The Hunger (17 page)

—. . . Oh, that’s just the crowd, Toby. I’m at a premiere and Charlize Theron just walked in. Look, I’ve got to go, she’s calling me over . . . You will, Toby, you
will. See you tomorrow.

Terry punches the air. Maynard gives him a massive bear hug. Everyone in the restaurant seems to be cheering.

Maynard unhooks himself from Terry. He is a worrier and looks concerned.

—What did you promise him, Terry?

—Oh, nothing much.

—Terry, what did you promise him?

—I just told him he could join me and Megan Fox for dinner.

—What the fuck did you tell him that for?

—How else was I supposed to get the money? It closed the deal, didn’t it?

—Great. We’re going to have some upper-class knob hanging around all week waiting for dinner with Megan fucking Fox!

—Look, Maynard, by the end of the first day, he isn’t going to know where he is, who he is, what fucking planet he lives on. I could put Dame Edna Everage on top of him and tell him
it’s Megan Fox and he’ll be the happiest man in Cannes.

Esurio is delighted.

—Bit of sun is exactly what you need right now, Lincoln. Go to Cannes and soak it up.

He’s right. Since the Grand Ball I haven’t felt myself. It’s like I’ve been stalked by a Terrible Loneliness and whatever I take I can’t seem to get rid of it.
Perhaps I don’t even care whether I live or die. It’s like I’ve lost hope but I don’t even know what I was hoping for. More? More of what? I used to crave pleasure. In
recent days, it seems all my energy is spent taking the pain away. I am, however, certain there is a point, a
quantity
of booze and gear, where I will feel better. I just haven’t
reached it yet.

—Then just keep going, Lincoln. You’ll know it when you get there.

—I will. Too fucking right I will.

Three weeks later, I’m sitting next to Toby on the flight to Cannes. Somewhere in the back of the plane Terry, Steve, Maynard and Simon are asleep.

—Goody good.

I’ve just told Toby to expect the best time of his life. He is perhaps thirty. And he has a quiff. I feel sorry for him. I’m shaking from last night. To calm my nerves I took a line
and half-a-dozen shots before we took off. But it’s not enough. If I’ve got to sit next to someone who says ‘goody good’ I haven’t a fucking clue what
‘enough’ would be. I close my eyes.

—So, Lincoln, are you looking forward to the festival?

I don’t want to talk. I don’t want any contact with anyone.

—Yeah, it’ll be great.

—Hope so. My good friend Burgess went once. Had a wonderful time. Can’t wait to meet Megan.

He digs me in the ribs. I open my eyes and sit on my hands. They are fighting against the pressure, willing me to release them and let them knock his teeth out. One of them escapes and is waving
wildly in the air.

—It’s OK. I’ll call her. Stewardess? Here, please!

She arrives as my arm is inches from his mouth.

—Another vodka, sir?

—Er, yeah. OK.

Perhaps six hours later we are in a theatre in Cannes watching some Scandinavian film. It has subtitles. I guess it’s Scandinavian because every word seems to end in a vowel. I’ve no
idea what the film is about. I can’t even see the screen. Occasionally I pop into the toilets to vomit. At the end the director gets on the stage but I haven’t a clue what he is talking
about. I think it’s Tuesday and Terry’s got a party organised at our villa on Thursday. I need another drink. Another line.

Wednesday disappears. On Thursday morning I wake up with three Wraps in my bed. Out on the balcony I can see Toby puking on his dressing gown. I shout at him:

—Tonight, Toby, it’s Megan night!

—Goo . . .

He collapses on the floor. I guess he’ll be out until the afternoon.

The bedside table is laced with coke. I take it. The Wraps are awake now.

—You could have left some for us.

I think that’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard. I am on my phone all morning. It was my job to organise twenty-five Wraps and get them to the villa. Or rather it was Tina’s
job. I gave her two grand to sort it out. Terry has been on my back. He’s got some film guys coming over for the party.

—Promise me, Lincoln, the girls will be there. I’m relying on you.

I call Tina. We’re eight short.

—Sorry, Lincoln. They were all here yesterday but they seem to have disappeared.

—Disappeared! How can you lose eight girls in twenty-four hours?!

I remember where we are and I’m relieved we’ve only lost eight. I kick everyone out of the flat. The boys carry Toby into the taxi still in his dressing gown. By late evening the
villa is ready. We found four of the girls and Tina went around Cannes and picked up another five. One up on the deal! I walk through the villa. Jim, the mixologist, is set up by the pool.
He’s a genius. His cocktails have appeared on the cover of
Vanity Fair
and he can stay sober long enough for the Wraps to take the guests beyond the point where they might notice a
drop in standards.

Ten-thirty. The guests begin to arrive. I greet them with a firm handshake. I am glad I took another line and a couple of shots to steady myself. Within an hour the ground floor of the villa is
packed with men. Average age: forty. Average income: more than even I could dream of. Wraps are everywhere. Smart. No G-strings. They could be old money at Ascot. It takes maybe an hour, a few
lines of coke, Jeroboams of Cristal Champagne, some Cuban cigars and endless shots of Kauffman vodka for the carnage to begin.

My parties work because I know how men work. You can have all the money in the world but when the girls start working you’re a pauper who doesn’t even own his own mind. I smile as I
watch the men begin to fight. A thick-set guy in a light-blue jacket and matching shoes puts twenty grand behind the bar. Another guy puts thirty. In every room some guy is having his cock sucked.
The pool is full of naked girls. I call Terry over.

—Where are the boys?

—Upstairs I think.

—Toby?

—Fucked.

—Great, let’s go up to my room.

I signal to six Wraps. They follow me up the stairs. When we get to my bedroom, everyone is there. They are all fucked. Toby is slumped against the wardrobe. Simon is taking a line off the
coffee table and smiling.

—At least he’s getting his money’s worth!

Within minutes the girls are naked. So am I. I’m leaning against the wall. My cock is hard. Toby opens his eyes and sees the girls. Then he catches a glimpse of my cock. He squints, unsure
of what he is looking at. Terry shouts at him:

—Hey, Toby, Megan’s come to see you.

One of the Wraps walks over to him and runs her hands through his quiff.

—Hi, I’m Megan . . .

She plays the script to perfection.

—Oh, my God, no . . .

He crawls into the wardrobe and pulls the door behind him.

—What’s the matter with him?

—He’s just a bit star-struck.

As I’m fucking, I hear a banging noise coming from inside the wardrobe then a hand coming out and touching the Wrap’s arse. It goes back inside the wardrobe. More banging. Out it
comes again. The whole wardrobe is shaking. He really is an upper-class wanker.

The next day the blossom outside my bedroom is radiant. Life after death is more beautiful than I ever imagined. The villa is wrecked. Naked bodies litter the floor. I walk over to the balcony
and check the pool for any dead ones. All clear.

A foot is hanging out of the wardrobe. I open the door. Toby is unconscious, his hand still holding his cock. He moans, dribbles from the left side of his mouth and then goes quiet. Another
happy investor.

I go out for a run. The sun is hot on my back and the world is strangely normal. As I pound along the beach I start crying. I don’t know where the tears come from. They just appear. I keep
running. After perhaps five miles, I feel sick and my heart is screaming but I can’t stop. I want to die, sink under the sand with the sun on my back and the sea blue and beautiful.
There’s only one thing worse than being a drunk and that’s those short gaps between one binge and the next, where a thin sliver of reality breaks through and I can see what I have
become. I know there is no way back for me now, so I will keep running until I collapse and maybe some passer-by will pick me up and take me home. Or leave me in the gutter.

When I get back to the villa, I join Maynard for a drink on a balcony overlooking the sea. His face is wobbling like one of those nodding donkeys my Dad used to have in his car. Except this is a
slow wobble, as if the mechanism moving the head is grinding to a halt. He doesn’t acknowledge me when I sit next to him. His head finally stops moving. I notice he has a whisky in his hand.
His hand is still and his eyes are closed.

—Maynard . . . it’s me, Lincoln. Maynard! Are you dead? I’m relieved when he grunts. I imagine he has been sitting here for hours. I take the glass from his hand and, as the
alcohol hits my throat, I am calm again. I look at Maynard’s face baking in the sun. He is sweating. He looks ill, and as I stare at him I feel a rush of love. Not the eternal love one drunk
has for another. A deeper love. Compassion. As if all I want in this moment is for him to get up off the chair, walk down to the beach and just keep going. Keep moving until he is so far away he
can’t be rerouted back to The Office. More than anyone I want Maynard to break free from all the shit. He is kind and funny. But above all, he is a man gifted with talent and I love him
enough to hate him for wasting it.

His right hand, locked into an empty grip where the whisky once was, moves. I slip the empty glass back into his hand. It takes him a few moments to notice the absence of liquid in his mouth. He
opens his eyes. They are red and laced with death.

—Whe . . . where . . .

Giving up on the possibility of speech, he gestures with his head towards the empty hand.

—Gone, Maynard. It’s all gone.

He is unconscious again before I reply.

We must have got back to London because I’m lying on my bed in Old Compton Street. I think it’s mid-afternoon. I need a drink. Now. I can hear Esurio pacing outside on the landing. I
want him to go away. I need to sleep. I close my eyes and, as I feel myself drifting off, he storms into the bedroom and begins having a real go at me.

—Get up! Now! I’m hungry, Lincoln, and all you can do is lie here feeling sorry for yourself. I’m not having it. Get up now!

—Give me an hour, just one hour . . .

—No! Time’s up. We’re going out now.

I imagine my hands around his throat, squeezing the life out of him. He knows what I’m thinking and laughs at me. I put my hands over my ears and he prods me with his cane. I lunge out of
the bed but whichever way I turn he is faster than me. I punch a hole in the wall in frustration. He laughs. The angrier I become, the funnier he finds it. He thrives on it. Ever since the Grand
Ball, Esurio has changed. He can still be funny and charming, loving even, but most times he bullies me. He used to get aggressive now and then but these days he is more . . . contemptuous.
That’s the word. He treats me like the dirt on his silver-buckled shoe. I wonder what this means and I make a mental note of six possible reasons for this change:

It occurs to me that these are really all one reason. All I am certain of is that he has changed and we are driving on to wherever he wants to take us. I am a passenger and I am resigned to what
I have become. There was a time when I was able to do deals with him. He would give me a few hours’ rest in return for a night in the ‘red zone’. Now he won’t even do that.
He says:

—I only deal when I have to. You understand sales, Lincoln. When the deal is closed, never give anything away and I do not have to give you anything anymore.

As I check my handkerchief in the mirror, I know he is too strong for me. Perhaps he always was and he was playing with me, like a cat toying with a mouse. There is entertainment value in the
moments before an execution. I read once about why they used to hang, draw and quarter people. It wasn’t because they wanted to kill the prisoner. It was to keep him alive long enough for the
mob to enjoy the pain. When I am done adjusting my jacket, I catch Esurio’s reflection in the mirror and let out a scream. His face is covered in a black hood and he is holding an axe. Beside
him on the floor is a rack. When I turn, the rack is gone and he is back to his normal self:

—Had you worried there, didn’t I?

He is a bully. Too strong for me to control. There are no more deals to be done. Where he goes, I will go. Where he sleeps, I will sleep. I will keep doing this even though I know he will tire
of me. One day, I know he will devour me. I am powerless before him and he will finish with me at a time of his own choosing. For now, I’m good sport. I make him laugh. I feed him. But I
sense he is growing tired of me, and when I am weak and pathetic, when my blood is made of booze and my cock limp, he will throw me into a gutter on Dean Street and move on to other bodies.
That’s the end game. Like cancer he will eat away at me until there’s nothing left. We both know the rules. But we are not there yet. For now, I can borrow time on condition that the
next fuck-up, the next ridiculous dream, is more costly than the one that came before it. Esurio is without mercy. I hate him.

I’m also having more nightmares than usual and I’m seeing things. I leave the flat and make my way to The Office. At the corner of Old Compton Street and Dean Street, people’s
faces begin to twist and melt like a Francis Bacon painting, and when I walk past a woman in rags in a boarded-up doorway, I recognise her. Her name is Edie and she spent years living on the
streets until she died a month after I moved to Soho. A man walks up to me and asks me the time. When I look up to answer him, he is no longer there. These people are my Familiars. They come. They
go.