The Hunger Read online

  —We know you can get the best girls, so if it’s got a fully nude licence then we’ll definitely consider backing you.

  —Of course it’s got a fully nude licence.

  It hasn’t got a fully nude licence, but this is my Big Chance and I’ll do anything to make it happen. The fully nude licence is just a detail I’ll sort out later. Gerry used to say:

  —Business is about small details. The more boring your day, the better your business.

  My problem is that I’m not so good at details. I believe:

  —Business is about selling and, if you can sell enough stuff, the details will look after themselves. Business should be exciting.

  I’ve arranged to meet Rik at the Sexy Santa Party about midnight, once I’ve gone over to Kensington and had a look. I have chosen today to drink and snort more than I have ever drunk and snorted before because I want to prove a point. When I told Esurio that I was doing the second and third challenges on the same fucking day, I said:

  —I want to show everyone that I can handle the booze and the gear, that I can close a deal with half of Colombia up my nose and perform better when my guts are like a distillery than most men can when they’re sober.

  —That’s a very noble ideal, Lincoln, and one that I am fully supportive of. We both know how good you are, whatever state you’re in, and now is your chance to really prove that to the world.

  So that’s why I feel so good sprinting around Westminster. I think I’ve run about six miles but I feel like I can go on forever. I feel Immense. Immortal. I stop off at the gym on my way back to the flat and hammer the weights and the treadmill for just over an hour. When I’m finished I’m a ball of sweat.

  At the flat Esurio is waiting for me. He has a list in his hand.

  —This is what I believe you need to take today to pass the second challenge. The day is not a day as normal people understand a day to be. This day ends, Lincoln, when you either fall asleep or collapse.

  This is what the list says:

  5 bottles of wine. Vintage is preferred but any wine will do.

  A minimum of 10 vodka tonics.

  A minimum of 20 shots.

  5 bottles of Stella.

  5 grams of cocaine.

  10 cups of coffee. Preferably Americanos.

  2 inseminations. The ladies are at your discretion.

  Esurio continues:

  —I realise that you will be in no state to keep a check of your progress, so I will do that for you. You can be totally confident that I will be fair and scrupulous in my counting. Off we go, then!

  I begin in my room with a line of coke, a bottle of Stella and half a bottle of wine. This is the day my life changes. More madness than ever before and my own nightclub. I am euphoric.

  11 a.m.

  The Boss, George, Jack, Mark and I are in an office at The Club. I look at a photograph from the 1970s of The Boss and Mick Jagger. George is talking. I’m not listening. He knows I’m not listening, so he asks:

  —What do you think, Lincoln?

  —I think it will be a great party. Best Christmas party ever. I’ve got all the City boys coming and I’ve been hounding all the concierges at the five-star hotels to recommend us to their punters.

  —That’s great, Lincoln, but we weren’t talking about tonight. I was asking for your opinion on whether we should change the house champagne.

  The Boss looks at me. He is not happy:

  —Are you in this meeting or not?

  —Sorry, Boss.

  —You look hammered and it’s only just gone eleven.

  —Give me a break. I’ve got a lot going on today.

  —I’m always giving you breaks. So now that you’ve brought tonight up, what do you think we’ll take?

  —I think we’ll break all records. I know you don’t like tipping the concierges.

  —Too right. Everyone knows The Club. Where else are they going to send the punters?

  —Platinum Lace, For Your Eyes Only, Sophisticats, Spearmint . . .

  —Are you being smart?

  —No, but some clubs pay the concierges and we don’t, so this time I’ve printed the leaflets and, for every one we collect at the door, I’ll personally pay them twenty quid a punter from my own pocket.

  —I don’t like it, Lincoln.

  George chips in:

  —If he remembers to do it and hasn’t stuffed his money up his nose.

  The Boss throws a look at George, who backs off. I continue:

  —I promise we’ll hit target. I’ve been on my phone all week and I know the boys are all coming. It’s going to be massive.

  3 p.m.

  I take some Kamagra. I am about to ‘inseminate my second lady of the day’ in the toilets at The Office and without the magic gel I haven’t got a prayer. When I’m done, Esurio is waiting for me at a table in the corner.

  —How am I doing?

  —Very well, Lincoln. I expect you to pass with flying colours.

  I feel sick. I clench my teeth and wipe my hand across my mouth. I have two bottles of Rioja and three vodka tonics on the table. My phone rings. It’s Rik:

  —All on for tonight, Lincoln?

  —Of course.

  Esurio can see I’m struggling, so he says:

  —Keep going, Lincoln. You never give up, do you?

  —No. Never.

  8 p.m.

  I can barely walk in a straight line. I’m ecstatic. I’m going to run my own nightclub.

  10 p.m.

  As I walk up the steps of the club in Kensington, I stop and look up at the stucco-fronted four-storey Georgian house. I am with Maynard and a Wrap called Mia. The house is moving. I struggle to focus. There are two doormen at the top of the steps. They look at me. It’s obvious they don’t know who I am. I say:

  —Good evening, you probably know who I am. I’m Lincoln Townley. Your boss is expecting me for a meeting. I’m going to be taking over this club.

  I think they look at each other but I can’t be sure because I can’t see straight. The bigger of the two doormen steps forward.

  —Are you sure, sir?

  I take a step towards him. I stumble. He grabs me by the arm to stop me from falling. I shout at him:

  —Let go of me now!

  He does. I fall. I say again:

  —I’m Lincoln Townley. I’m here for a meeting with your boss.

  One of the doormen goes inside. In a few moments he comes out with a tall man dressed in a smart casual jacket. He is languid and has the kind of quiet presence you never mess with. I ask:

  —Who are you?

  —I’m Luigi, the manager of this club. And you are?

  —Lincoln Townley. I have a meeting with the owner about me taking over the club.

  Mia and Maynard are holding one arm each to keep me vertical. Luigi is polite.

  —I’m sorry, but Mr Green is not here this evening. Can you come back another day?

  I wonder who I made the appointment with. It was with a man I met in the Townhouse. We were both drunk. He said it was his club but his name wasn’t Green. I don’t give anything away.

  —Sorry, my backers are expecting a report from me and I need to look around inside.

  Luigi says nothing. He gestures me to come in. If I was sober I would have been gobsmacked that he let me in. Under the circumstances I simply believe it is the respect I should be given as the future owner of this club.

  Inside the club is tired. There’s a bar and a lounge area on the ground floor. Luigi offers us all a drink. I notice one of the doormen is standing close to us. I ask where the toilet 3is. I piss and take another three lines. By the time I’m back at my table there’s a vodka tonic waiting for me. I down it in one. I walk down a narrow flight of stairs to the basement. I’m doing fine until I miss the last step. One of the bar staff who happens to be standing at the bottom of the stairs catches me. I can hear Esurio:

  —You’re doing splendidly, Lincoln.

  —I know, I know.

&nbs
p; I turn to Mia and say:

  —I want another line.

  She says:

  —No more. You’ve had enough.

  —Enough! Of course I haven’t had enough. There’s always more. I’m going to take another line whether you like it or not.

  She starts crying. I ignore her. She storms out of the club. Later on I learn that she went back to her flat, packed her stuff and took a flight back to Denmark. When I get back to my table on the ground floor I order another drink. I say to Maynard:

  —I could make a proper go of this. This whole place needs freshening up and I’m the man to do it. Rik knows how good I am. I’ll sell this to him.

  1 a.m.

  I don’t know how I got back to The Club but I am here. The place is heaving. The Boss is sitting on his throne in the restaurant. I go up to him:

  —You see. The Club is bursting.

  He leans towards me.

  —Yes, it is. Now take a look at it and imagine what you could do if you were sober.

  I think:

  —It makes no difference whether I’m drunk or sober.

  I feel sorry for The Boss that he can’t see this, but out of respect I say:

  —Yeah.

  I walk downstairs and see Rik with two dancers, one on each lap. I say:

  —It went well.

  —What?

  —The visit to the club.

  —What club?

  —The one in Kensington.

  —Oh, yes, of course, that club.

  —I think they were really impressed with me.

  He’s not even looking at me. His eyes are full of tits. I continue:

  —If we make a few alterations to the layout and fill it with girls, it could work brilliantly.

  —I like the bit about filling it with girls.

  —And naked grannies.

  —What?

  He doesn’t get grannies the way I do. I change tack.

  —And naked fannies.

  —Yeah, even more brilliant. You’re a helluva guy, Lincoln. A man worth busting the banks for. Cheers!

  —Cheers!

  I walk towards the stairs to go back up to talk to The Boss when everything folds in on itself and The Club is twisting and a carousel of lights, sound and naked female flesh spin before my eyes. I hear voices, laughing, screaming, crying, and my heart is pounding like a wild beast roaring inside my chest. I need a drink. I need a line. I need them more than I have ever needed them before. I’m dying. I want to die. I want all this madness to end and I want it to go on forever and ever and everything is fading and coming back, fading and coming back. My legs are paralysed and I’m running faster than I have ever run before. I’m standing on top of the highest building in the world and grovelling about in the dark in a deep pit and there are people with me. I don’t know who they are and they’re laughing at me, spitting on me, honouring me as their god. There are caravans and dead fathers and smashed-up toys and blood lying on the road and music keeps banging inside my head and Wraps are everywhere. I’m lost in a dark forest and running along deserted beaches and swimming in rivers that wind endlessly on and I can hear Esurio. He is mocking me: You’re mine now, Lincoln, mine. There is no way out now, Lincoln; you can never get away from me. We are friends forever. And he’s leading me to a tall cliff. I have chains around my hands and feet and a metal collar around my neck, and he is pulling me closer to the edge. I look over and I know this is the end. There is no way back now. I lower my head. I am tired beyond exhaustion. Spent. The last thing I see is the vast ocean pulling and twisting in its own fury. Calling me. Esurio releases me. He knows I have no need to be pushed. I want to lose myself without hope of ever finding myself again and I step over the edge. I can see Esurio laughing and dancing as I fall into the sea. He watches me sink down deep and it is so peaceful under the water. Dark. Dark. Dark. I know I can rest now. It is over. I am carried far out to sea and in the deepest dark I see lights, ghosts that have swum here for centuries, and they are stroking my body and whispering to me: Rest now, Lincoln, Rest now, Lincoln, Rest now, Lincoln . . .

  4 a.m.

  I collapse at the bottom of the stairs. David, the Floor Manager and one of the doormen put me on a stretcher and carry me upstairs. I have a vague sensation of cold air on my face as I’m carried out onto the street. They drop me off the stretcher and prop me up, legs extending out onto the pavement. I can hear The Boss’s voice:

  —Just leave him there. He can sleep it off on the street. What a mess.

  Someone takes my hankie out of my jacket pocket and places it gently on my face. I am unconscious within seconds.

  6:30 a.m.

  Sound comes first. Cars. Cutlery jangling in a cafe. Footsteps. A babble of conversation. Nothing is defined. It’s just a reassuring buzz around my head. Slowly I open my eyes. Even the morning light is too strong. I can feel a hand lightly tapping my left cheek. Esurio is talking to me:

  —Well done, Lincoln! Congratulations! You passed with flying colours. I’ve checked my list and you’ve surpassed yourself.

  I groan. I try to raise my arms but my hands flop back against my body. I can feel a wet sensation on my shirt and jacket. Esurio says:

  —Don’t worry about that. We can get it all dry-cleaned.

  —Why? What is it?

  —I’m afraid someone urinated on you during the night. Not very gentlemanly, I agree, but I assure you it will clean up perfectly well.

  I put my hand inside my jacket. My phone and wallet are still there. I feel sick. Sicker than I’ve ever felt in my life. Esurio goes on:

  —I’m not going to make a big issue about the club.

  —What club?

  —The one you went to see last night in Kensington.

  —Oh yeah. Do I own it yet?

  —Not exactly, but I’ve given you lots of marks for effort and you’ve definitely laid some solid foundations, Lincoln, very solid foundations, and you’ve done so well on the other challenges it would be churlish to mark you down on this one.

  Then he’s gone. After a few minutes I pick myself up off the floor and make the short walk back to my flat on Old Compton Street. Every step hurts. I fumble my key in the door. Focus, Lincoln, focus. When I get up the stairs and into my room there are two people in my bed. One of them is a Wrap and the other one is . . . Rik! He looks up at me:

  —Hope you don’t mind, Linc. We hit it off and she said she had a key to a flat. Didn’t realise it was yours.

  —No problem, man.

  And it really isn’t a problem. I don’t care anymore. About anything. I grab my running kit from the wardrobe. But for once even I am too tired. Too tired to run. I shower, change, turn left out of my flat and just keep walking. My phone is buzzing with texts and calls. One of the texts is from The Boss. He writes:

  —I hope you’re OK. I reply:

  —Better, thanks. I’m out for a walk. Sorry about last night.

  —I’m glad you’re OK but don’t ever turn up at The Club in that state again. Never ever.

  —I won’t.

  Then:

  —Keep it real. Just keep it real.

  As I walk through the early morning traffic, I have no idea what is real in my life anymore. Dean Street, Wardour Street, Brewer Street, Frith Street, Greek Street and all the alleys and dark corners of Soho. These are fantasy streets. Places where imaginary people get lost chasing dreams they can never find. I pass an art shop on Broadwick Street. I stare through the window.

  —Keep it real. Just keep it real.

  I think again of my favourite painting, A Bigger Splash; all that serenity on the surface and a ferocious struggle going on under the water. And who or what is struggling?

  Cars, bikes and people pass me by. All of them going somewhere, doing something, and I’m floating past them, no idea why I am walking these streets, watching reality fade in and out of life like a flickering TV picture.

  9 a.m.

  I wander into Foyles bookshop on Charing Cross Road. I’
m looking for a book about Hockney. I find a book by Paul McKenna. Change your Life in 7 Days. That doesn’t seem too difficult. It’s Friday. A Brand New Life by next Thursday. I look at McKenna’s face on the cover. A Geek with Glasses. I feel an urge to smack him in the mouth. I don’t buy the book. I don’t need to. 7 Days. Change my life. How difficult can that be?

  How Difficult Can That Be?

  The First Day

  I think:

  —I don’t need the book. It’s the Principle that matters. If a Geek with Glasses can change his life in seven days, so can I.

  After leaving Foyles, I go to an art shop on Berwick Street. When I leave, Esurio is following me.

  —What are you doing with that box of paints, brushes and a canvas?

  —What do you think?

  —I am, as you know, an art lover. Nothing moves me like a standing in front of The Satire of the Debauched Revelers or The Garden of Earthly Delights. I have actually cried tears of joy when looking at Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion. But I feel that painting is not the correct thing for you to be doing right now.

  —Why not?

  —I saw you in the bookshop looking at that ‘change your life’ nonsense, and if painting is the first step on this new path of yours, Lincoln, it won’t work.

  —You sure about that?

  —Of course. Why on earth do you want to change when you are only now beginning to lose yourself in the pleasures you have worked so hard to enjoy? And it was only yesterday that you achieved so much in passing what were extraordinarily difficult challenges.

  —But I nearly fucking died. And I woke up covered in piss.

  —As far as I can see, you’re alive now, and there’s plenty of dry-cleaners in Soho. And who, I ask you, was at your side when you woke up? Me, Lincoln. And who will always be at your side? Me again. I understand you, Lincoln, and I know what’s best for you. The last thing you need is a self-help guru when you have me. Am I not enough?