The Hunger Read online

  The Day of Judgement

  January–February 2011

  I am preparing for two Court Appearances in eight weeks. The first one is a week from now and the second one about a month after that. People around Soho, those who know about this shit, are being really nice to me. Maynard says:

  —You’ll be all right, Linc. Think of the court as a stage and you’ll even enjoy it.

  Some of my Regulars send me texts. Here’s a few:

  U r a star! Luv u. Suzie x

  Blow job when you win! XXXX S.

  Talk as good as you bang and you’ll win easy! X Jen

  Fuck them like u fuck me. Slurps. Simone.

  I get about thirty. Most of them include pictures as an added incentive. I show them to the boys in The Office. They are used to seeing my messages from Wraps. I hate their indifference, so I show them the picture message from Katie. She has a butt plug in her arse:

  One for me and one for the judge! Kisses. K

  They like that and I feel proud of myself.

  Meeting My Barrister

  Two days before my First Court Appearance, Benjamin, my lawyer, who handles most of the cases for the Lost Men of Soho, introduces me to my barrister, Tristram. I think:

  How can a man called Tristram defend me?

  I know Benjamin, who looks as if he might be as comfortable in the dock as out of it, is thinking the same. As the meeting kicks off, he nods at me as if to say:

  —You’re fucking lucky to get anyone to defend you, so please be polite to Tristram.

  I am. Very polite. Things are going well in the opening exchanges until he ruins it:

  —I think you should plead guilty to the charge.

  —But it’s assaulting a police officer. I could serve time for that.

  —While that’s true I can only advise you professionally and we can put up some strong mitigation.

  —What mitigation?

  —Well, you were provoked in the bar at Ronnie Scott’s, followed into the toilets, and, by the time the police arrived, you were beside yourself with confusion. I also understand you had your penis out at the time because you had been urinating and you had not had time to adjust yourself. You, therefore, faced a very humiliating situation.

  —Is that it?

  —That’s the best we can do, I’m afraid.

  —But there were no witnesses and I have my side to the story.

  —I’m sure you do have your side of the story, and I will do my best to convey it to the judge. However, there was a witness and it is not good for you.

  —What fucking witness?

  Benjamin gives me a look.

  —Sorry, what witness?

  —CCTV. It was all caught on camera. The police officer is merely trying to restrain you when you engage in a flurry of headbutts, punches and kicks. Given the strength of this evidence, it will work in your favour to plead guilty and to be contrite.

  When I get back to The Office, Simon asks:

  —How did you get on?

  —I’ve got to plead guilty and be contrite.

  —That’s not like you, Linc. What does it mean?

  —It means I’m fucked.

  My First Court Appearance

  I sit in a dock flanked by two police officers. We all stand when the judge comes in. He looks over at me. I catch an impression of contempt. I smile. Not too creepily. Just a little show of respect. It doesn’t work. He gives me the same look again, only this time it’s laced with a sneer.

  Tristram puts up as good a show as he can. A couple of Regulars and one Occasional are sitting in the public gallery. I smile at them. One of them rolls her tongue at me. The judge sees her doing it. I wish she hadn’t done it. The day whizzes by in a flurry of legal argument. After about an hour I have a thought:

  —This is great. It’ll soon be over and I can get hammered in The Office.

  This thought recurs throughout the day, growing in strength during the afternoon. The stronger it gets, the more untouchable I feel. I think:

  —And after I get hammered I’ll celebrate by banging the two Regulars and the Occasional in my flat.

  In a recess, while we wait for the judge to consider the verdict, Tristram calls me into a small meeting room.

  —Have you brought an overnight bag?

  —What for? If he can’t sort himself out and pass a sentence by close of play what’s he want me to do? Sleep in the dock?

  —No, of course not.

  His tone reminds me I’m a bit of leftover dinner on his shoe. He finishes:

  —You may face a short custodial sentence and, if that is the case, you will be taken to prison directly from the court.

  I feel the blood drain from my face and hands. The same thought goes round and round my head:

  No drink. No coke. No cunt. And no Telling in The Office.

  I’m still in shock when we are called back into the court. The judge rattles on for what seems like forever. I don’t hear a word of it until:

  —. . . and I therefore sentence you, Mr Townley, to pay a fine of one thousand two hundred pounds plus costs, and to attend an anger management course, the details of which will be specified by your Probation Officer.

  I am ecstatic as I make my way out of the court. I get into a taxi with the Wraps. One of them wanks me off on the way to Soho. The boys have champagne on ice and applaud when I walk into The Office.

  My Second Court Appearance

  In the days after being released by the court, my mood returns to the black indifference that has become so familiar to me now. The Anger Management course makes me angry. I want to punch the tutor, a smug-looking, professor type, who tries to be ‘one of us’ by wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He speaks with the kind of well-meaning earnestness which is stained with dishonesty. I’d rather be taught by a cold-blooded killer. At least he’d make me feel human. I make a point of turning up every day in a jacket, my trademark handkerchief popping out of the top pocket. I don’t punch the tutor but, after the fourth session, I get into an argument with another of the losers on the course when he pushes me in the back and the tea I’m carrying spills on my shirt. I turn and, as I hit him, I just catch him saying:

  —Sorry, it was an acc—

  No one saw us and he is still conscious, so I pick him up and apologise:

  —Sorry, man. Keep this between us, yeah?

