The Hunger (25 page)

—He’s a child, Esurio. How could you kill a child?

—What makes you think I killed him?

—I saw you, you cunt. I saw you take him to the bottom of the pool. He was struggling and you wouldn’t let him go. You wouldn’t let
me
go.

—It may have seemed that way, but I assure you he was already dead before we jumped in the water.

—He fucking wasn’t. He was alive. He was fighting to get away from you, fighting for air, and you held him until he couldn’t fight anymore.

—I didn’t say he wasn’t breathing. I said he was dead.

—What the fuck are you saying? I watch myself die and you come out with some clever shit. It was me down there. Me!
I
died.

—Then I rest my case. You, I assume, are still breathing and so was the boy. But he was dead, Lincoln, and so are you. I am not a murderer. I don’t break down doors or force myself
on people. I only go where I am wanted. I am always invited into a person’s life, Lincoln, always. You were kind enough to create a space for me in yours and, hey presto, here I am!

Esurio spreads his arms wide as if he is introducing himself on a stage.

—I never invited you into my life.

—You never wrote a formal invitation, if that’s what you mean, and if there had been someone to watch over you, then perhaps we might have been nothing more than casual
acquaintances. But there was no one, Lincoln, no one.

I can’t look at him, so I turn away and stare at the yellow diving board and the lifeless buildings in the distance. The surface of the water is calm now. It’s as if the splash never
happened, and I forget there is a dead boy at the bottom of the pool. When I turn back towards Esurio he is gone and I’m alone in this dead landscape. The chair and the building behind it
look as if they have been there forever. Without any sign of life to disturb them, they seem indestructible and, without the chaos of splashing water, they are empty of meaning, neither dead nor
alive. Just
there
. I long to stay in this place. Solid. Permanent. Calm.

I lift a tiny pebble off the patio and throw it into the water. It barely makes a ripple but one small splash brings everything back to life and paves the way for a bigger splash to follow. As I
watch the small crack in the water begin to heal, like the closing of a wound, I think of the boy, of my life and countless other lives, opening the same wound over and over again, before
disappearing without trace under the water, and I think of the many lives buried so deep in this great big sea of loneliness and fear that we forget they were lives worth saving.

The Day After the Bigger Splash

When I wake up, the sheets are soaking wet. I look at the wall behind the bed. It’s white. I touch it and press it. It’s cold and hard. I fall out of bed and in a
few minutes I’m walking along Dean Street. The day passes. I am pissed by lunchtime and totally fucked by three in the afternoon.

8 p.m.

I meet Suzie at my flat. We fuck for a couple of hours and, long before I’m done, I’m thinking about the next line.

11 p.m.

I take Suzie into Soho House on Greek Street. In the reception area, a soap actor is standing chatting to a few friends. I am generally fucked off with actors. When I am
hammered I want to kill them. He walks up to Suzie and asks:

—Do you know who I am?

She says she doesn’t. He touches her arse and, when she struggles to pull away from him, I lunge at him and push him backwards over a chair. Two bouncers grab me from behind and throw me
out onto Dean Street. I turn and go to headbutt the entrance to Soho House. Suzie shouts at me:

—No, Linc, please no.

I charge at the door and miss it. My head cracks against the wall. The blood gets in my eyes. Suzie tries to wipe it away but she can’t get near me. I pass out making a second charge at
the wall.

2 a.m.

I meet Maynard in Little Italy. I have a plaster on my head. I don’t know how it got there.

We hang about the bar for a few minutes before he passes out. I leave him propped him up in a corner and look across to see Esurio lying in the floor, a glass of absinthe in one hand, staring up
a Wrap’s skirt. He smiles and pokes his tongue at me before sliding up through the Wrap’s body. She shivers and looks around as he floats over to me:

—I am so pleased you are still with us. I’m sure you will die a thousand times before it’s finally over, but you know the end is coming, Lincoln. Two trials in the New Year and
then . . .

—I don’t give a fuck about the trials. I don’t give a fuck about my life. I don’t give a fuck about anything.

—I know, and that’s what makes you so beautiful and pathetic.
The Great Lincoln Townley: Dead and Unmourned.

He passes me a tray covered in coke and I take it all.

December 2010. Six Things I Remember About Christmas

He doesn’t bother with me as much as he used to. It’s like he knows he doesn’t have to try anymore. He’s won and he’s bored with his triumph:

—Don’t expect a challenge and a reward like last Christmas. I’m afraid the rewards this year are all mine.

I black out for most of December. This is what I remember:

New Year’s Eve. 8 p.m.

The Townhouse on Dean Street is heaving. I ran out of coke this morning. I haven’t had a line all day and the craving is intense. I reach into my pocket to get my phone.
My dealer will be around Soho. My pocket is empty. I check the other side. Empty. I get up off the bar stool and check my trouser pockets. Nothing. I forget about the phone and begin to panic. I
MUST have a line. I turn my jacket pockets inside out to see if there are any grains of coke in there. I can’t see any but I lick them anyway just to be on the safe side. Terry sees me and
says:

—What the fuck are you doing?

I look at him:

—Have you got any gear?

—No.

—Do you know anyone who has?

—No.

—Then fucking leave me alone, then.

I run back to my flat. Two Wraps are fucking each other in my bed. I ask them:

—Coke! Do you have any coke?

They look into my eyes and can’t speak. They shake their heads and pull the duvet cover over their naked bodies, as I start turning the place inside out. I think:

—How the fuck can I not have any coke on New Year’s Eve?

I empty every drawer and throw them all across the room. The last one hits the wall and breaks apart. I ask the Wraps.

—Who’s your dealer?

They tell me and I say:

—Well fucking call him then.

One of them picks up her phone and makes the call.

—Sorry, Linc, it’s ringing out.

I leave the flat and head towards the Dirty Dance Strip Club. There’s a guy who bangs a lot of the Wraps who work there and I score off him sometimes. He’ll be there. When I get
there one of the floor managers comes up to me and says:

—Would you like a table sir?

—Do I look like I want a fucking table?

He says something into a phone. I pass from table to table, looking for the guy with the gear. He isn’t in. Some Wraps hassle me. I tell them to fuck off. I look over to the stage and
Esurio is curling himself around one of the poles. Behind him is a curtain. His voice cuts through the music, as he gestures to a fucking mountain of coke behind the curtain:

—Yours, Lincoln, all yours.

I run towards the stage. There are people blocking my way. I know them. My son, my Mum, my Dad, my whole fucking family, old friends, people who looked out for me as a kid, they’re all
there and I push them out of the way. One after another they fall like skittles. I don’t care who they are. I don’t care who I hurt. I MUST have some coke. MUST. MUST. MUST. There is
nothing in common between me and the people who stand in my way, especially those who throw up a barrier and call it love. We are a different species. We do not share anything. We cannot
communicate. Not now. Not ever.

January–February 2011

I am preparing for two Court Appearances in eight weeks. The first one is a week from now and the second one about a month after that. People around Soho, those who know about
this shit, are being really nice to me. Maynard says:

—You’ll be all right, Linc. Think of the court as a stage and you’ll even enjoy it.

Some of my Regulars send me texts. Here’s a few:

U r a star! Luv u. Suzie x

Blow job when you win! XXXX S.

Talk as good as you bang and you’ll win easy! X Jen

Fuck them like u fuck me. Slurps. Simone.

I get about thirty. Most of them include pictures as an added incentive. I show them to the boys in The Office
.
They are used to seeing my messages from Wraps. I hate their indifference,
so I show them the picture message from Katie. She has a butt plug in her arse:

One for me and one for the judge! Kisses. K

They like that and I feel proud of myself.

Meeting My Barrister

Two days before my First Court Appearance, Benjamin, my lawyer, who handles most of the cases for the
Lost Men of Soho
, introduces me to my barrister, Tristram. I
think:

How can a man called Tristram defend me?

I know Benjamin, who looks as if he might be as comfortable in the dock as out of it, is thinking the same. As the meeting kicks off, he nods at me as if to say:

—You’re fucking lucky to get anyone to defend you, so please be polite to Tristram.

I am. Very polite. Things are going well in the opening exchanges until he ruins it:

—I think you should plead guilty to the charge.

—But it’s assaulting a police officer. I could serve time for that.

—While that’s true I can only advise you professionally and we can put up some strong mitigation.

—What mitigation?

—Well, you were provoked in the bar at Ronnie Scott’s, followed into the toilets, and, by the time the police arrived, you were beside yourself with confusion. I also understand you
had your penis out at the time because you had been urinating and you had not had time to adjust yourself. You, therefore, faced a very humiliating situation.

—Is that it?

—That’s the best we can do, I’m afraid.

—But there were no witnesses and I have my side to the story.

—I’m sure you do have your side of the story, and I will do my best to convey it to the judge. However, there was a witness and it is not good for you.

—What fucking witness?

Benjamin gives me a look.

—Sorry, what witness?

—CCTV. It was all caught on camera. The police officer is merely trying to restrain you when you engage in a flurry of headbutts, punches and kicks. Given the strength of this evidence, it
will work in your favour to plead guilty and to be contrite.

When I get back to The Office, Simon asks:

—How did you get on?

—I’ve got to plead guilty and be contrite.

—That’s not like you, Linc. What does it mean?

—It means I’m fucked.

My First Court Appearance

I sit in a dock flanked by two police officers. We all stand when the judge comes in. He looks over at me. I catch an impression of contempt. I smile. Not too creepily. Just a
little show of respect. It doesn’t work. He gives me the same look again, only this time it’s laced with a sneer.

Tristram puts up as good a show as he can. A couple of Regulars and one Occasional are sitting in the public gallery. I smile at them. One of them rolls her tongue at me. The judge sees her
doing it. I wish she hadn’t done it. The day whizzes by in a flurry of legal argument. After about an hour I have a thought:

—This is great. It’ll soon be over and I can get hammered in The Office
.

This thought recurs throughout the day, growing in strength during the afternoon. The stronger it gets, the more untouchable I feel. I think:

—And after I get hammered I’ll celebrate by banging the two Regulars and the Occasional in my flat.

In a recess, while we wait for the judge to consider the verdict, Tristram calls me into a small meeting room.