Glue (52 page)

— Richard . . . Lisa groaned, as Richard’s huge, vibrating plastic prick quivered implacably on her cunt lips, running slowly over them, nudging them apart with great skill as he worked his way slowly into her. He stopped, momentarily easing out a little, as she ground her teeth and gazed at his toothy smile on the screen. Working deftly with video remote in one hand and the vibrator in the other, Lisa gasped as Richard came into close-up. — Try me, he said to her, as she hit the pause button.

— Don’t tease me baby . . . give it to me, Lisa begged, winding the tape on to the part where the sound of Richard’s jeans being unzipped is followed by a shot of him in the shower.

Then forward faster

FF>>

The hum of the vibrator . . .

Then forward faster

FF>>

PAUSE

The bell end of Richard’s plastic cock pushing against her cunt lips, while on-screen, his ironic, slightly sly eyes reflecting her desire, her
own depravity . . . and that delicious battle for control . . . that big fucking tease, without which everything is just dull mechanics . . .

PLAY

Richard and her in bed. Richard in close-up. — I think you are a very bright, very special woman . . .

— Oh Richard . . .

Rewind

REW<<

Rewind

REW<<

PAUSE

ZZZZZZZZZZ . . . — Ohhh Richard . . .

PLAY

Richard’s toothy smile fades and his face sets into business mode. — I will pay you to be at my beck and call . . .

REW<<

— my beck and call . . .

REW<<

— I will pay you to be at my beck and call . . .

— You’ve never hud a woman like me before, son, none ay these fuckin frigid Hollywood bitches now, pal . . .

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

— Aw ya fucker . . .

FF>>

Forward, past the simpering image of that fuckin Julia Roberts, her inclusion spoils everything, cause for Lisa it’s got to be just her and Richard . . .

PAUSE

PLAY

— I’m coming up, Richard tells Lisa . . .

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

— Oh my god, Richard . . .

ZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .

As Richard pushed his plastic dick in further, something was going wrong. Lisa’s heated brain was involuntarily snapping in renegade flashback to the drunken Irish guy in San Antonio. His prick crumbling into putty and spilling out her as he said, — Jaysus, this has never happened to me before . . .

. . . ZZZZZ . . . ZZZZZ . . . ZZ . . . Z . . .

But this couldn’t happen to Richard . . .

Then nothing.

Fuckin bastard . . .

The batteries, the faitherfucking batteries.

Lisa strongly tugged the wet piece of latex from her, and pulled up her pants. She was ready to hit the garage, reflecting self-loathingly that a clever lassie kept a Durex in her handbag but a cleverer one kept a Duracell.

Then the buzzer went and Lisa Lennox hit the remote, extinguishing the image from the screen. She rose tensely and headed for the front door.

Wednesday 1.37 am

I’m up on my feet and out the tent, writhing and twisting into a mass of sensuous bodies. Celeste Parlour and Reedy are flanking me, making reassuring noises. — That’s it mate, dance it off. Dance it off.

The bass begins to synchronise with my heartbeat and I feel my brain expand beyond the confines of skull and grey matter.

There’s people twisting away in the swirling dust, dancing half-naked, some wild and bugged right out, others as jaunty as cabaret dancers on a seventies Saturday night prime-time show.

And I spin away outwards and inwards, upwards, downwards and sideways, juddering in a wonky astral projection until I can feel something like cold marble replacing the hot earth under my bare feet.

I’m here and I’m ready. — Ma boax, whaire’s ma boax, I shout at the boy who’s on the decks, and he nods to my feet and Reedy’s helping me and I get the first tune out my record box and go to put it on. There’s people round the podium. A chant goes up, N-SIGN, N-SIGN . . .

Through it all I hear one voice, a Scottish voice, derisory and malignant. — He’s fucked, it says.

They’re twisting into form out of the dust, clichéd movements defining identity to me before features, which never seem to come into sharp enough focus. I hear concerned voices, and suffocating clothes are draped on me, across my shoulders, stopping my skin breathing, choking me, something is stuck on my head . . . I want to take all the layers off, strip the flesh from my bone, free my spirit from this festering, suffocating cage.

 . . . the serpentine currents of hot air twist around me, tormenting and entrapping.

I go right across the decks, arse over tit, and watch the open-mouthed horror of the boys and girls as the music scrunches and I crash onto the hard ground. I feel that way like those super-heroes look when they’ve been blasted by a ray gun and blown from a tall building. Tired out, rather than in specific pain.

I just laugh and laugh and laugh.

There’s The Man, he’s dumped that jacket, he’s just wearing the combat troosers and the vest. There’s a brilliant boy’s fitba tattoo on his arm. Bertie Blade is looking all smug, flexing his muscles as a dishevelled Ossie Owl lies at his feet. Reedy! He’s asking if I’m okay. Now Helena’s here as well, she’s trying to talk to me but I’m grinning stupidly at her.

Helena?

Helena’s here. I must be fucking well dreaming. Helena! How the fuck . . .

I’m petting something, a kind of well-fed carnivore of some description as her words become meaningless, evaporating in the heat of my brain.

The creature purrs then opens its mouth and from its stomach rancid vapours fly up and assault me. Turning away, I rise and move into a crowd. Towards the bass, I hear somebody call my name, not my name as it is now, but my old name, but it’s a girl’s name, not mine.

Carl is the leader of the girls.

Wednesday 8.30 pm

Juice Terry couldn’t believe his luck when he’d seen the international singing star waiting for him in the lobby of the Balmoral. She wore an expensive-looking white jacket, with black brushed-denim jeans. He was glad he’d made the effort to shower and shave and dig out his own black crushed-velvet disco jacket, even if it was a bit snug these days. He’d tried to gel his frizzy hair down, and had some success, though he suspected it would be up by the end of the night.

— Awright, Kath? How goes it?

— I’m fine, she told him through her shock as she beheld Terry. He looked a mess; she’d never seen anybody dressed so badly.

— Right . . . lit’s git a bevvy ower the road in the Guildford, then we’ll git a taxi doon tae Leith. A couple ay scoops in the Bay Hoarse then mibbe a wee bum burner next door at the Raj.

— I guess so, Kathryn said tentatively, completely baffled as to what Terry was on about.

— Ah say tomatay, you say tomaytay, Juice Terry quipped. The Raj was a good call, a class act in curry houses. He’d only been once before, but that fish pakora . . . Terry felt the ducts in his mouth open and squirt like a sprinkler system in a blazing shopping centre. He cast his eye over Kathryn as they crossed Princes Street. She was a skinny lassie right enough. She didnae look that well. Still, nothing a good Ruby Murray and a few pints couldnae put right. Needed a bit ay Scottish beef inside her and tae fuck wi the BSE or HIV risks involved. He could tell that she was well impressed by him. Mind you, he’d made a bit of an effort with the togs. He reasoned that rich birds were used to standards, you couldnae just wing it with them.

They got into the Guildford Arms. It was full of Festival types and
office workers. Kathryn felt nervous and insecure in the crowd and the smoke and ordered a pint of lager, taking her cue from Juice Terry. They found a corner seat and she was drinking quickly, feeling a little dizzy by the time her glass was half-empty. To her horror Terry put
Victimised By You
on the juke box.

Tell me you don’t really love me

look at me and tell me true

all my life I’ve been the victim

of men who victimise like you

I see the bottle of vodka and pills

my mind hazes over in a mist

I go numb as I consume them all

a victim of love’s fateful twist

But tell me boy, how will you feel

when you stare down upon my corpse

will your heart still be as cold

when my blue frozen flesh you hold

Oh baby what more can I say

In my heart of hearts I knew

that it would just end this sad way

a doomed love, what can we do-ho-ho

— Tell ye what but, it must git ye doon singing they songs. It would drive me up the waw. See the likes ay me, ah’m intae ma ska. Happy music, ken? Desmond Dekker, that’s ma man. The Northern n aw. We used tae run a bus doon tae Wigan Casino, back in the day, ken? Terry said proudly. This was a lie, but it should impress a chick from the music business, he thought.

Kathryn nodded politely, blankly.

— But ma main music wis disco, he opened his jacket and spread it from the lapels with his thumbs, — thus the togs, he added in a theatrical flourish.

— Back in the eighties I spent a lot of time in Studio 54 in New York City, Kathryn told him.

— Ah ken punters thit went ower thair, Terry retorted arrogantly, — but we hud it here better; Pipers, Bobby McGee’s, The West End
Club, Annabel’s . . . the lot. Edinburgh wis the
real
home ay disco. Cunts in New York tend tae forget that. Here it wis much mair . . . undergroond . . . but at the same time mainstream, if ye ken what ah’m drivin at.

— I don’t get it, Kathryn said assertively.

Terry was trying to get it. It was weird, he contemplated, the wey some Yank birds spoke up when they were jist meant tae be polite and nod vacantly, like a real bird fae ower here would dae. — It’s too much tae explain, Terry said, then added, — ah mean, ye’d huv hud tae huv been thaire tae git what ah’m talking aboot.

Wednesday 7.12 am

I’ve been taken back into the tent. Helena’s got a hold of me. Her hair is in two pigtails, her eyes are red like she’s been crying. — You’re so fucked, you can’t understand what I’m saying to you, can you?

I can’t speak. I wrap an arm around her shoulders, and try to apologise but I’m too fucked up to talk. I want to tell her that she’s the best girlfriend I’ve ever had, the best that anybody’s ever had.

She grabs my head in the palms of her hands.

— LISTEN. CAN YOU HEAR ME, CARL?

Is this recrimination or reconciliation . . . — I can hear you . . . I say softly, then in surprise that I can hear my own voice, I repeat with more confidence, — I can hear you!

— There’s no other way I can tell you this . . . fuck. Your mother phoned. Your father’s very ill. He’s had a stroke.

What . . .

No.

Don’t be daft, not my old boy, he’s fine, he’s as fit as a fiddle, he’s better than me . . .

She’s no kidding but. She’s no fuckin kidding.

FUCKIN . . . NAW . . . NO MA AULD MAN . . . NO MA FAITHER . . .

My heart’s thrashing in my chest in panic, and I’m on my feet and trying to find him, looking for him as if he’s in the tent. — Airport, I hear myself say. A voice coming from me. — The airport . . . hooses and shoaps . . .

— What? Celeste Parlour goes.

— He’s saying he wants to go to the airport, Helena says, used to my accent, even when ah’m cabbaged.

—No way. He can’t travel today. Yer going nowhere, mate, Reedy informs me.

— Just get me on that plane, I say. — Please. A favour.

They know I mean it. Even Reedy. — No worries, mate. Do you need to get changed?

— Just get me on that plane, I repeat. Broken record. Just get me on that plane.

Oh my god . . . I’ve got to get tae the fuckin airport. I want to see him, no I don’t.

NO

NO, YOU’RE NOT ON, AH’M NO HUVIN THIS

No.

I want to remember him as he was. As he’ll always be to me. A stroke . . . how the fuck can he have had a stroke . . .

Reedy shakes his head. — Carl, you smell like a filthy old dog. They ain’t gonna let yer on no plane in that state.

A moment of . . . not exactly clarity, but control. The exercise of will. How horrible it must be to always be straight, to have the burden of will all the time, to never be able to surrender it. But I’ve surrendered it at the wrong fuckin time. A drawn breath. An attempt to open my eyes and focus through the noise, dislocation and hold up those tired shutters of eyelids. — What do you think I’m saying to you?

— Yeah, Carl, I hear you, you want me to get you on that plane, Helena says.

I nod.

Helena starts to look and sound like my mother. — I just don’t think it’s a feasible option at the moment, but it’s your call. Your bag is here. I’ve got your passport and I’ve booked a ticket on my credit card. You’ll pick it up at the British Airways desk. I’ve got the locator number here. I’ll take you to the airport now.

She’s done it all for me. I nod humbly. She is the best. — Thanks for doing this for me. I’ll pay you back . . . I’ll clean up, sort masel out.