none. Not a single one. Great art and excess are the perfect bedfellows. The one cannot live without the other.

  When I’m done I snort a few lines off their buttocks and leave. I take a deep breath as I walk out onto Dean Street. I try to take in some air but it is too thick and gooey for me to inhale. I make a list in my head of important things I know:

  IMPORTANT THINGS I KNOW

  1. I know what is bad for me

  2. I can know what is bad for me and still do it

  3. I am not Immortal

  4. Sex is overrated

  5. The second fall is always worse than the first

  I stop at five and create another list of important things I believe:

  IMPORTANT THINGS I BELIEVE

  1. However bad it gets, there’s always time to recover

  2. I can take more than other men because I am stronger

  3. If I run fast enough I can cheat death

  4. I can’t live without sex

  5. The worse it gets, the more I’ll prove everybody wrong

  I turn the two lists around in my head, trying to use one to make sense of the other when I almost fall down a hole in the ground. Luckily a workman shouts at me as I knock the red and white barrier down. I don’t feel a thing as I bash into it, but the shout draws me out of myself and I’m standing a couple of feet away from a hole the men have dug to work on some pipes. I want to kill the man for shouting at me. Then I’m grateful until the anger rises in me again. I’m about to walk away when I look down into the hole. I think it’s strange that I can’t see any pipes. It’s dark and seems to go on forever. A man asks me if I am OK. I say yes and thank him. He steps into the hole and I grab his arm to stop him from falling.

  —Careful! It’s very deep!

  He stands in the hole, his feet on the ground and his entire upper body above street level. He smiles at me. I have seen that smile before when an ambulance crew came to Frith Street to take a guy away who had been blessing passing cars for the best part of an afternoon.

  The second fall is much worse.

  When I get to The Office, the boys are there. It’s a few weeks until the Cannes Film Festival and Terry is panicking. He hasn’t got enough money to go. Or rather, he hasn’t got enough money to go, get smashed and get laid. Toby is his last chance. He is on his seventh shot and third line of coke and staring at his phone on the table.

  —Ring, you fucker, ring!

  I am sitting on the next table with Maynard and Simon. Maynard shakes his head and says:

  —Look, Terry, we’re all going anyway. It doesn’t matter too much if—

  —Doesn’t fucking matter! Of course it matters. Fifty grand from Toby turns a film festival into an orgy.

  The phone rings. Terry snatches it off the table.

  —Hi, Toby, how’s things? Great. Thought anymore about the Fund? Yes, I see, I can understand why you might want to wait. Shame about missing out on Cannes, though . . . Oh, sorry, I thought you knew. Only investors in the Fund get to Cannes . . . It would be good if you could. Cannes is a great place to network . . . Yes, that’s right. I’ve got several Film Funds off the ground in Cannes . . . I’m thinking Art-House. I’m seeing Werner . . . Herzog. And Thomas . . . Vinterberg . . . but I don’t want to rule out something more mainstream, either, so I’ll certainly be catching up with Ridley while I’m there . . . Scott . . . Anyone you’d like to see? Pity you can’t get the money to me before because she’ll be there and I can guarantee you an introduction. Yes, honestly. Guaranteed. I promise . . . You will, that’s wonderful!

  The boys punch the air.

  —. . . and of course cash is great. Just bring it round tomorrow . . .

  They stand up and start cheering.

  —. . . Oh, that’s just the crowd, Toby. I’m at a premiere and Charlize Theron just walked in. Look, I’ve got to go, she’s calling me over . . . You will, Toby, you will. See you tomorrow.

  Terry punches the air. Maynard gives him a massive bear hug. Everyone in the restaurant seems to be cheering.

  Maynard unhooks himself from Terry. He is a worrier and looks concerned.

  —What did you promise him, Terry?

  —Oh, nothing much.

  —Terry, what did you promise him?

  —I just told him he could join me and Megan Fox for dinner.

  —What the fuck did you tell him that for?

  —How else was I supposed to get the money? It closed the deal, didn’t it?

  —Great. We’re going to have some upper-class knob hanging around all week waiting for dinner with Megan fucking Fox!

  —Look, Maynard, by the end of the first day, he isn’t going to know where he is, who he is, what fucking planet he lives on. I could put Dame Edna Everage on top of him and tell him it’s Megan Fox and he’ll be the happiest man in Cannes.

  Esurio is delighted.

  —Bit of sun is exactly what you need right now, Lincoln. Go to Cannes and soak it up.

  He’s right. Since the Grand Ball I haven’t felt myself. It’s like I’ve been stalked by a Terrible Loneliness and whatever I take I can’t seem to get rid of it. Perhaps I don’t even care whether I live or die. It’s like I’ve lost hope but I don’t even know what I was hoping for. More? More of what? I used to crave pleasure. In recent days, it seems all my energy is spent taking the pain away. I am, however, certain there is a point, a quantity of booze and gear, where I will feel better. I just haven’t reached it yet.

  —Then just keep going, Lincoln. You’ll know it when you get there.

