The Hunger Page 6
—You’re not looking at the old one, are you? Please tell me you’re not.
Of course I am. I noticed her as soon as I walked in. Even through the booze and the gear I couldn’t miss her. I assume the woman with her, too old to be a Wrap, but still young, maybe mid-forties, is her daughter. The old woman gets up off her chair with the help of her daughter. I say to Maynard:
—Sixties or seventies?
—Seventies, I’d say. Early seventies.
—Yeah, I’d agree with that.
I catch her eye as she walks towards me. She knows, and because she knows, she presses her daughter’s hand. She says:
—Maybe time for one more?
Her daughter pushes her cheeks out and exhales years of resentment. This is an old woman with attitude – the demanding, relentless kind who will outlive her grandchildren. I take her in. She has long grey hair, tinted with silver. Her face is well made-up. The subtle foundation contrasts with her lipstick, which is too deep a shade of red. I like too deep a shade of red. A colour that deep is always a betrayal and an invitation. The daughter says:
—You have to get back. You know that.
The old woman looks at her watch.
—I’ve got an hour yet.
—But what about your medication?
—It can wait.
—How many times do you have to be told? It can’t wait.
I see Esurio standing behind them. He says:
—I feel a domestic brewing. Nothing whets a woman’s appetite for rebellion more than a domestic.
I smile at him. The old woman says:
—If I say it can wait, then it can bloody well wait.
—But what about me? I’ve got to get home too.
—Oh, I thought it might be about you. Always about you, isn’t it? One night out and you can’t wait to get rid of me.
—One night? I’ve spent more nights than I care to remember running after you, pandering to your every need.
—Then go. I’ll be just fine here.
She throws a half-smile in my direction. Esurio finishes a glass of vintage whisky and opens a half-bottle of Dornier-Tuller.
—We have lift-off, Lincoln.
The daughter snarls at the old woman.
—You’re impossible! And so stubborn! Well I have to go and I will go.
She turns to Maynard, who happens to be the closest approximation to a responsible-looking middle-aged man that she can find around the bar.
—Please will you make sure she just gets in a taxi.
Maynard says:
—Y . . . Y . . . Yes. Er . . . what’s her name?
—Fay.
Turning to Fay, he says:
—Don’t worry, Fay. I’ll get you home, wherever that is.
—It’s a long way.
—Everywhere’s easy from here.
Fay looks triumphantly at her daughter.
—Obviously not for some.
The daughter lowers her eyes, as Esurio raises his glass and says:
—Defeat is bad. Defeat coated in guilt is a prison of wretchedness.
Fay pretends not to notice as her daughter leaves and walks out into the night.
Maynard says:
—I promised I would get her home and I will.
I say nothing. I order another vodka tonic and turn to Fay.
—And what would you like?
Maynard says:
—Lincoln, I promised!
—And one for the considerate gent balancing on the bar stool.
Maynard puts his head in his left hand and keeps the right one extended. When I place a drink in his outstretched hand, the deal is done. Fay is mine. I will take her home. The next couple of hours are a blur but some detective work I do the next day tells me that our time at the Townhouse went something like this:
I leave Fay to go to the toilets.
I take three lines.
I come back.
Maynard falls off the bar stool.
No one can be bothered to lift him.
I feel sorry for him, so I pick him up and prop him against the bar.
Esurio says: Very noble, Lincoln. You are a true gentleman!
I drink two bottles of red wine and three bottles of Stella.
Fay has two glasses of red wine.
I notice she has a limp.
She says: It’s nothing.
I think: I hope it doesn’t get in the way.
Some Wraps are hanging around.
They want a drink.
They are invisible to me.
Esurio tries to look up Fay’s dress.
He has to lie flat on the floor.
When he comes up he says: A true Victorian lady but with a twist, a real twist.
I think: I wish he’d fucking shut up.
Fay talks.
I don’t hear what she is saying.
I go to the toilet and take another line.
When I come back Esurio is dancing on the tables.
He is beside himself with excitement.
He shouts across the bar: You are a man like no other, Lincoln, a man like no other!
I think: He’s right.
I feel like the King of Soho.
I think Fay’s lipstick is a bit smudged.
Then I’m unconscious for a while.
Two doormen carry me into a taxi.
They say: Good fucking riddance!
Esurio says: How rude! And to such a good customer.
The rest of the night I remember:
I open my eyes. I hear the rhythm of the taxi. Lights flash before my eyes. I feel sick. There is a hand on my thigh. I can’t focus. I run my hands down a leg. It’s covered in a dress. All the way to the floor. It can’t be a Wrap. Then I see the lipstick. Fay. I run my hand through her grey hair and down onto her neck. As I knead the wrinkles, I feel better and my cock is hard. My vision is weird. I struggle to focus. The taxi stops. Fay says:
—It’s OK, darling. Just follow me and be quiet.
I say:
—I really want to fuck you.
—Of course you do, darling.
She sounds like a nurse. I feel like a delusional sex addict on a psychiatric ward. I think:
—There is Truth in everything we feel.
When we get out of the taxi I make out some large, modern buildings. Fay says:
—You’ll have to be very quiet.
I say:
—Of course.
I think:
Quiet! What is she fucking talking about?
We go in through a side door. I think:
—That’s odd.
The lights are bright. I squint. I can see lots of doors. I say:
—You’ve got a really big house.
She looks confused. Then that nursey voice again, except this time it’s slower and more deliberate, like she’s talking to an adolescent with severe learning difficulties:
—Y–e–s i–t i–s, L–i–n–c–o–l–n. I–t i–s v–e–r–y b–i–g.
We go into her room. Then that switch goes on in my brain and I’m at it. I pound like a madman. She takes it like a gift she has waited years to receive. The bed vibrates and I can see her false teeth shaking inside her mouth, rising and falling in time with every thrust. After maybe an hour I notice how small the bed is. It’s a single bed. I think:
—She must have thrown the double out when her husband died.
I’m a slave. I’m obsessed. I want her more than I have wanted any other woman. Her eyes glaze over. For a moment I think:
—I hope she’s OK.
The moment passes and I forget. I forget everything. I’m lost in my own hunger. I hear Esurio shouting at me from the hallway outside:
—Feed me, Lincoln, feed me.
It goes on. And on. And on. When I’m done with her she says:
—Thank you.
These are the last words I hear before I fall into a deep sleep.
When I wake up, I feel sick. Fay is fast asleep. I have one foot in
the bed, the other on the side rail and my head on the floor. I pull myself up using a metal grip protruding from the wall next to the bed for leverage. I think:
—That’s handy.
I walk over to the bathroom. It’s big. I press my hands against the wall for balance as I piss. When I’m done I look for the flush. I pull a red cord above my head. Within seconds the room is like a nightclub. Lights flash in the bathroom and an alarm rings so loud I think my head’s going to explode. Red cord. Metal grips. I’m in a fucking care home!
Fay appears at the door. She is naked and looks like a granny doll with the stuffing taken out. I think:
—You are so fucking sexy!
I want her again but my head is spinning. She says:
—Lincoln, you need to get out now!
—Where?
—Through the window.
I rush out of the bathroom, fumble my clothes on and open the window. I turn to Fay:
—It’s got restrainers on! I can’t open it!
—Then force it open!
I bash it with my shoulder and fall out onto the grass. I think:
—Thank fuck we’re on the ground floor.
She says:
—Run, Linc, run!
I sprint across the grass and, as I look back, I see two nurses rush into Fay’s room. They see me on the grass. One of them shouts:
—Call the police! Call the police!
As I climb a wall onto the road, I look back and all I can see is Esurio riding a stairlift, faster than I ever thought a stairlift could move. He is going up and down the stairs at the end of the corridor using his cane as a riding crop. He is laughing hysterically and shouting at the top of his voice:
—Ecce Homo, Lincoln! Behold the Man! Behold the Man!
8 a.m.
I sprint back to my flat. There’s a Wrap in my bed. I need a drink. I need a line. She says:
—You look like you’ve seen a ghost.
—I have.
—Where have you been?
—You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
—Nothing would surprise me about you, Lincoln. Nothing.
In an hour, I’m at The Club for a photo shoot. It’s with twelve strippers for the 2010 calendar. I sit in one of the booths and watch the Wraps come in, one month at a time, one shaved pussy after another. I stare at them like I would a row of needy mannequins in a shop window. They disgust me. I disgust myself. I think of Fay. I wonder when her daughter will visit her again and what happened to her husband. If he’s dead, was it cancer or a stroke or some senseless accident? Perhaps he just left her after decades of marriage, his last stand against his own inevitable decay. There seems so much sadness in the world, and I so want her to be safe and well it hurts. I whisper quietly into my coffee:
—Thank you, Fay, thank you, Fay, thank you, Fay.
I look up and Esurio is standing in front of me shaking his head.
—It’s time to go now, Lincoln, time to go. I have something special lined up for you tonight.
I put the coffee down and leave the booth. I can still hear the camera clicking and the clunk of stilettos on the dance floor as Esurio opens the door for me and I walk into another day. By the time I’m on Wardour Street, Fay is a distant memory.
Midnight
I’m in a large warehouse in Soho and the cameras are rolling. There are about twenty beds dotted around the floor, a camera focused on each one of them. There’s a naked Wrap on each bed with a sex toy in one hand and a phone in the other. Sometimes there are two or even three Wraps on one bed playing with each other. On the back wall are rows of neon numbers.
—What do those numbers mean?
Kevin, who runs the operation, replies:
—That’s the number of callers listening.
This is the world of late-night sex chat for television. All the girls are being broadcast live on satellite and cable.
—Listening?
—Yep. That’s how I make my money. For every caller talking to the girls, there’s shitloads of dickheads just listening.
I look at the neon numbers. 17. 33. 42. 19. 57. I’m too fucked to count properly but by rounding up to the nearest ten I make it 420 listeners. Kevin passes me a pair of headphones.
—Here. This is what’s happening on Bed Three. It’s Danni, one of my top girls. One caller and you can see she’s got more than seventy listeners right now.
I glance at Bed Three. I need to fuck Danni. Now. I put the headphones on. A man with a quiet, drawling voice, is talking:
—I like Tesco’s best. The blue and white bags. The vegetables on the shelves. Especially the cucumbers.
—Ooh, darling, what do you like best about the cucumbers?
—They’re long and they’re Tesco cucumbers.
—Ooh, yes, and what would you do with a cucumber?
—Not a cucumber. A Tesco cucumber.
Danni may be the top girl but she’s struggling with this one. Then she gets it:
—I bet you’ve touched a Tesco cucumber when you’re in the supermarket and thought what you’d like to do with it, haven’t you?
—Yes I have.
—And what’s so special about Tesco cucumbers?
—It’s putting it in the bag. I like sliding it in then dropping it so the bag makes a noise.
—Have you got a Tesco bag with you now, darling?
—Yes I have.
—Is there a cucumber in it?
—Yes, and I’m touching it now.
—Let me hear you move it in the bag.
A rustling sound shoots through my head. I am pissing myself laughing. I look up at the numbers. Listeners are now in three figures.
—I’m moving it around.
—Can you stroke it for me, baby?
—I’m stroking it now.
—Ooh, I bet that feels good, doesn’t it. Stroke it harder for me, baby.
—I am, I am. Oh, oh, oh . . .
The line goes dead. Another happy customer. I have tears in my eyes and Kevin is cracking up next to me. When he sorts himself out, he points to the neon numbers:
—And that’s how I make the money. One guy talks, hundreds listen and I want listeners not talkers.
—Why’s that?
—Because talkers stop paying when the call ends while listeners stay on for hours. Cowardice costs money.
—How many of the models do you fuck?
—Hardly any. I’m so used to seeing naked girls it’s about as much of a turn-on as a meeting with Mother Teresa. Probably less so. I even thought I was turning gay at one point.
I smile. I think he’s insane.
I turn and see Esurio. He’s lying on one of the beds helping two Wraps fuck each other with a dildo. They seem surprised at how well they’re angling the dildo. He looks over at me:
—What a den of iniquity! This is what we want, Lincoln. Look at all the degenerate ladies. They’re everywhere!
I watch him as he jumps from one bed to another. There’s a blonde Wrap standing up on the corner bed and bending over, arse to camera. Esurio lies between her legs, running his fingers down her back. She shudders and wonders if the air-conditioning has been put on too cold. He moves like a ballerina using the beds as an improvised stage set. I go to the toilet and take four more lines. When I come out Esurio is running his fingers through Danni’s hair. He has left me seven bottles of Stella on the chair I was sitting on.
—Now this is your favourite, isn’t it?
Within an hour the bottles are gone and I’m staring at Danni. She goes off camera and walks towards the toilet. I follow her. I need her. More than I have ever needed anything in the world. I want her. I want to pound her. I can feel my guts twisting, gnawing at me, screaming at me. When I was about seven my Mum said to me:
—The thing about you, Lincoln, is that you always want what you haven’t got and when you’ve had it you want something else.
When I was a teenager I was seeing a girl called Vicky. Her Mum said to me:
—I don’t want you seeing my daughter anymore. There’s something about you. It’s in your eyes. They’re all fiery. I just want her to go out with a normal boy because I know she’ll never be happy with you.
Kevin is pissed off. He’s banging on the cubicle door.
—I want her out of there now, Lincoln.
I don’t ignore him because I can’t even hear him. He has no idea how helpless I am. Then a door hits me on the back. I cling on to Danni with all my strength. I will not let her go. I feel hands. Four. Six. Perhaps more. Pulling me away from her and they carry me, my trousers around my ankles, to the fire exit and throw me out into a narrow alleyway. I slump against the wall. I think my cock is still out. There is litter everywhere and the smell of dog piss is so strong it finds its way through the barricade of alcohol and gear. Esurio is sitting next to me, looking up at the stars:
—What was it your hapless employer once said to you?
—Who?
—The one who said your fate was the gutter or the stars . . .
—Ah, my transport boss, Frank.
—That’s the man. Lincoln. But you see, he was quite wrong. You can have them both. All you have to do is know where to find them.
Esurio gestures extravagantly, moving his arm from the alley to the sky and back down again.
—And I honestly believe we have found the perfect place.
The Next Day
I wake up and the left side of my face feels numb. I look in the mirror. There’s a small cut and some swelling just above my jaw. It’s just gone eight. I shower, put my tracksuit on, drop some cash in my pocket and go out for a run. The sky is grey. I sprint for the first three miles, then jog, then sprint. My chest begins to hurt. It clenches with fury. I am burning. I look at my hands as I run, waiting for the fire to break through my skin. I’m ecstatic at the thought of flames rising from my hands. Burning from the inside out. I don’t know how far I run before the fire begins to cool. Perhaps nine or ten miles. I’m on Bond Street and I make my way towards Selfridges. I’m dripping with sweat. My eyes are like fucking saucers. I need a drink. I want to punch someone. I crave a confrontation. Two security guards standing at the entrance to Selfridges move towards me as I run towards them, then, as I get close enough for them to see the creature they are dealing with, they let me pass. I’m disappointed. I need a drink. My face hurts. I’m struggling for breath. I stop at the Gucci concession on the ground floor and lean against the wall. No one comes near me. I go to the toilets, throw up and wash my face. I put a toilet seat down and sit on it, my head in my hands. I want to rest. To be able to rest. I say: