‘I never use it,’ said Dork.
Clint recalled her words. Potentium, said Karla, had turned out to be a Midas curse for the porno male. Pre-Potentium, a flop meant a skipped day and a net loss. Post-Potentium, it meant that the man was ready fifteen minutes late, and had splotchy cheeks (hence Red Face) and a porno headache. But there were fewer suicides and crackups, and they all started using it. ‘The change sparked controversy,’ as Clint would later write; and we must remember, along with Dork Bogarde, that ‘this was at the heighth of Pussies Are Bullshit’ … Some said that Potentium was bullshit too: it affronted the market forces having to do with the reality of arousal. People who argued that way turned out to be purists — because the customer didn’t care. ‘Being able, or likely, to perform in public’, Karla said, ‘was once a marketable skill. Now anyone can do it. The men — the grunts, the stiffs — never were a draw. And now they’re just life-support systems for a tab of Potentium.’ Karla said she was surprised. She said she had always thought that the customer was a lot gayer than that …
Dork now confronted Clint with a porno paradox. ‘See, Clint,’ he said, ‘we get pressure coming the other way: Cockout. How can a man fulfil his fanthasy when, hanging over him at all times, he faces the spectre of Cockout?’
After a while Dork returned to the subject of porno pay, and porno percentages, until Hick confirmed the arrival of the tape of the test-fuck of Charisma Trixxx.
‘Look at that,’ said Dork, gesturing at the screen. ‘Suave ass. Sincere bush. I don’t just mean the mohawk. I mean the presentation. I’m talking the whole box.’
‘She chugs good,’ allowed Hick.
‘Good neck-work on the back-take.’
‘And I like the tongue-slide on the feed-draw.’
Fifteen minutes later Hick said, ‘Here we go. Gracious address for the facial.’
‘… Wow,’ said Dork. ‘See that? Right in the eye.’ Dork turned to Hick (it was established earlier that Hick had been known to do Gay). ‘Does that hurt? I mean, does it kind of burn?’
‘Burn? It’s like fucking fire. And she didn’t even flinch.’
‘I won’t have any kind of problem tomorrow. Flinch? She didn’t even blink. Clint, hadn’t you …?’
‘Yeah well thanks, lads,’ said Clint. ‘Dork mate. I happen to know one of your uh, conquests.’ And he felt luxury as he pronounced her name: ‘Donna Strange …’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Donna Strange …’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Uh — big English brunette with a silver streak in her hair and a crinkly mouth … She sucked you off underneath a pyramid and then you had her up the arse in a helium balloon. Then you landed on Everest and shot all over her tits.’
‘… I spent on her breatsts? That’s so—passé. You’d think I’d remember that.’
On his way back to the hotel Clint pulled in at another video store. And there it all was, yet again, laid out in categories, like a dramatisation of the words of Karla White. Not Hatefuck, because everything was Hatefuck unless labelled otherwise. But Cockout, and Bullshit Cockout, and Boxback, and Red Face, and White Hair, and Yellow Tongue (‘Yellow Tongue’, she said, ‘is for those who miss the motel room, the handheld video cam, the ghoulish lighting, and the plain cast ill on drugs’), and, of course, the category called Princess Lolita.
He worked into the small hours on his starry-eyed profile of Dork Bogarde. Then, to release tension, he pounded out some Yellow Dog. At about noon, London time, he received the following message:
my only 1: thank u so much 4 your e of consol8ion. i don’t no y, but things r clearer now. it feels as if a gr8 w8 has been lifted from me. Even as my father lies in st &rew’s, f8ally unwell … u no what i’m thinking? i think i’m 4lling in love with u, clint. yes u, and no 1 else. u, clint! u, u, u! r u o fait with the poetry of ezra £? as i transmitted this, i thought of the lines: ‘& now i bring the boy in, on his knees, & send this 1,000 miles, thinking.’ i’m mad 4 u, clint. come 2 me on your return. only when u & i r 1 will i feel truly @ peace. 10derly, k8.
ps: i vener8 yellow dog. i lite c&les to yellow dog. i make a god of yellow dog.
Yellow Dog wiped away his tears and settled down to an hour or two of Yellow Tongue.
5. Cur moment
The third (and final) message from their mole, their enemy’s enemy, took the form of a no-fingerprints communication directed at Brendan’s laptop. Earlier that day a similarly anondot service-provider released six new stills of the Princess, one of which, sensationally, showed her daunted face half-dimmed by the shadow of the intruder … The message Brendan received ran as follows: ‘Ultimatum will be presented on February 10. Strongly advise immediate compliance. Please to reemphasise: the material on the Princess is all light and magic. All light and magic.’ Feeling sick to his stomach, but also wonderfully lightheaded, Brendan issued a contemptuous press-release from Ewelme. Then he had his worst talk ever with the King.
‘Here’s a turn-up, sir,’ he began. ‘Captain Mate has resigned. Effective immediately.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it, Bugger.’
‘It’s a bit rum, though, sir. We can—’
‘I’ve been meaning to chuck him for years.’
‘Sir?’
‘Yes, Bugger. On account of his physical appearance. But I could never be fagged. Now never mind him, and get on with it. You’ve got that glint in your eye, Bugger. Yes you have. You’re preparing me for something horrid, I can tell.’
Henry looked out of the window of the Royal Train; but there was nothing to see. To be heading north, north from Ewelme with its mists and brown spume, and at the very worst time of year … He thought: the cur moment. I shall have to revisit it, relive it. The cur moment.
‘That’ll be all, Love.’ Henry waited. He said, ‘Do you believe in life after death?’
‘You’re changing the subject.’
‘I’m not changing the subject. It’s practically the only subject there is. With you. These days, darling.’
‘Well yes I do. Do you?’
‘… No.’
‘See? What you have, it isn’t faith. It’s just habit.’
‘Faith … faith is a power. It gets weaker as you age. Like all powers.’
‘You have changed the subject. And the subject,’ said the Princess, ‘the subject is this. To distract attention from my uh, imbroglio in the Yellow House—’
‘Whatever that was.’
‘Whatever that was. To distract attention, and to win some sympathy from the media and the million,’ she said, ‘we’re going to Scotland to kill Mummy.’
‘Don’t. Be. Silly … Darling.’
After a while he said, ‘Bugger told me that you told him that there was something I could do. Uh, Brendan, rather. He took you to mean that there was something I could do — that would make it all right.’
‘One thing I will tell you is that this isn’t it. Murdering Mummy isn’t it. Oh I’m not going to spring to your rescue. You’ll have to get there on your own.’
Dusk was coming nearer. They rushed to meet it. He sat back, and looked for what comfort he could find in thoughts of He Zizhen.
In his bedroom at Tongue he was woken by the draughts at half past five. He kicked Love out of his army cot and then drank the tea with great gouts of brandy in it until his teeth stopped chattering. A bath of blood heat; a cold-water shave. He put on his black suit, and his hardiest overcoat — inherited from his father, Richard IV, and still a sober tribute to the protective power of cashmere and silk. He stepped out into the morning twilight and the cockcrow.