  —I will. Too fucking right I will.

  Three weeks later, I’m sitting next to Toby on the flight to Cannes. Somewhere in the back of the plane Terry, Steve, Maynard and Simon are asleep.

  —Goody good.

  I’ve just told Toby to expect the best time of his life. He is perhaps thirty. And he has a quiff. I feel sorry for him. I’m shaking from last night. To calm my nerves I took a line and half-a-dozen shots before we took off. But it’s not enough. If I’ve got to sit next to someone who says ‘goody good’ I haven’t a fucking clue what ‘enough’ would be. I close my eyes.

  —So, Lincoln, are you looking forward to the festival?

  I don’t want to talk. I don’t want any contact with anyone.

  —Yeah, it’ll be great.

  —Hope so. My good friend Burgess went once. Had a wonderful time. Can’t wait to meet Megan.

  He digs me in the ribs. I open my eyes and sit on my hands. They are fighting against the pressure, willing me to release them and let them knock his teeth out. One of them escapes and is waving wildly in the air.

  —It’s OK. I’ll call her. Stewar
dess? Here, please!

  She arrives as my arm is inches from his mouth.

  —Another vodka, sir?

  —Er, yeah. OK.

  Perhaps six hours later we are in a theatre in Cannes watching some Scandinavian film. It has subtitles. I guess it’s Scandinavian because every word seems to end in a vowel. I’ve no idea what the film is about. I can’t even see the screen. Occasionally I pop into the toilets to vomit. At the end the director gets on the stage but I haven’t a clue what he is talking about. I think it’s Tuesday and Terry’s got a party organised at our villa on Thursday. I need another drink. Another line.

  Wednesday disappears. On Thursday morning I wake up with three Wraps in my bed. Out on the balcony I can see Toby puking on his dressing gown. I shout at him:

  —Tonight, Toby, it’s Megan night!

  —Goo . . .

  He collapses on the floor. I guess he’ll be out until the afternoon.

  The bedside table is laced with coke. I take it. The Wraps are awake now.

  —You could have left some for us.

  I think that’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard. I am on my phone all morning. It was my job to organise twenty-five Wraps and get them to the villa. Or rather it was Tina’s job. I gave her two grand to sort it out. Terry has been on my back. He’s got some film guys coming over for the party.

  —Promise me, Lincoln, the girls will be there. I’m relying on you.

  I call Tina. We’re eight short.

  —Sorry, Lincoln. They were all here yesterday but they seem to have disappeared.

  —Disappeared! How can you lose eight girls in twenty-four hours?!

  I remember where we are and I’m relieved we’ve only lost eight. I kick everyone out of the flat. The boys carry Toby into the taxi still in his dressing gown. By late evening the villa is ready. We found four of the girls and Tina went around Cannes and picked up another five. One up on the deal! I walk through the villa. Jim, the mixologist, is set up by the pool. He’s a genius. His cocktails have appeared on the cover of Vanity Fair and he can stay sober long enough for the Wraps to take the guests beyond the point where they might notice a drop in standards.

  Ten-thirty. The guests begin to arrive. I greet them with a firm handshake. I am glad I took another line and a couple of shots to steady myself. Within an hour the ground floor of the villa is packed with men. Average age: forty. Average income: more than even I could dream of. Wraps are everywhere. Smart. No G-strings. They could be old money at Ascot. It takes maybe an hour, a few lines of coke, Jeroboams of Cristal Champagne, some Cuban cigars and endless shots of Kauffman vodka for the carnage to begin.

  My parties work because I know how men work. You can have all the money in the world but when the girls start working you’re a pauper who doesn’t even own his own mind. I smile as I watch the men begin to fight. A thick-set guy in a light-blue jacket and matching shoes puts twenty grand behind the bar. Another guy puts thirty. In every room some guy is having his cock sucked. The pool is full of naked girls. I call Terry over.

  —Where are the boys?

  —Upstairs I think.

  —Toby?

  —Fucked.

  —Great, let’s go up to my room.

  I signal to six Wraps. They follow me up the stairs. When we get to my bedroom, everyone is there. They are all fucked. Toby is slumped against the wardrobe. Simon is taking a line off the coffee table and smiling.

  —At least he’s getting his money’s worth!

  Within minutes the girls are naked. So am I. I’m leaning against the wall. My cock is hard. Toby opens his eyes and sees the girls. Then he catches a glimpse of my cock. He squints, unsure of what he is looking at. Terry shouts at him:

  —Hey, Toby, Megan’s come to see you.

  One of the Wraps walks over to him and runs her hands through his quiff.

  —Hi, I’m Megan . . .

  She plays the script to perfection.

  —Oh, my God, no . . .

  He crawls into the wardrobe and pulls the door behind him.

  —What’s the matter with him?

  —He’s just a bit star-struck.

  As I’m fucking, I hear a banging noise coming from inside the wardrobe then a hand coming out and touching the Wrap’s arse. It goes back inside the wardrobe. More banging. Out it comes again. The whole wardrobe is shaking. He really is an upper-class wanker.

  The next day the blossom outside my bedroom is radiant. Life after death is more beautiful than I ever imagined. The villa is wrecked. Naked bodies litter the floor. I walk over to the balcony and check the pool for any dead ones. All clear.

  A foot is hanging out of the wardrobe. I open the door. Toby is unconscious, his hand still holding his cock. He moans, dribbles from the left side of his mouth and then goes quiet. Another happy investor.

  I go out for a run. The sun is hot on my back and the world is strangely normal. As I pound along the beach I start crying. I don’t know where the tears come from. They just appear. I keep running. After perhaps five miles, I feel sick and my heart is screaming but I can’t stop. I want to die, sink under the sand with the sun on my back and the sea blue and beautiful. There’s only one thing worse than being a drunk and that’s those short gaps between one binge and the next, where a thin sliver of reality breaks through and I can see what I have become. I know there is no way back for me now, so I will keep running until I collapse and maybe some passer-by will pick me up and take me home. Or leave me in the gutter.

  When I get back to the villa, I join Maynard for a drink on a balcony overlooking the sea. His face is wobbling like one of those nodding donkeys my Dad used to have in his car. Except this is a slow wobble, as if the mechanism moving the head is grinding to a halt. He doesn’t acknowledge me when I sit next to him. His head finally stops moving. I notice he has a whisky in his hand. His hand is still and his eyes are closed.

  —Maynard . . . it’s me, Lincoln. Maynard! Are you dead? I’m relieved when he grunts. I imagine he has been sitting here for hours. I take the glass from his hand and, as the alcohol hits my throat, I am calm again. I look at Maynard’s face baking in the sun. He is sweating. He looks ill, and as I stare at him I feel a rush of love. Not the eternal love one drunk has for another. A deeper love. Compassion. As if all I want in this moment is for him to get up off the chair, walk down to the beach and just keep going. Keep moving until he is so far away he can’t be rerouted back to The Office. More than anyone I want Maynard to break free from all the shit. He is kind and funny. But above all, he is a man gifted with talent and I love him enough to hate him for wasting it.

  His right hand, locked into an empty grip where the whisky once was, moves. I slip the empty glass back into his hand. It takes him a few moments to notice the absence of liquid in his mouth. He opens his eyes. They are red and laced with death.

  —Whe . . . where . . .

  Giving up on the possibility of speech, he gestures with his head towards the empty hand.

  —Gone, Maynard. It’s all gone.

  He is unconscious again before I reply.

  We must have got back to London because I’m lying on my bed in Old Compton Street. I think it’s mid-afternoon. I need a drink. Now. I can hear Esurio pacing outside on the landing. I want him to go away. I need to sleep. I close my eyes and, as I feel myself drifting off, he storms into the bedroom and begins having a real go at me.

  —Get up! Now! I’m hungry, Lincoln, and all you can do is lie here feeling sorry for yourself. I’m not having it. Get up now!

  —Give me an hour, just one hour . . .

  —No! Time’s up. We’re going out now.

  I imagine my hands around his throat, squeezing the life out of him. He knows what I’m thinking and laughs at me. I put my hands over my ears and he prods me with his cane. I lunge out of the bed but whichever way I turn he is faster than me. I punch a hole in the wall in frustration. He laughs. The angrier I become, the funnier he finds it. He thrives on it. Ever since the Gr
and Ball, Esurio has changed. He can still be funny and charming, loving even, but most times he bullies me. He used to get aggressive now and then but these days he is more . . . contemptuous. That’s the word. He treats me like the dirt on his silver-buckled shoe. I wonder what this means and I make a mental note of six possible reasons for this change:

  1. He believes he doesn’t have to try anymore.

  2. He thinks I’m weak.

  3. He sees that I have surrendered.

  4. He wants to leave me.

  5. He can’t end our relationship until it reaches its natural conclusion.

  6. He is frustrated at being stuck with me.

  It occurs to me that these are really all one reason. All I am certain of is that he has changed and we are driving on to wherever he wants to take us. I am a passenger and I am resigned to what I have become. There was a time when I was able to do deals with him. He would give me a few hours’ rest in return for a night in the ‘red zone’. Now he won’t even do that. He says:

  —I only deal when I have to. You understand sales, Lincoln. When the deal is closed, never give anything away and I do not have to give you anything anymore.

  As I check my handkerchief in the mirror, I know he is too strong for me. Perhaps he always was and he was playing with me, like a cat toying with a mouse. There is entertainment value in the moments before an execution. I read once about why they used to hang, draw and quarter people. It wasn’t because they wanted to kill the prisoner. It was to keep him alive long enough for the mob to enjoy the pain. When I am done adjusting my jacket, I catch Esurio’s reflection in the mirror and let out a scream. His face is covered in a black hood and he is holding an axe. Beside him on the floor is a rack. When I turn, the rack is gone and he is back to his normal self: