The Hunger (8 page)

—It’s OK, darling. Just follow me and be quiet.

I say:

—I really want to fuck you.

—Of course you do, darling.

She sounds like a nurse. I feel like a delusional sex addict on a psychiatric ward. I think:

—There is Truth in everything we feel.

When we get out of the taxi I make out some large, modern buildings. Fay says:

—You’ll have to be very quiet.

I say:

—Of course.

I think:

Quiet! What is she fucking talking about?

We go in through a side door. I think:

—That’s odd.

The lights are bright. I squint. I can see lots of doors. I say:

—You’ve got a really big house.

She looks confused. Then that nursey voice again, except this time it’s slower and more deliberate, like she’s talking to an adolescent with severe learning difficulties:

—Y–e–s i–t i–s, L–i–n–c–o–l–n. I–t i–s v–e–r–y b–i–g.

We go into her room. Then that switch goes on in my brain and I’m at it. I pound like a madman. She takes it like a gift she has waited years to receive. The bed vibrates and I can see her
false teeth shaking inside her mouth, rising and falling in time with every thrust. After maybe an hour I notice how small the bed is. It’s a single bed. I think:

—She must have thrown the double out when her husband died.

I’m a slave. I’m obsessed. I want her more than I have wanted any other woman. Her eyes glaze over. For a moment I think:

—I hope she’s OK.

The moment passes and I forget. I forget everything. I’m lost in my own hunger. I hear Esurio shouting at me from the hallway outside:

—Feed me, Lincoln, feed me.

It goes on. And on. And on. When I’m done with her she says:

—Thank you.

These are the last words I hear before I fall into a deep sleep.

When I wake up, I feel sick. Fay is fast asleep. I have one foot in the bed, the other on the side rail and my head on the floor. I pull myself up using a metal grip protruding from the wall
next to the bed for leverage. I think:

—That’s handy.

I walk over to the bathroom. It’s big. I press my hands against the wall for balance as I piss. When I’m done I look for the flush. I pull a red cord above my head. Within seconds
the room is like a nightclub. Lights flash in the bathroom and an alarm rings so loud I think my head’s going to explode. Red cord. Metal grips. I’m in a fucking care home!

Fay appears at the door. She is naked and looks like a granny doll with the stuffing taken out. I think:

—You are so fucking sexy!

I want her again but my head is spinning. She says:

—Lincoln, you need to get out now!

—Where?

—Through the window.

I rush out of the bathroom, fumble my clothes on and open the window. I turn to Fay:

—It’s got restrainers on! I can’t open it!

—Then force it open!

I bash it with my shoulder and fall out onto the grass. I think:

—Thank fuck we’re on the ground floor.

She says:

—Run, Linc, run!

I sprint across the grass and, as I look back, I see two nurses rush into Fay’s room. They see me on the grass. One of them shouts:

—Call the police! Call the police!

As I climb a wall onto the road, I look back and all I can see is Esurio riding a stairlift, faster than I ever thought a stairlift could move. He is going up and down the stairs at the end of
the corridor using his cane as a riding crop. He is laughing hysterically and shouting at the top of his voice:

—
Ecce Homo
, Lincoln! Behold the Man! Behold the Man!

8 a.m.

I sprint back to my flat. There’s a Wrap in my bed. I need a drink. I need a line. She says:

—You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

—I have.

—Where have you been?

—You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

—Nothing would surprise me about you, Lincoln. Nothing.

In an hour, I’m at The Club for a photo shoot. It’s with twelve strippers for the 2010 calendar. I sit in one of the booths and watch the Wraps come in, one month at a time, one
shaved pussy after another. I stare at them like I would a row of needy mannequins in a shop window. They disgust me. I disgust myself. I think of Fay. I wonder when her daughter will visit her
again and what happened to her husband. If he’s dead, was it cancer or a stroke or some senseless accident? Perhaps he just left her after decades of marriage, his last stand against his own
inevitable decay. There seems so much sadness in the world, and I so want her to be safe and well it hurts. I whisper quietly into my coffee:

—Thank you, Fay, thank you, Fay, thank you, Fay.

I look up and Esurio is standing in front of me shaking his head.

