Read 69 Things to Do With a Dead Princess Online
Authors: Stewart Home
69 Things to Do With a Dead Princess
69 THINGS TO DO WITH A DEAD PRINCESS
Stewart Home was born in South London in 1962. When he was 16 he held down a factory job for a few months, an experience that led him to vow he’d never work again. After dabbling in rock journalism and music, Home switched his attention to the art world in the 1980s and now writes novels as well as cultural commentary.
First published in Great Britain in 2002 by
Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street,
Edinburgh EH1 1TE
This edition first published in the United States of America in 2003
This digital edition first published in 2012 by Canongate Books Copyright © Stewart Home, 2002
The moral right of the author has been asserted
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library ISBN 1 84195 381 4
eISBN 978 0 85786 761 2
Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
Hobbity-style map drawn by Charly Murray
‘I regard truth as a divine ventriloquist. I care not from whose mouth the sounds are supposed to proceed, if only the words are audible and intelligible.’
Coleridge,
Biographia Literaria
.
‘I am a machine condemned to devour books.’
Marx in a letter to his daughter Laura dated 11 April 1868.
CONTENTS
ONE
A MAN
who no longer called himself Callum came to Aberdeen intent on ending his life. He wanted to die but not by his own hand. That was where I came in. He wanted me to help him act out his death. A psychodrama. When I met Callum he told me his name was Alan.
It was a cold overcast day. I’d slept late and abandoned my plan to go to the beach. I liked going to the beach. Even in winter. Even at night. But not when it was wet. I went to Union Street. I didn’t have anything better to do. The shops were filled with commodities but they bored me. Books. Records. The Aberdeen merchants didn’t cater for tastes like mine. I relied on secondhand stores, mail order, presents from friends, trips to Edinburgh and London. Things could have been worse. I could have been living in Dundee where the rents were cheaper but the city centre was a pedestrianised shopping nightmare. Aberdeen was better, there was the beach, Union Street and oil money. If Brighton was San Francisco on the South Coast, then Aberdeen was Los Angeles on the North Sea.
It was a dreary mid-week lunchtime and the pubs were unusually empty. I took advantage of this to avoid my friends. I went to The Grill, a very traditional bar. I’d not been to The Grill before despite the place being legendary. The old men who patronised The Grill were reputed to dislike women drinkers. I’d heard the management were endlessly deferring the installation of a ladies’ toilet. This ensured the regulars enjoyed a predominantly male environment.
I walked in to a dozen hostile stares. Alan looked up from a book, waved at me and said afternoon. I misheard what he said, it wasn’t quite 12.30 and I thought Alan was saying my name. Anna Noon. I didn’t recognise Alan but I thought he must know me. I went and sat with him. He got up and bought me a drink. I looked at the book he was reading.
However Introduced to the Soles
, new poetry from Niall Quinn, Nick Macias and Nic Laight. Alan returned with my gin and a fresh pint of heavy. I asked him to read me his favourite poem in
However Introduced to the Soles
and he recited the contents page from memory.
I added tonic to the gin and raised the glass to my lips. Old men were swimming before my eyes. A struggle to keep up with the times was written across their blank faces. The town had changed. Oil had changed the town. The old men drank slowly, preserving as best they could their pensions and their memories. Things were different in the old days. Oil had turned their world upside down. House prices had gone through the roof. Their children had moved away. They couldn’t afford to live in the city. Aberdeen had changed. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want Alan to speak. We both had English accents. Neither of us was involved with the rigs.
1
I finished my drink and suggested we relocate to one of the pubs near the station. My shout. Alan said we could go back to his place. I didn’t know if this was a suggestion or a threat. He had a bottle of Springbank. I didn’t know what it was. A Campbeltown malt, he explained. Alan also had a bottle of gin. That was good enough for me. It was raining. Neither of us had an umbrella. Alan paid for a taxi to Union Grove. It wasn’t far. East of the big detached houses favoured by the oil men. The door to the tenement needed a new coat of paint. The stairs needed sweeping. Alan’s flat was on the first floor.
We went through the door. I’d never seen anything like it. There were books everywhere. Bookcases, even in the hallway, covered every inch of wall space, from the floor to the ceiling. But there wasn’t enough shelf space for the books. There were piles of books lying all over the floor. Old newspapers too. Alan led me into the living room. It was filled with books. I was surprised by the furniture, carpets and curtains. Brown leather and chrome. Brown shag pile. Blue velvet. Someone had spent money on the flat. Although the colour combinations left a lot to be desired, I was envious. Take away the books and the flat would have been fabulous. It was much better than my bedsit.
I gestured at the books, piled high on shelves, on a table, on the floor. What is this? Alan told me it was an occult memory system. Then he left the room. There were letters at my feet. Bills. They were addressed to Callum MacDonald, Flat 3, 541 Holloway Road, London. Alan came back with whisky and gin, ice and a lemon. Alan was organised, even if his flat was a mess. What was he wearing? If I’d known I was going to write about him later, I’d have made some notes at the time. He didn’t like to stand out in a crowd. Alan often wore black Levi’s, lace-up shoes, an open shirt and a dark jacket. Since it was cold, he’d have been wearing a V-neck jumper. He had several raincoats, all dark. He’d have taken off his coat and jumper once we were inside the flat. The central heating was on and double glazing kept the rooms warm.
I took a sip of gin and asked Alan what he did. He told me he read and that when he’d finished reading, he’d die. I asked him why he’d come to Aberdeen. He told me he’d inherited the flat and the books it contained. When I asked if his parents were rich he laughed. The flat hadn’t belonged to his family, it had been owned by an older woman who’d become very fond of him. Alan kicked over a pile of books and told me he’d only been in Aberdeen a few days. He wanted to clear the flat, the books irritated him. I suggested that Alan try the Old Aberdeen Bookshop, an emporium close to the university that specialised in quality secondhand stock. Alan laughed. He was going to read every one of the books before he got rid of them.
Alan picked up the paperbacks he’d kicked over. A selection of titles by Erich Fromm. He told me the books were rubbish. He hurriedly read aloud from the introductions to
The Art of Loving
,
The Revolution of Hope
,
To Have or to Be
and
The Anatomy of Human Destructiveness
. In each introduction Fromm repeated himself, apologising for the repetition of material between his new book and his previous texts but justifying it on the grounds that it provided the necessary framework from which the reader could understand the fresh insights his latest work contained. Alan asked me if I was familiar with Fromm’s work. No. He gave me
Escape from Freedom
and told me to keep it. He had an English edition of the book put out by RKP. The title was
Fear of Freedom
but the text was identical to the American edition with the original title. I have both books now. Soon after we met, Alan started selling the books he’d read to the Old Aberdeen Bookshop. I’d go over to the shop once or twice a week, picking up whatever Alan off-loaded.
I asked Alan how old he was. He claimed to be 36. At first I thought he was joking. I thought he might be two or three years older than me. We got along easily enough, maybe it was the gin. It didn’t feel like there was a 16-year age gap between us. I asked Alan if he wanted to have sex. He led me through to the bedroom and asked me if I’d mind being tied up. I was reluctant until he promised not to hurt me. Alan tied my hands behind my back. He put a blindfold over my eyes, then placed a hood over my head. He rolled me onto my stomach and touched my spine and the tops of my legs. He touched the back of my knees. Put my toes in his mouth and sucked them. He crawled all over me. Moved my limbs around and licked under my armpits. By the time he got me to shift my arse and shoved two fingers into my cunt, I was dripping wet.
I suspect Alan wasn’t using a condom when he fucked me. If he was it burst, because afterwards I could feel his come dripping out of my cunt. Alan threw a blanket over me and then he left. I don’t know how long I lay there. Alan had told me not to move and that he would be back. I was aroused. I drifted in and out of sleep. Erotic dreams. Erotic thoughts. I trusted Alan. I liked the sensation of his come dripping out of my cunt. I liked feeling helpless and I was overcome with excitement when I heard Alan’s voice again after what seemed an infinity of sleepless dreams and dreamless sleep.
I thought it was Alan fingering my cunt. Climbing on top of me. Ramming his big stiff cock up my creamy hole. I thought it was Alan because all the while I could hear his voice. He told me that I was the best-looking girl in the world. That I really turned him on. That he wanted to get me pregnant. Alan fell silent but I could feel hot breath on the back of my neck. Then something strange happened. There were two hands beneath me, fondling my breasts. A different pair of hands removed my hood and stroked my hair. This second set of hands lifted my head up, fingers found their way into my mouth. Then the fingers were joined by a cock. I was still being fucked doggie-style from behind. The fingers wet with my saliva were playing with my hair. I didn’t know who, couldn’t see who, I was giving a blow job.
Fingers fumbled with the blindfold, removed it. I looked up and saw Alan. Now I knew who I was sucking but I didn’t know who was fucking me. With the corner of my eye I could see a ventriloquist’s dummy. I’d noticed it earlier, when I first entered the bedroom, before I’d been tied up and blindfolded.
2
I was coming, I could taste Alan’s spunk in my mouth, I felt the other man’s prick harden and then he shot his load. Alan withdrew his cock from between my lips and put the hood back over my head. I could hear someone dressing, they left. Alan was undoing the rope that bound my wrists. We curled up together, under the blankets, fell asleep.