  He nods. He wants to kill me but I am stronger than him. So he nods.

  Meeting My Barrister – Again

  I have the same barrister for my Second Court Appearance. It feels like Groundhog Day:

  —I’m afraid I recommend you go guilty this time too. There is some CCTV evidence of you beating up the paparazzi, as well as several witness statements including three from officers involved in your arrest and, as for possession of cocaine, the substance was in your pocket with your fingerprints on the paper.

  —I suppose I’d better take an overnight bag this time too?

  —Best to be on the safe side, although there is much stronger mitigation this time.

  —Like what?

  —You were struck first by one of the paparazzi and you were clearly concerned for the safety of the women in your company. You were then set upon by four paparazzi, who retreated when they realised they were no match for you physically. Your only crime is to exact such ferocious retribution you could easily have killed one or more of them. The fact that you ripped your shirt off only strengthens the prosecution case that, rather than walk away to safety, you wanted to satisfy your desire for revenge at any cost.

  —What are the chances of me being sent down?

  —Thirty per cent.

  —So it’s in my favour.

  —Statistically, yes.

  —What other measure is there other than numbers?

  He looks at me without answering.

  My Second Court Appearance

  In the week before the case I receive over seventy texts from Wraps and mates. Most are the same as the last ones but I get a specia
l one from a Hungarian Occasional called Natasha:

  You stood for me. I remember. Good luck! Natasha.

  It was in Nobu in Mayfair. We were in the bar downstairs going through the menu when a guy started hassling her. I told him to back off. He didn’t listen so I stood up, grabbed him by the wrist, and began squeezing. He felt my rage coursing through his veins. I said:

  —Back off or I’ll snap your wrist and, if you’re not out of this restaurant in one minute, I’ll break your neck.

  He made the mistake of looking into my eyes when I said it. I could feel the fear in his wrist. He went out so fast it looked like a sprint to the door. When he was gone, Natasha kissed me on the cheek.

  —No one protect me before. No one. Thanking you.

  I banged her that night and we still do it about once every couple of months.

  When I walk into court, there are six Regulars in the public gallery. They smile but I can see they’re frightened. I care less for myself than they do. I do not understand their love.

  The trial lasts two days. Most of the time is spent on technical arguments. All I want to do is drink and snort and fuck. During his summing-up, the judge says:

  —Your behaviour, Mr Townley, was lamentable. You are clearly a violent man with little or no control over your actions. You attacked those men with no concern whatsoever over their safety. In fact, I believe your motives were more sinister than simple lack of concern. It is my conviction based on the evidence that you wanted to hurt those photographers.

  I look across at Tristram. He gives no indication of what he’s feeling. The longer the judge goes on, the worse I feel. By the time he reaches the end, I’m preparing myself for ten years inside. I want to say:

  —I care less about my fate than you. Do your worst. I am beyond pain.

  Somehow I restrain myself. I’m glad about that. The punishment is a fine. I’m out. Back in The Office, I’m getting hammered with Maynard, Terry, Steve, Simon and a brothelload of Wraps. By about midnight I’m as fucked as I’ve ever been. Esurio is keeping a track of everything I’m taking. At one point he is jumping with excitement and he says:

  —I feel the end is near, Lincoln. No one can take this much alcohol and cocaine and wake up anything other than delirious beyond measure. To be acquitted by a stranger and then executed by your own hand, and all on the same day! Poetic justice, Lincoln, poetic justice!

  At some point I pass out and, when I wake up, The Office is shut and I am alone, slumped on a table near the back. There’s a small fridge behind the bar where Mario always puts my unfinished bottles. I’m shaking and my heart is pounding. The sweat is pouring down my face and a tsunami of anxiety floods every cell of my nervous system. I need a drink. I stagger over to the fridge and pull out a bottle of red wine. It is almost full and I take it back to the table. I begin drinking from the bottle but I can’t stop shaking and the wine splashes over my face and jacket. I grab the neck of the bottle with two hands to steady myself but that seems to make it worse. By the time the bottle is empty, half of it is on my face and clothes. I collapse onto the table. I try to make out what time it is. I can’t see the hands on my watch. I move my wrist back and forth to help me focus. I think it’s ten past five in the morning. Mario will be here in just over an hour. I need a piss. I can’t move and a warm liquid flows down my leg. I can’t think straight. My brain is mush. Strange noises howl in my head. Dark shadows dance around me. My world is twisting and melting and I know I’m dying. I open my eyes for what I’m sure will be the last time. I see Esurio behind the bar, sitting on a large, throne-like chair. He pours himself some drinks and lays out a number of lines. He snorts a few, waves his handkerchief across his nose and sniffs in my direction before he finishes a glass of absinthe and bangs his cane on the floor.

  —Lincoln Maximilian Townley, I accuse you of the crime of Treachery. Stand up at the table as I speak to you and the first witness will come into the courtroom.

  I am strangely sober and able to stand. I turn to see who he is and I watch him as he walks towards me. He is perhaps a little shorter than me and wearing a suit and tie. I am sure I recognise his walk and the way his body moves. I pick up a familiar smell of tobacco drifting towards me. When he gets close enough our eyes meet and when I realise who he is, my legs give way under me and I grip the table to stop myself from falling.

  —How? How can it be you?

  The short dark hair, parted at the side, the broad reassuring shoulders, the smile I haven’t seen in decades. He stops maybe ten feet away from me and looks at me. I hold his gaze and we stay like that until Esurio breaks the silence and addresses my accuser:

  —Lincoln John Townley, you are the father of the accused, Lincoln Maximilian Townley?

  —Yes I am.

  —You wish to bring a charge against your son of Treachery.

  —I do.

  —You are certain of the charge and you are ready to produce evidence of his Treachery?

  —I am.

  —And who has the accused betrayed?

  —Himself.

  —Lincoln Maximilian Townley, you have heard from your accuser. How do you plead?

  I’m gasping for air and my legs feel so light I think they’re going to buckle under me. My voice is slow and croaky:

  —I don’t understand . . . How can I be charged with . . . Treachery against myself?

  —Lincoln, please enter a plea.

  I can barely speak.

  —Not . . . guilty . . .

  —Please proceed with the cross-examination.

  For a long while Dad doesn’t speak. We are both sponges, absorbing each other, measuring the changes since we last met, one small fragment at a time. His face is sad and warm until he looks down at the ground, takes a deeper breath, and, when he looks up, his expression has changed. It is stronger now, more determined, ready to say what he has come to say.

  —I’m sorry to be the one who has to do this.

  —But how? How have I betrayed myself?

  —More ways than I can remember. I wanted everything for you. I wanted you to grow up strong and be someone your Mum could be proud of, to be there for her and make something of yourself. You’re smart, a better salesman than I ever was, perhaps one of the best, and you could have done better for yourself. How much money have you earned?

  —I don’t know. Loads over the years.

  —And how much have you got left?

  —Nothing.

  —Do you own a house?

  —No.

  —A car?

  —No.

  —So what have you done with all your talent? Where have you wasted it?

  I lower my head. Esurio intervenes:

  —Please display the first exhibit.

  A screen drops down behind the bar and a film begins to play. It shows me around Soho drinking, snorting, fighting. It lasts a few minutes but the scenes move so fast it feels like my life in Soho played out in seconds. I see all the people I know, The Boss and the staff at The Club, the boys at The Office and countless Wraps, as I have never seen them before. When my back is turned, sometimes they carry on laughing or just ignore me, but often they share a look. I have never seen this look before. They look at me with concern. I see them caring for me, maybe for just a moment, before I beat the concern out of them with another act of heroic stupidity. I cannot imagine I am worth anything at all except a moment’s entertainment, a funny obituary and a wake Caligula would be proud of. But that look is real and I never saw it until now.

  The film ends and my father continues:

  —You stamp all over what other people give you. They care for you and you waste their love.

  Dad looks up at Esurio who says:

  —Play the second exhibit.

  It’s a few weeks after Dad died, and Mum is in the kitchen of our council house. She is sat at the kitchen table alone. I think she is crying. Then I see her as she is now, maybe a little older, putting flowers on a grave. I think they are for Dad but they are
for me. The stone reads:

  Lincoln Maximilian Townley

  1972 – 2012

  Aged 40 years

  No fancy words. Just a name and some numbers. I wonder how I died. Dad looks at me:

  —You let us all down, Lincoln. You betrayed me, your Mum, all of us. Above all, you betrayed yourself. This isn’t the life I wanted for you and it’s not what I want for you now. I’m here because I want you to live a longer life than me.

  These words cut into me like a knife. They are an assault on my heart and I snap with rage:

  —Care? Because you care? It’s too fucking late for that now. You left me. Remember? In a fucking caravan park. I was a kid and you just dropped down and left.

  —I couldn’t help that.

  —Yes you could. You could have smoked less, you could have looked after yourself better, you could have lived like I was worth sticking around for. But you didn’t. At least I’m a fighter. If I get knocked down, I get back up again. I don’t quit. Never. Not like you. You quit on me and all of us. You show me a film of Mum crying. What for? You should have been there with her. Not me. You. That was your job as a husband and a father. To be there for us. But you quit. And yeah I messed up my life. I drink too much, fight too much, fuck too much. But you should be standing where I am and I should be the one accusing you and you know what the charge is? Neglect. I loved you. I looked up to you. I wanted to be like you and then you fucked off. Two of us died in that caravan park. You died and there was a body and a funeral. But I died too. I died on the inside and no one gave a fuck. They didn’t even know. And now, after all these years, you come back here and accuse me of Treachery. I am not guilty, you hear me, not guilty.

  —Maybe you’re right. Maybe I didn’t live my life well enough and it was taken off me. I’ve spent years watching you get angry and fight and run and I need to know that I died for something.

  —So it’s all about you?

  —No . . .

  —What’s it about then?