—It’s time to go now, Lincoln, time to go. I have something special lined up for you tonight.

I put the coffee down and leave the booth. I can still hear the camera clicking and the clunk of stilettos on the dance floor as Esurio opens the door for me and I walk into another day. By the
time I’m on Wardour Street, Fay is a distant memory.

Midnight

I’m in a large warehouse in Soho and the cameras are rolling. There are about twenty beds dotted around the floor, a camera focused on each one of them. There’s a
naked Wrap on each bed with a sex toy in one hand and a phone in the other. Sometimes there are two or even three Wraps on one bed playing with each other. On the back wall are rows of neon
numbers.

—What do those numbers mean?

Kevin, who runs the operation, replies:

—That’s the number of callers listening.

This is the world of late-night sex chat for television. All the girls are being broadcast live on satellite and cable.

—Listening?

—Yep. That’s how I make my money. For every caller talking to the girls, there’s shitloads of dickheads just listening.

I look at the neon numbers. 17. 33. 42. 19. 57. I’m too fucked to count properly but by rounding up to the nearest ten I make it 420 listeners. Kevin passes me a pair of headphones.

—Here. This is what’s happening on Bed Three. It’s Danni, one of my top girls. One caller and you can see she’s got more than seventy listeners right now.

I glance at Bed Three. I need to fuck Danni. Now. I put the headphones on. A man with a quiet, drawling voice, is talking:

—I like Tesco’s best. The blue and white bags. The vegetables on the shelves. Especially the cucumbers.

—Ooh, darling, what do you like best about the cucumbers?

—They’re long and they’re Tesco cucumbers.

—Ooh, yes, and what would you do with a cucumber?

—Not a cucumber. A Tesco cucumber.

Danni may be the top girl but she’s struggling with this one. Then she gets it:

—I bet you’ve touched a Tesco cucumber when you’re in the supermarket and thought what you’d like to do with it, haven’t you?

—Yes I have.

—And what’s so special about Tesco cucumbers?

—It’s putting it in the bag. I like sliding it in then dropping it so the bag makes a noise.

—Have you got a Tesco bag with you now, darling?

—Yes I have.

—Is there a cucumber in it?

—Yes, and I’m touching it now.

—Let me hear you move it in the bag.

A rustling sound shoots through my head. I am pissing myself laughing. I look up at the numbers. Listeners are now in three figures.

—I’m moving it around.

—Can you stroke it for me, baby?

—I’m stroking it now.

—Ooh, I bet that feels good, doesn’t it. Stroke it harder for me, baby.

—I am, I am. Oh, oh, oh . . .

The line goes dead. Another happy customer. I have tears in my eyes and Kevin is cracking up next to me. When he sorts himself out, he points to the neon numbers:

—And that’s how I make the money. One guy talks, hundreds listen and I want listeners not talkers.

—Why’s that?

—Because talkers stop paying when the call ends while listeners stay on for hours. Cowardice costs money.

—How many of the models do you fuck?

—Hardly any. I’m so used to seeing naked girls it’s about as much of a turn-on as a meeting with Mother Teresa. Probably less so. I even thought I was turning gay at one
point.

I smile. I think he’s insane.

I turn and see Esurio. He’s lying on one of the beds helping two Wraps fuck each other with a dildo. They seem surprised at how well they’re angling the dildo. He looks over at
me:

—What a den of iniquity! This is what we want, Lincoln. Look at all the degenerate ladies. They’re everywhere!

I watch him as he jumps from one bed to another. There’s a blonde Wrap standing up on the corner bed and bending over, arse to camera. Esurio lies between her legs, running his fingers
down her back. She shudders and wonders if the air-conditioning has been put on too cold. He moves like a ballerina using the beds as an improvised stage set. I go to the toilet and take four more
lines. When I come out Esurio is running his fingers through Danni’s hair. He has left me seven bottles of Stella on the chair I was sitting on.

—Now this is your favourite, isn’t it?

Within an hour the bottles are gone and I’m staring at Danni. She goes off camera and walks towards the toilet. I follow her. I need her. More than I have ever needed anything in the
world. I want her. I want to pound her. I can feel my guts twisting, gnawing at me, screaming at me. When I was about seven my Mum said to me:

—The thing about you, Lincoln, is that you always want what you haven’t got and when you’ve had it you want something else.

When I was a teenager I was seeing a girl called Vicky. Her Mum said to me:

—I don’t want you seeing my daughter anymore. There’s something about you. It’s in your eyes. They’re all fiery. I just want her to go out with a normal boy because
I know she’ll never be happy with you.

Kevin is pissed off. He’s banging on the cubicle door.

—I want her out of there now, Lincoln.

I don’t ignore him because I can’t even hear him. He has no idea how helpless I am. Then a door hits me on the back. I cling on to Danni with all my strength. I will not let her go.
I feel hands. Four. Six. Perhaps more. Pulling me away from her and they carry me, my trousers around my ankles, to the fire exit and throw me out into a narrow alleyway. I slump against the wall.
I think my cock is still out. There is litter everywhere and the smell of dog piss is so strong it finds its way through the barricade of alcohol and gear. Esurio is sitting next to me, looking up
at the stars:

—What was it your hapless employer once said to you?

—Who?

—The one who said your fate was the gutter or the stars . . .

—Ah, my transport boss, Frank.

—That’s the man. Lincoln. But you see, he was quite wrong. You can have them both. All you have to do is know where to find them.

Esurio gestures extravagantly, moving his arm from the alley to the sky and back down again.

—And I honestly believe we have found the perfect place.

The Next Day

I wake up and the left side of my face feels numb. I look in the mirror. There’s a small cut and some swelling just above my jaw. It’s just gone eight. I shower, put
my tracksuit on, drop some cash in my pocket and go out for a run. The sky is grey. I sprint for the first three miles, then jog, then sprint. My chest begins to hurt. It clenches with fury. I am
burning. I look at my hands as I run, waiting for the fire to break through my skin. I’m ecstatic at the thought of flames rising from my hands. Burning from the inside out. I don’t
know how far I run before the fire begins to cool. Perhaps nine or ten miles. I’m on Bond Street and I make my way towards Selfridges. I’m dripping with sweat. My eyes are like fucking
saucers. I need a drink. I want to punch someone. I crave a confrontation. Two security guards standing at the entrance to Selfridges move towards me as I run towards them, then, as I get close
enough for them to see the creature they are dealing with, they let me pass. I’m disappointed. I need a drink. My face hurts. I’m struggling for breath. I stop at the Gucci concession
on the ground floor and lean against the wall. No one comes near me. I go to the toilets, throw up and wash my face. I put a toilet seat down and sit on it, my head in my hands. I want to rest. To
be able to rest. I say:

—Five minutes. All I ask is for five minutes.

A voice from the next cubicle replies. I know it’s Esurio:

—Now, you don’t really want to rest, do you? It’s a dangerous thing to rest. It’s easy to get accustomed to a slower pace of life and we don’t want that, do we,
Lincoln?

—I just want five minutes then I’ll be fine.

The tone of Esurio’s voice becomes more insistent and I can hear his cane banging on the wall of the cubicle.

—No! I will not give you five minutes! Get out of here now and keep moving, Lincoln. Keep moving!

In seconds I’m at one of the cosmetics concessions. The woman serving me is the right side of fifty. She may even have turned sixty. Esurio is shouting across the shop floor:

—Don’t ever think of slowing down again. So much opportunity and so little time. I will be your timekeeper, Lincoln, and my watch is a machine of perpetual motion. Perpetual, do you
hear me? Perpetual!

I haven’t a fucking clue what he is saying to me because my attention is locked like a missile on the woman trying various concealers on my skin.

—There. Perfect.

She pushes a mirror in front of my face. I can’t see the cuts and the swelling seems less.

I’ve read about stalkers. I’ve even known people who have been followed by them, but I never really understand them. What do they want? Why don’t they give up? Why
can’t
they give up?

After she finishes for the day, the woman on the cosmetics counter whose name is Sharon and who is, in fact, sixty-one, meets me at The Office
.
We fuck in three places. The toilets. Then
my flat. Then the toilets again. When we’re done she asks:

—When can we meet again?

I don’t understand the depths behind the question. I say: