The Hunger Page 7

  —Five minutes. All I ask is for five minutes.

  A voice from the next cubicle replies. I know it’s Esurio:

  —Now, you don’t really want to rest, do you? It’s a dangerous thing to rest. It’s easy to get accustomed to a slower pace of life and we don’t want that, do we, Lincoln?

  —I just want five minutes then I’ll be fine.

  The tone of Esurio’s voice becomes more insistent and I can hear his cane banging on the wall of the cubicle.

  —No! I will not give you five minutes! Get out of here now and keep moving, Lincoln. Keep moving!

  In seconds I’m at one of the cosmetics concessions. The woman serving me is the right side of fifty. She may even have turned sixty. Esurio is shouting across the shop floor:

  —Don’t ever think of slowing down again. So much opportunity and so little time. I will be your timekeeper, Lincoln, and my watch is a machine of perpetual motion. Perpetual, do you hear me? Perpetual!

  I haven’t a fucking clue what he is saying to me because my attention is locked like a missile on the woman trying various concealers on my skin.

  —There. Perfect.

  She pushes a mirror in front of my face. I can’t see the cuts and the swelling seems less.

  I’ve read about stalkers. I’ve even known people who have been followed by them, but I never really understand them. What do they want? Why don’t they give up? Why can’t they give up?

  After she finishes for the day, the woman on the cosmetics counter whose name is Sharon and who is, in fact, sixty-one, meets me at The Office. We fuck in three places. The toilets. Then my flat. Then the toilets again. When we’re done she asks:

  —When can we meet again?

  I don’t understand the depths behind the question. I say:

  —Whenever you want.

  —So, you’re usually here, then, in The Office or at your flat?

  —Sure. Or anywhere in Soho.

  —Look, I need to know. I need you to be specific.

  I’m sober enough to sense that what she’s saying is odd. Esurio chips in before I get too suspicious:

  —She wants you so much, Lincoln, she wants to know where you are all the time. That’s your power over women. They just can’t get enough of you. You are the Master!

  I think:

  —You’re so fucking right! You know me better than I know myself.

  So I give her my mobile number and I say:

  —If you can’t find me just call me and we can meet up whenever you want.

  She smiles. I walk out onto the street knowing with absolute certainty that I am the King of Soho. I do not yet know that she is crazy. I get my first hint the next day. I’m going into a meeting with The Boss when I see a text from Sharon. It says:

  —Where are you?

  I think:

  —I’ll reply when I get out of the meeting. Always good to keep them waiting. Let them know who’s Boss.

  When I get out of the meeting I have over a hundred texts. All from her. Here’s a small selection:

  —Where are you?

  —Where are you?

  —I need to know. Where are you?

  —Please don’t ignore me. Just tell me where you are and we can meet up later.

  —Are you trying to hurt me?

  —Please, please, please, please, tell me where you are.

  —I am not your toy. I deserve respect.

  —I gave you everything.

  —How can you do this to me?

  —Do NOT NOT NOT NOT ignore me.

  —I love you.

  —I hate you.

  —I want to hurt you.

  —Sorry about the last text. I don’t really want to hurt you. I just want to know where you are. I want to be with you.

  —Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

  —We are made for each other.

  —Please fuck me.

  —Don’t you think we are made for each other?

  —You will.

  —If you won’t tell me where you are, I’ll find you.

  —I’ll find you.

  —Bastard.

  Esurio is looking over my shoulder and reading the texts with me.

  —Got ourselves in a bit of a pickle, haven’t we?

  —What should I do?

  —How am I supposed to know?

  —You seem to know most things.

  —Lincoln, I know how to make things worse. I’m afraid I’m not so good at making them better. Why don’t you meet her and have some more fun? She’s obviously a lady in need of more entertainment.

  I think:

  That’s crazy!

  Then I think:

  Maybe he’s right. Some ‘Lincy Love’ will sort her out. I can bang some sense into her.

  Esurio says:

  —You need to make sure you’re fuelled when she comes round, Lincoln. Really fuelled.

  After five hundred press-ups, two hundred crunches and a round of ridiculous weights, I leave the gym and I think:

  My heart must be really strong. I can take anything!

  When she arrives at my flat, she says:

  —I need you. I want you. I love you. You can do anything you want to me.

  So I do. I go mental on her. After three hours of pounding like a sewing machine, I have marked her. She will never forget me now. When I’m done she can’t walk for a while, so I take the opportunity to say:

  —Now we can both move on.

  —What do you mean ‘move on’?

  —Well, you know, move on.

  —But Lincoln, we’re made for each other. You love me.

  —Look . . .

  I can’t finish my sentence. I know I have just fuelled her madness with mine. I’m worried. And with good reason. Over the next couple of weeks this is what happens:

  • She sends me shit-loads of texts every day. One of the nicer ones says she wants to cut off my cock and feed it to her pet dog.

  • She follows me. I lose count of the amount of times I turn around and she’s walking a short distance behind me. Sometimes she smiles. Not a nice smile. A snarly, haunted one. Other times she waves, like we’re best friends meeting after a long absence.

  Esurio says:

  —At least you know what a stalker is now, Lincoln, and that was something you didn’t know before you met Sharon. Like Tony Robbins says: it’s what you learn that matters.

  • When I go to The Club for business meetings, she waits outside. Sometimes she presses her face against the one-way glass, trying to look into The Club. Violet, the receptionist, gets a bit freaked out so she shouts through the glass:

  —What do you want?

  —I’m Lincoln’s girlfriend and I’m waiting for him.

  Violet tells her to go and sit in Pret across the road and wait for me there. When Sharon bangs on the glass a few times, Violet calls Security, and when I leave The Club after meeting The Boss and George, Sharon is sitting in Pret smiling and waving at me to join her. I want to throw the stupid bitch under a bus but she is talking to a blonde barista called Marcia who I like. A lot.

  Marcia: How’s things, Lincoln? I like your new girlfriend. She says you’re moving in together.

  Lincoln:What are you talking about?

  Sharon: (touching my arm) It’s all right, love. No need to be shy. I told Marcia all about us and the wonderful places you’ve taken me.

  Lincoln: What places? Old Compton Street? Just fuck off out of here!

  Marcia: That’s no way to talk to your girlfriend.

  Lincoln: She’s not my fucking girlfriend! She’s a nutter!

  Sharon: (to Marcia) He always says that. (to me) Not used to being in love yet, are you, sweetie?

  Lincoln: We’re not fucking in love! You’re a loon!

  Marcia: Come on, Lincoln, she’s shown me the brochures.

  Lincoln: What brochures?

  Sharon: These darling.

  Sharon pulls out a handful of property details. Flats in and around Soho. />
  Lincoln: That’s not real! (to Sharon) And if you don’t fuck off I’ll get you locked up.

  Customers are staring, sensing blood.

  Marcia: Easy, Lincoln. Sharon said you were having some problems.

  Lincoln: Problems? What fucking problems?

  Sharon: I’m afraid I told her about the drugs and what the psychiatrist said.

  Lincoln: What?!

  Marcia: I think it’s wonderful that Sharon’s paying for your treatment. It will really help you get back on your feet.

  I turn to face the counter, where Esurio is standing. He has a wicked laugh splattered all over his face.

  Lincoln: (to Esurio) What are you laughing at? I need some help here . . .

  Sharon: (to Marcia) You see, like I said, he talks a lot to someone who’s not there.

  Marcia: Must be his imaginary friend. (to me) What’s his name?

  Lincoln: Esurio! And he’s as real as you and me.

  Sharon: Of course he is, darling. Now I think it’s time to leave.

  Sharon and Marcia exchange a knowing look. I kick the door and make my way to The Office leaving Sharon standing at the top of the street.

  Sharon: I love you! I love you! I love you!

  • Sharon freaks out the Wraps. She stands outside my flat screaming:

  —Shag me, shag me, please shag me!

  One of the Wraps lets her in and she keeps banging her head against my bedroom door. The Wrap sends me a text saying:

  Your crazy girlfriend is banging her head against your bedroom door. I gave her some coke to help calm her down. She’s begging you to fuck her. Should I call the police or are you coming round to shag her?

  I text back:

  She’s not my fucking girlfriend and don’t even think about calling the police. I’ll be round in five minutes.

  A few seconds later I text again:

  And I’m not going to shag her.

  Then she disappears out of my life. The first thing I notice is that I haven’t had a text for half an hour, then an hour, then a whole day. After a couple of days I get a call from an Unknown number. Unknown has lost its appeal to me. It is tainted with fear. I answer it. A man says:

  —Hello, Lincoln?

  —Who’s that?

  —David. Sharon’s son.

  —Yeah?

  —I would just like to apologise for my mother. She’s not well. I’m taking her back to Cornwall. She won’t bother you again.

  Esurio says:

  —Now it all makes perfect sense. Cornwall.

  —What do you mean?

  —Not our kind of madness, Lincoln. Cornwall is full of druids, temple bells, angels, fairies, spirit-channelling and healing with hieroglyphics. A blight on the face of the earth, if you ask me.

  I don’t know what he’s talking about. I take a line and open a bottle of Rioja. Within minutes I’m dreaming of the next Wrap and Sharon is already a distant memory.

  A Magical Christmas

  Esurio is like an excited five-year-old.

  —I adore Christmas, Lincoln, adore it.

  He’s making some notes in a fancy snakeskin notebook.

  —What are you writing?

  —I’m not writing. I’m planning!

  —What are you planning then?

  —I’m planning a special Christmas for us, Lincoln.

  —Like what?

  —I don’t know for certain yet, that’s why I’m planning.

  —Well, give me a fucking clue . . .

  —OK. These are only ideas, you understand. Very rough outpourings of my imagination. But I do think you will like them.

  —Try me.

  —Well, it’s fair to say in recent years your Christmases have been a bit disappointing. I agree that you did your best to throw up over the Christmas turkey last year but that was down to a tummy bug rather than any excess of your own doing. And the years before, well, there were a few parties here and there but nothing to satisfy a man like me. But now things are different. This is our first Soho Christmas and we have to make the most of it. You don’t know if it will be our last.

  —Well, it’s not going to be our last, is it? I intend to stay here a long time.

  —I don’t deny your intention, Lincoln, but Soho isn’t like that, is it? You may intend to stay but then, one sunny day, it’s one tipple too many and you’ve gone to the Big Bar in the Sky.

  —Thanks for your optimism.

  —My pleasure. Now listen to this. It may help you on your way. I’ve called it Esurio’s Magical Christmas.

  —Fucking get on with it.

  —OK. During the Merry Month of December, Lincoln will aim to surpass all previous achievements in his life by undertaking some very tricky challenges. To date, I have enumerated three and I believe they will suffice. First: to inseminate at least fifty ladies. These can be young or old, free or paid for. It’s the number that counts. Second: to consume more cocaine and alcohol in a single day than he has ever consumed before.

  —Excuse me, how am I going to know when I’ve done that? I’ve no idea what’s the most I’ve ever taken. I’m always too bollocksed to count.

  —I’ve thought of that, so I’ve made rough calculations based on my own observations and using, if you don’t mind me saying so, a slightly more functional memory.

  Esurio shows me some workings-out on a page that look like an accountant’s spreadsheet.

  —I don’t understand them.

  —You don’t need to. I wouldn’t want you to waste your time thinking when there’s so much doing to be done. When I’ve completed my calculations I will simply give you a list and you will act on it.

  Esurio lifts his pencil off the page and waves it in the air:

  —Last, and by no means least, he must become the proprietor of his own nightclub.

  —What the fuck?

  —I know it sounds rather improbable but I feel you are sometimes held back by not being your own boss. Imagine what you could do if you owned a club and all the alcohol and women were at your disposal whenever you wanted them. I really feel you deserve this opportunity, Lincoln. You have worked hard all your life and you are more than capable of running a business.

  It’s only mid-afternoon but I’m already unsteady on my feet, my head feels a bit fuzzy and I can’t think straight but, after a few seconds of careful reflection, I say:

  —Do you know, I really think you’ve hit on something there. I’ve got so many ideas. Things I’d like to do with the bar, what the girls would be wearing, the carpets and lighting.

  —Splendid!

  I’m lying. All I’m thinking about is pussy. I imagine Wraps on the first floor and Grannies on the second. I say out loud:

  —It’ll need to have a lift.

  —What?

  —Oh, nothing. I’ll have the Grannies on the ground floor and that’ll solve the problem.

  —I have no idea what you’re talking about. What matters, Lincoln, is your business acumen, not your recently discovered talent as an architect.

  He’s right. I have run businesses in the past and it’s fair to say that my success as a Sales Director has not been matched when I take on more general responsibility for a business.

  This is the problem: I’m aware that businesses need structure and I’m an animal that’s better contained under the direction of others. I am certainly not a man you would ask to build his own cage.

  Here, in what I believe to be the correct sequence of events, is what happened the last time I owned a share of a business:

  I was known in the transport industry as the best Sales Director in the UK. I was also known as a nutter. Not a drinker in those days. Just a man with a terrifying temper shorter than a gnat’s cock. A successful businessman called Gerry asked me to be the junior partner in a new venture he was setting up in the marine industry. I agreed. He was minted and I soon learned why. When we travelled we shared a bed in cheap hotels to save money. He always had a jar of Vaseline with him, which he would rub
on his cock and wank while I was trying to sleep. I got his business moving. I sold pretty much every lead I went on. He said:

  —I couldn’t do this without you. You’re the best salesman I’ve ever worked with.

  When we were in a café in Berlin he said something to me I didn’t like. I threatened him. He hit me. He really shouldn’t have hit me. I chased him down the road. He was knackered after a few hundred yards. I caught him, sat on him and used his head as a punchbag. His life was saved when some men managed to pull me off.

  Gerry’s wife was worried about my temper. She told him to say this to me:

  —You can sell but you can’t manage. This business is better without you. You’re out.

  Gerry did as he was told. We were in a restaurant when he broke the news. I threw a table on its side and ran out. If I had stayed I would have killed him. He was grateful I didn’t kill him and, years later when we met, he said:

  —Thank you for not killing me. You’re a great guy, Lincoln, and you could sell condoms to the Pope but never try to run a business.

  I said:

  —You’re right. I won’t. I promise you now I’ll never try to run a business.

  So I say to Esurio:

  —I’ll call the business Townleys.

  —Not very original but it’s your business and you can do whatever you want.

  —You’re right. Whatever I want.

  December proves to be sensational. I pass the first challenge a week before Christmas. Then I do something really fucking stupid. I try to pass the second and third challenges on the same day. The same fucking day. Which is also the day of the Sexy Santa Party at The Club.

  8 a.m. The same fucking day. Which is also the day of the Sexy Santa Party at The Club

  I’ve been awake for an hour. I’m in reflective mood. For once I’m alone in my bed. I was hammered yesterday but less so than usual. I was preparing myself for today. I go out for a run. Westminster is beautiful in the hazy winter sunshine. I’m feeling good. I smile at people as I run. The streets seem strangely calm and meaningful, as if I might actually accomplish something on them. In this moment I am certain only of my own success. I’ve arranged a meeting at a private members’ club in Kensington for ten o’clock tonight. Inside every drunk is a tale of missed opportunity and I am determined not to miss this one. I spoke to Rik and some of his banking friends and they’re interested in backing me if the current leaseholders allow me to take The Club over: