I shake that Treacherous Ginger Bastard out of my head.
— It won’t work, honey. I’ve tried to tell you that over the years. I once went to an orgy and got a sweaty bawbag and hairy arse-crack in my face. Way too traumatising, and I’m far from the squeamish sort, I explain, shuddering in recall of a terrible incident in Clerkenwell. — I envy the fuck out of you, as I’ve always aspired to be bisexual.
— I’m no bisexual, she protests.
— Well, if you prefer, ‘a-woman-who-knows-how-to-pulverise-another-woman’s-clitoris-until-she-explodes’?
— I dinnae like labels, she says, then commands, — Suck my clit.
— Try stopping me, babes, just you try stopping me, I grin, — but only after you’ve picked a lassie, I nod to the phone.
Tutting and rolling her eyes, Marianne takes the iPhone off me, scrolling the profiles. She settles on Lily, another blonde who looks like a younger version of her. Fucking narcissists everywhere. It’s not a great contrast, and I stress the need for visual variety, but as she’s getting a bit twitchy, I decide it’s best not to push it. I call the agency and Lily will be at the hotel within the hour.
I get to work and multiple-orgasm Marianne, deploying fingers, tongue, cock and, most of all, speech play that would make a death-row sex offender blush. Fucking her down the years has been like reading that leather-bound Collected Works of William Shakespeare I ordered ages ago – you find something new each time you pick it up. She’s a feisty opponent, but I’ve hammered her into a dopey state of lassitude by the time the hooker arrives. I’ve taken care not blow my own wad, this was just a starter before the main dish of the day.
Lily comes up and I’m a bit despondent as her shots flatter her. Like extremely, like in an Exercise-Bike’s-Facebook-Page sort of way, where the posted snaps stop at around 1987, but no point in quibbling, as time is money. We go through only the rudimentary courtesies before getting down to business. Lily has a huge strap-on which she works into the arse of Marianne, who is crouched on the edge of the bed. I assume a similar position in front of Marianne, in order to take my fiancée’s lubed dildo up my hole. It’s going in with slow relief, like shitting in reverse, Marianne screaming as the base of the device is grinding against her clit like a demented Italian waiter on speed with a pepper cellar. I feel my soul being eye-wateringly spiked as Marianne gasps and shouts, — That’s my boy, take it right up ye… this is the faggot bitch I’m gaunny fuckin mairray…
I’m moving my hips to try and accommodate more dildo, while watching all this in the mirror, drinking in Marianne’s demented scowl and Lily’s gum-chewing detachment (at my instigation, all part of the set-up). Meanwhile, I’m chugging at my lubed penis in long strokes, feeling the pressure steadfastly building, like Hibs on the Rangers goal in the closing phase of the Hampden final. I’m thinking this is what married life will be like, when the door opens and the fucking cleaner…
Fuck me, it’s no the fucking cleaners…
The party literally crumbles as two men burst in, flashing IDs, wearing shite cop clothes and expressions of dumb, crass entitlement. They stop in their tracks as they take in the scene, speechless and bemused for a couple of seconds but not leaving. Then one says, — You’ve got two minutes to get dressed, we’ll be waiting outside!
They depart, one saying something I don’t catch and the other responding with a deep, throaty laugh, then slamming the door behind them.
— What the fuck, Lily squeals.
Marianne looks at me and haughtily says, — I dinnae mind ay ordering those boys…
41
RENTON – SHEDDING KING LEARS
I’m so buzzed, shocked, tired, relieved and fucking rich, I shouldnae be driving back to Santa Monica. My knuckles are ripped and my hands are swollen on the wheel, stubbornly reminding me that it happened. That fucking weirdo was going to shoot Franco and Melanie! And I saved the cunt! Me!
I’ve strayed into the wrong fucking lane and a horn blares out, a trucker giving me the finger as he passes. I’ve just beaten a cop to a pulp with my bare hands, and now I would shite it from my own shadow. I can’t concentrate; I’m wondering how much the Leith Heads will really fetch and whether I should play hardball with that collector cunt, as Conrad is going to jump ship and I’ll make fuck all from Emily or Carl.
This isn’t working. I pull off at some services and drink shit black coffee at Arby’s. It only burns a volatile stomach that feels like a nest of squirming maggots. I eat half a burrito and throw the rest away. Begbie explained that I was just suffering an amateur’s stress reaction to perpetrating violence. I’m beset with the idea that dark consequence and terrible reprisal lurk around every corner. In spite of the cops totally believing our story and the lawyer’s assurances that I’m in the clear, the paranoia is ripping out of me. I consider turning on my phone, but I know that would be the worst thing to do right now, even if the urge is almost irresistible. It’s always just bad news, anyway. Conrad is ramping to jump ship, just when I hear from the Wynn that he’s got the big gig at XS, on the back of his latest big hit. Now some other cunt will reap the benefits. Fuck it.
I get back in the rental, driving like a learner, conscious of every move, never so relieved to get off the 101 onto the 405. The jammed city traffic slows things down, composing me, giving ays time to think. I decide it’s good. I did a virtuous thing and got payback from it. I fantasise about the likely and unlikely rewards. A mystical healer or breakthrough wonderdrug for Alex, that miraculously connects him to the world. But no amount of money will make that happen. It will, however, get me an essential three-bedroomed apartment. Then I’m onto the 10 to Santa Monica, then coming off it, and parking in my underground lot. I get out the car and hold my hand in front of my face. It’s shaking, but I’m home in one piece.
Then, from the periphery of my vision, I see a figure step out of a car. It moves between two parked vehicles, and starts walking towards me, still obscured by darkness and shadow. It’s big, and powerful-looking, though, and I feel my pulse kick up and my sore fists ball. I’m ready to go again but, fuck me, it’s Conrad, now lit from a yellow lamp in the roof above.
— You are okay! the fat bastard sings in delight, tears welling in his big eyes as he grabs me in an awkward embrace. I’m nervously patting his back, totally scoobied. I never expected this. — You should phone, text, email… he gasps, — it is not like you not to return calls! For many days! I was worried, we all were!
— Thanks, pal… Sorry about that, loads to sort out, congrats wi the track, I lamely hear myself say, as he releases me.
— I know there are money problems with you, Conrad whispers. — Anything you need, you must tell me, and I will give it to you. My money is your money. This you know, right?
Well, no, I never had a fucking inkling that he was anything other than a tight, selfish cunt. And I thought that this was the fucking bullet coming. That Conrad would surely be signing for a rival, moving tae Ivan’s stable. I certainly never imagined we had this kind ay stuff going on. — That is incredibly generous of you, pal, but I’ve been out of the loop, attending tae this personal and financial stuff, I explain, adjoining, — to my extreme satisfaction, I might add.
— That is good. I am pleased to hear this. But we need to talk, there have been developments, he adds an ominous tone.
— Right, well, first I have to go upstairs and check on my dad and my boy. Meet me in the Speakeasy on Pico in twenty.