The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins
Page 1
CONTENTS
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Irvine Welsh
Dedication
Title Page
Epigraph
PART ONE: TRANSPLANTS
1. Leper Colony
2. Lena’s Morning Pages 1
3. Hero
4. Contact 1
5. Blubber Suits
6. Contact 2
7. Villain
8. Contact 3
9. Cute Overload
10. Contact 4
11. Demon
12. Future Human—Introduction
13. Contact 5
14. Lummus Park
15. Contact 6
16. Art Walk
17. Contact 7
18. Lena’s Morning Pages 2
19. Ass Assassin
20. Future Human—The Process
21. Contact 8
22. A Controlled Environment
23. Future Human—Critical versus Commercial Responses to Lena Sorenson’s Work
24. Contact 9
25. Heat
26. Contact 10
27. Lena’s Morning Pages 3
28. Contact 11
PART TWO: HOSTAGES
29. Contact 12
30. The Barracuda Man
31. Immediate Decisions
32. Contact 13
33. Apartment
34. Contact 14
35. An Institute of Art
36. Dogs
37. Contact 15
38. The Package
39. Contact 16
40. West Loop Lena
41. Stockholm Syndrome
42. Matt Flynn
43. The Miami Beach Truth and Reconciliation Committee
44. Contact 17
45. FLA versus NYC
46. Empty Cuffs
47. Contact 18
48. One Way or Another
49. Eat or Be Eaten
PART THREE: TRANSFERS
50. A Dream to Share (With Those who Really Care)
51. Thanksgiving
52. Contact 19
53. The Raid
Acknowledgments
Copyright
ABOUT THE BOOK
When Lucy Brennan, a Miami Beach personal-fitness trainer, disarms a gunman chasing two frightened homeless men, the police and the breaking-news cameras are not far behind and, within hours, Lucy is a media hero. The solitary eye-witness is the depressed and overweight Lena Sorensen, who becomes obsessed with Lucy and signs up as her client – though she seems more interested in the trainer’s body than her own. When the two women find themselves more closely aligned, and can’t stop thinking about the sex lives of Siamese twins, the real problems start ...
In the aggressive, foul-mouthed trainer, Lucy Brennan, and the needy, manipulative Lena Sorensen, Irvine Welsh has created two of his most memorable female protagonists, and one of the most bizarre, sado-masochistic folies à deux in contemporary fiction. Featuring murder, depravity and revenge – and enormous amounts of food and sex – The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins taps into two great obsessions of our time – how we look and where we live – and tells a story so subversive and dark it blacks out the Florida sun.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Irvine Welsh is the author of eight previous novels and four books of shorter fiction. He currently lives in Chicago.
ALSO BY IRVINE WELSH
FICTION
Trainspotting
The Acid House
Marabou Stork Nightmares
Ecstasy
Filth
Glue
Porno
The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs
If You Liked School, You’ll Love Work . . .
Crime
Reheated Cabbage
Skagboys
DRAMA
You’ll Have Had Your Hole
Babylon Heights (with Dean Cavanagh)
SCREENPLAY
The Acid House
For Elizabeth (again)
The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins
Irvine Welsh
I must create a system or be enslaved by another man’s.
William Blake
Part One
Transplants
1
LEPER COLONY
2-4-6-8, WHO DO we appreciate?
Numbers are the great American obsession. How do we measure up? Our crumbling economy: growth percentage, consumer spending, industrial output, GDP, GNP, the Dow Jones. As a society: homicides, rapes, teen pregnancies, child poverty, illegal immigrants, drug addicts, registered and otherwise. As individuals: height, weight, hips, waist, bust, BMI.
But the number in my head right now is the one that causes most of the problems: 2.
The argument with Miles (6’1", 210 lbs) was trivial, yeah, but containing enough discord to prevent me spending the night at his Midtown (equals ghost town) apartment. The jerk had moaned all evening about his bad back, talking himself out of any action with that crybaby bullshit. As his eyes grew moister, so my pussy became more arid. Not so fucking difficult to comprehend. He actually shushed me during the last few minutes of an episode of The Big Bang Theory; like, come on, dude! Also, his chihuahua, Chico, was yelping belligerently and he wouldn’t stick him in another room, insisting the bug-eyed little asshole would soon settle down.
Well, fuck that.
He didn’t take it well when I opted to split: making like a sulky toddler, all stiff posture and pouting lips. Like, man the fuck up! Some guys are just not cool enough to do anger. Chico, changing his routine by jumping onto my knee, despite me continually lowering him back onto the floor, has a bigger set of balls.
So I’m heading back to South Beach, a couple minutes short of 3:30 a.m. The night had been calm earlier, a hanging moon and a rash of stars providing shards of light which cut through the deep mauve sky. Then, almost as soon as I start up my wheezy 1998 Caddy DeVille, inherited from my mom, I’m aware of the shift in the weather. I’m not concerned as I have Joan Jett’s “I Hate Myself for Loving You” rattling out of my speakers, but by the time I get onto the Julia Tuttle Causeway, gusts of wind are shoving at the car head-on. I slow down as sheets of rain batter the windshield, causing me to squint through the rapid swishes of the wipers.
Just as it suddenly eases to a drizzle and the speedometer creeps back to fifty, two men emerge out of the now starless, inky dark, running right down the middle of the almost deserted causeway toward me, waving their arms. The closest one blows hard, hamster-cheeked under the white flood of the overhead highway lights, his crazed eyes bursting into view. At first I think it’s some kind of a joke; shit-faced frat boys or crazy druggies playing a fucked-up daredevil game. Then a stark fuck hammers into my consciousness as I sense it’s some sort of elaborate carjacking, and I tell myself: don’t stop, Lucy, let the pricks move aside, but they don’t, so I brake hard, wrenching the car into a jarring slide. I’m holding onto the wheel, it feels like a titan is trying to tear it from my grasp, then a thump and a rustling sound and I’m watching one of the men tumble over my hood. The car slows to a halt, thrusting me back in my seat as the engine cuts out, killing the CD just as Joan is about to rock the fuck out on the chorus. I’m looking around, trying to make sense of the situation. A driver in the other lane just in front of me isn’t able to react so quickly; the second man ricochets off their hood, twisting in the air like a crazy ballerina and caroming along the highway. The car tears ahead, into the night, making no attempt to stop.
Thank the sanctified asshole of Sweet Baby Jesus that there’s nobody else behind us.
Carjackers never had balls that size or were as scared. Miraculously,
the guy the other car hit, a small, chunky, Latino, staggers to his feet. He’s dripping with terror; it seems to override any pain he’s in, as he doesn’t even look at the fucker who bounced off my car; he’s glaring over his shoulder back into the murky night, as he hauls himself away. Then, in the rearview mirror, I see the guy I clipped, a skinny white dude. He’s right up on his feet too; blond hair, greased back in lank tendrils as he hobbles quickly like a semi-crippled spider toward the bushes at the median strip dividing the downtown and beach lanes of the highway bridge. Then I see that the Latino guy has double-backed and is limping toward me. He hammers on my window, screaming, — HELP ME!
I’m frozen in my seat, the burning smell of brake pads and rubber in my nostrils, not knowing what the fuck to do. Then a third guy comes marching briskly out of the darkness, down the highway toward us. The Latino guy yelps out in pain, perhaps the shock has worn off, hobbling to the back of the car, seeming to crouch down at the passenger rear-side window.
I open the door and step out, my legs shaky on the firm concrete, my stomach empty and hollow. As I do this, there’s a cracking sound, and something whistles just past my left ear. I realize, with a strange sense of abstraction, that it’s a gunshot. I know this because of the way the third man, forming out of the mottled dark, is pointing at the car, something in his hand. It has to be a gun. He’s almost alongside me and everything freezes over as I clearly see the pistol. I feel my eyelids rolling back in a primal plea for mercy as I’m thinking this is how it ends, but he walks right past me as if I’m invisible, even though I’m close enough to touch him, to see his glazed little ferret eye in profile, and even catch a whiff of his stale body odor. But he’s in dedicated pursuit of his hunkered target. — PLEASE! PLEASE! . . . DON’T . . . begs the Latino croucher, hunched down by the side of my car, eyes shut, head bowed, one palm extended.
The gunman slowly lowers his arm, pointing the weapon at his victim. Some instinct takes over, and I jump up and dropkick the asshole between his shoulder blades. He’s a light, raggedy-looking guy and he tumbles face forward toward his would-be target, dropping the pistol as he hits the asphalt. The Latino looks bewildered, then scrambles toward the gun. I get there first and kick it under the Caddy, as the prey looks at me for a second, oval-mouthed, before rising and hobbling off. But I’m right down on top of the gunman, slamming my weight on his back, straddling him, my bare knees skidding roughly and painfully down on the hot surface of the deserted highway, both my hands round the back of his thin, scrawny neck. He’s not a big guy (white, around 5’5", 120 lbs), but he doesn’t even try to resist, as I’m shouting, — YOU CRAZY ASSHOLE, WHAT THE FUCK DO YA THINK YOU’RE DOIN?
Some broken-voice baby sobs, and between them a plaintive spiel, — You don’t understand . . . nobody understands . . . as another car creeps up, then surges past us. I’m feeling that ominous vibe of one more layer of shit falling on me. I glance up and can see the Latino heading toward the bushes of the median strip, in the direction of his fleeing white compadre. The thought grips me, I’m glad I’m wearing sneakers, as I was planning on gladiator stilettos to match this short denim skirt and blouse I put on to try to get Miles to think dick and forget spine. Now that this skirt has ridden up, I’m so fucking glad I remembered panties.
Then an excited voice squeals in my ear, — I saw everything, and you are a hero! I phoned this in! I called the cops! I filmed it all on my phone! Evidence!
I glance up to see a small fat chick, eyes almost hidden by long, black bangs, 5’2", maybe 5’3", and about 220 lbs. Like all overweight people you can only speculate on her age, but I’d say late twenties.
— I called it in, she repeats, waving her cell phone. — It’s all on here! I was parked over there. She points and I crane my neck in the direction of her car, visible under the overhead lights, on the hard shoulder of the bridge, almost backed into the causeway’s barrier of bushes, shrubs, and trees planted between the road and the bay. She looks at the broken, prostrate figure underneath me, my thighs that lock onto him as he shakes under his convulsive sobs. — Is he crying? Are you crying, mister?
— He will be, I snarl, as sirens tear out and a police car screeches to a halt, swathing us in blue light. Then I’m aware of the gross smell of urine rising from the guy beneath me, turning the hot air fetid.
— Oh . . . the fat chick sings mindlessly, wrinkling her nose. It’s like old alcoholic piss, where the bum in question has been drinking cheap rot gut for days. But even as the warm wetness rolls over the asphalt and makes contact with my skinned knees, I’m not relinquishing my hold on this whimpering motherfucker. Then a flashlight shines in my face, and an authoritative voice tells me to stand up slowly. I blink and see the fat chick being pulled away by a cop. I try to comply but my body feels locked astride this pissing wretch, and I’m now conscious of the fact that I’m wearing a short skirt, straddling a urinating stranger on a highway, surrounded by cops, as cars zip by. Then some rough hands tug me to my feet, the muffled cries still coming from the sad bag of bones on the deck. A short, butch Latina in a uniform is in my face, her groping mitts under my armpit, pulling me harshly upward. — You have to step away now!
I can’t use my hands and arms to steady myself, or rotate or lean my torso forward, and as I stand up I’m stepping on the guy. This is so fucking embarrassing. My friend, Grace Carillo, is a Miami cop, and I’d drop her name but I don’t want her or anybody I know to see me like this. My constricting tight, short denim skirt has ridden up into a thick, folded belt around my waist, through my action of kicking and straddling this creep. Denim doesn’t fall back into place just by standing up, and the fucking cops won’t release their grip so I can smooth the butt of my skirt down. — I gotta fix my skirt, I shout.
— You need to step away! the bitch shouts again. My underwear is visible from the back and front and I can see the frozen, waxy faces of the cops in the headlights scrutinizing me as I step off this pants-pissing prick.
I feel like tearing the bitch a new fucking asshole, before I remember Grace’s advice that it’s always unwise to fuck with a Miami cop. For one thing they are trained to assume that everyone is carrying a firearm. The two other cops, both male, one black, one white, cuff the sobbing gunman and yank him upright, as I finally get to shimmy and smooth the skirt down. The shooter’s face is pallid, his wet eyes set on the ground. I realize that he’s just a kid, maybe early twenties at the most. What the fuck was going through his head?
— This woman is a hero, I hear the bloated chick shriek in rabid attestation. — She disarmed that guy. She points in accusation at the cuffed kid, who has gone from stone-cold assassin to pitiable wretch, with a big wet stain on his pants. I feel his gross wetness on my scraped knees. — He was shooting at these two men. She points over to the edge of the bridge.
The fleeing cripples are now standing together, contemplating the scene. The Latino guy tries to skulk away, while the white guy has his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the harsh overhead light. Another two cops head over to them. The chunky little chick is still talking breathlessly to the Latina cop. — She took the gun from him and kicked it under the car, one chubby digit indicates. Then she pushes her sweaty bangs out of her eyes, waving her phone in the other hand. — It’s all on here!
— What were you doing stopped over there? the black cop asks her, as I catch another male white officer looking over my Cadillac and then back at me, perplexed.
— I felt sick driving, the fat chick says, — I had to pull over. I guess it was something I ate. But I saw everything, and she’s playing back the video recording on her phone to the cops. — Another car hit one of those men too, but they didn’t even stop!
Even as I feel the drumbeat of my heart pump more than it does after a cardio workout, I’m thinking how this girl’s skin, under the police car’s pulsing red lamp, matches almost exactly that horrible giant pink T-shirt she’s wearing with baggy jeans.
— That’s right, he just opened
up on us. The white guy with the smashed leg has lurched over, flanked by another cop, pain streaked across his crinkly leather face, as he points to the weaselly motherfucker gunman who is being pushed into the back of the squad car. — This lady saved my life!
My hands are shaking and I’m fervently wishing I hadn’t run out on Miles. Even a tepid fuck from an immobilized prick with a bad back would’ve been preferable to getting caught up in this bullshit. Now I’m being guided into the back of another squad car, the officer saying soothing things in such a strong Latino accent I can hardly make it out. I get that they are taking the Cadillac and I hear myself mumbling something about the keys probably still being in the ignition and that my friend Grace Carillo is an MDPD officer, working in Hialeah. Our car pulls off, the fat chick riding shotgun, craning her blubbery neck around, telling me and the dykey cop, in some folksy Midwest accent, — It’s the bravest thing I ever did see!
I don’t feel brave at all, cause I’m shaking and thinking what the fuck was I doing opening that door? and I kind of pass out or drift away for a few moments or whatever. And when I’m aware of where I am, we’re turning into the garage by Miami Beach police station on Washington and 11th. A TV breaking-news camera crew are here, moving aside as we go through the barrier, and the dykey Latina cop is saying, — Those assholes get quicker all the time, but in an observational way, without resentment. As if on cue, I turn to the window to see a camera lens sticking in my face. The fat chick in the pink, her glassy eyes going from me to the reporter, shouts, almost in accusation, — It’s her! It’s her! She’s a hero! And my reflection mirrored right back in that camera is telling me I’m looking pretty fucking bewildered.
I realize that I need to butch the fuck up here, so when the fat pinko says for the umpteenth time in that simpering, fey voice, — Gosh, you really are a hero, I’m feeling a little smile playing on my face and I’m thinking to myself, yeah, maybe I am.