by P R Johnson
Chapter 12
The sky was overcast when Matthew awoke the next morning. With his thoughts uneasy and a dull ache in his stomach, he pulled apart the curtains and saw not a hint of blue in the sky. Four days of immaculate weather had been interrupted by the clouds that now lingered.
He had slept the night in his clothes, and as he moved away from the window he pulled off his shirt and held it to his face. Breathing in, he smelled the staleness of marijuana smoke and the trace of an aftershave that was not his.
A pulse of anger welled and he screwed the shirt into a ball and tossed it to the corner.
After showering, he put on clean clothes and proceeded down to the hotel foyer, where a pretty receptionist – one he had not seen before – was sitting behind the counter.
‘Hello, sir. How may I help you?’
‘Hi. I was wondering: If I wanted to eat in the hotel restaurant, would I have to book in advance?’
‘Ideally, sir, yes. But hotel guests always get priority. I take it you’re currently staying here.’
‘Yes, room number 206.’
The receptionist tapped at her computer and smiled. ‘So, Mr James, when would you like the table for?’
‘Tonight, if possible.’
‘OK. The evening service begins at six o’clock and finishes at ten.’
‘Six o’clock would be fine.’
‘And how many will be dining?’
‘Probably just myself.’ He hesitated. ‘Would it be a problem if I decided to bring someone at the last minute?’
‘No problem at all. I shall provisionally reserve a table for one and if the situation changes, let us know and we’ll make the necessary arrangements.’
With the reservation made, Matthew walked through the revolving doors and onto the street. He stood for a few moments on the kerb-side, idly watching traffic, until a taxi pulled alongside.
‘You waiting for a cab, mate?’
Matthew shrugged nonchalantly, looking at the man’s chubby face. ‘Are you looking for a fare?’
‘Yes, mate ... I’m a cab driver. It’s what I do. Now, you got somewhere to go or not?’
He reflected for a second. ‘I might as well, I guess.’
The driver waited until he had climbed in the back before asking:
‘Where are you heading?’
‘I don’t really care. Would you mind just driving round for a bit? Show me some of the city.’
A letterbox snapshot of eyes trained on him from the windscreen mirror. ‘As long as you’ve got the money, kid, I’ll drive you round all fucking day.’
‘Money’s not a problem.’ He reached for his wallet and passed a couple of notes to the driver. ‘Tell me when that runs out and I’ll give you some more.’
‘You’re the boss.’
As the taxi pulled away from the kerb and kept to the road that followed the course of the river, it soon became apparent that the driver would not leave him alone with his thoughts.
‘You at a bit of a loose end, mate?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Yeah, I know how you feel. I always get bored on Sundays when I’m not working. The missus gets me to do jobs round the house. In fact, I’m supposed to be wallpapering the lounge as we speak. But between you and me, I think I’m better off in my cab.’
A mile or so along, the taxi veered round a sweeping curve and descended into a tunnel lit by orange lamps. They emerged thirty seconds later on the opposing bank of the river.
‘I take it you’re from out of town,’ the driver said, reigniting the conversation.
‘That’s right. Why?’
‘No reason. It’s just, there are plenty of things to do, even on a Sunday. Museums, art galleries, that sort of thing. Up here on the left, for instance, you’ve got the Velouria Gallery of Modern Art.’
Matthew looked ahead and in the distance could make out the glass-fronted building that housed the gallery.
‘Yes, I was here the other day.’
‘It certainly draws the crowds. And I’ve dropped shed-loads of women here. Some real good-lookers, too. It’s funny, I was reading this article the other day and it said that art galleries are one of the best places for pulling birds. Art galleries and supermarkets. Mind you, I go to the supermarket most weekends and I’ve never had so much as a sniff.’
They were halted by a set of traffic-lights directly beside the gallery entrance and Matthew gazed at the people standing around. There seemed to be the same mix of tourists and students that he had encountered on his previous visit. Among their number, however, he spotted somebody who looked remarkably like the girl he had met last time. Dressed in similar denim jacket and brown trousers, the only appreciable difference was that this girl had bright red hair; however, it was so stark and unnatural that clearly it had come from a bottle.
The traffic-lights changed and the taxi moved away and Matthew kept his eyes trained on the girl, becoming ever more convinced that it was her. The cab built up speed and he swivelled to watch her through the rear window, but soon she was out of sight. Turning to the front, he shook his head in resentment.
‘Stupid, lying bitch,’ he mumbled to himself.
‘You what, mate?’ the driver asked, flashing letterbox eyes again.
‘Nothing. I just thought I saw someone I knew.’
‘Do you want to go back?’
‘No, keep going.’
Several minutes later, the taxi rejoined the riverside road and Matthew could see his hotel on the opposing bank, albeit a way in the distance. Already, the constant rambling that spouted from the driver’s lips was beginning to annoy him.
‘Are you into all this modern art, then?’
Matthew shook his head. ‘Not particularly.’
‘No, me neither. I mean, a pile of bricks: how is that art? Where I come from, that’s the sort of crap that cowboy builders leave behind when they’ve finished a job. How some of these people get away with it is beyond me. I reckon my five-year-old niece could paint a better picture than most of the artists in that gallery.’
‘You’re probably right. Actually, would you mind dropping me off here?’
‘You what, mate, here?’
‘Yes, anywhere along here will be fine.’
The letterbox eyes narrowed. ‘I haven’t shown you anything yet. I was just about to head to the centre.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ll probably see it better on foot anyway.’
The cab pulled abruptly to the side of the road and Matthew stepped onto the pavement.
‘What about the money?’ the driver called through his open window. ‘You gave me too much.’
‘Keep it. Buy yourself something. Maybe some wallpaper for your lounge.’
‘Cheers, mate,’ the driver said as he revved away from the kerb. ‘Smart-ass, fucking tourist.’
Initially, as Matthew walked along the riverside promenade, he felt little discomfort from his ankle. Nevertheless, riled by thoughts of the girl from the gallery, he scuffed his foot on the ground, almost willing the pain to return.
Fighting the temptation to head back and see her, he continued on, following a similar circuit to the one he had strode a couple of days before. He crossed the same bridge that brought him close to The Golden Bottle nightclub and walked back along the promenade. A fair way along he turned left into a pedestrianised side-street that he knew would lead to the main thoroughfare.
Although most of the shops were closed for Sunday trading, about halfway down the side-street he came upon the sex shop he had noticed before, and its illuminated lights indicated some kind of activity inside. As he drew closer, he glanced over his shoulder to check that nobody was around. Drawing on his scant reserves of courage, he took a deep breath, stepped up to the doorway and walked inside.
The interior of the shop was brighter and cleaner than he had imagined and the clinical smell of rubber vied with a flowery smell of air-freshener. The only person visible was a male shop assistant, who was sitting behind a
cash register watching a television on the counter. The man briefly looked up and gave Matthew a nod of recognition before returning to the screen.
Moving deeper inside, Matthew walked between a rack of videos and a display of phallic sex toys, which he could not bring himself to look at. Where the videos ended, a rack of magazines began and Matthew’s eyes inadvertently narrowed on a cover that showed a naked man with a cushion held to his groin, an image that made him shudder with repulsion. Moving swiftly on, he halted before a magazine called Cherry Picker’s Glory, whose cover showed a pair of nubile females watering each other with hoses. He picked up this magazine, only to discover that it was encased in a plastic sheath that prevented its contents being viewed before purchase. Returning the magazine to the shelf, he noticed that all the other magazines on display were wrapped in similar plastic covers, and he felt almost cheated by such restriction.
As he continued gazing at the various magazine covers, he heard in the background the closing theme of a soap opera and then the opening credits of a news programme. Although his attention was focused on erotic delights, he heard the main headline as it was read out: the news that Tony Wisely, the award-winning actor, had passed away during the night.
Forgetting where he was for a moment, Matthew turned towards the television and listened as a summary of the man’s life was read out along with details of his subsequent death. He only woke from his daze when he heard the shop assistant’s deep voice.
‘Are you all right there, pal? Is there something I can help you with?’
Matthew looked embarrassedly from the television to the seated man. ‘No, I’m just looking, thanks.’
‘Give me a shout if you need anything.’
A tall man with round spectacles and a bald head entered the shop and proceeded to the rear, where various items of lingerie and bondage-wear hung from clothing racks. Although Matthew avoided eye contact with the new arrival, immediately he felt self-conscious and exposed. He tried to refocus on the magazines, but with his interest waning, he began contemplating how he could escape the shop with the minimum fuss. He resolved to buy something, however, if only to justify having entered in the first place. Hesitantly, he approached the cash desk.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to the assistant, ‘but do you sell playing cards – you know, with naked girls?’
The man motioned to a shelf on his right where a selection of packs of cards was situated next to some penis-shaped chocolates. With little consideration, Matthew chose a pack that featured a lingerie-clad lady on the front and handed it to the man.
‘By the way, you are over eighteen, I take it.’
‘Yes,’ Matthew asserted, a sudden palpitation drumming his heart.
The assistant shrugged in acceptance.
Once Matthew had paid for the cards and stowed them in his trouser pocket, he headed for the door. Slipping onto the street with his head bowed for anonymity, he continued to the main road and turned right towards his hotel.
It did not take long to arrive back and once inside his room he reclined on the bed and opened the pack of cards. Laying them out, he discovered that the majority of cards depicted attractive women in exotic, tropical locations. The exception was the queen of spades, a seedier photo that featured a middle-aged blonde dressed in a pink leather basque and handcuffed to a bed.
For a while he lay in a stupor of semi-arousal, the cards spread on the bed before him. Nevertheless, erotic impulses were gradually overwhelmed by thoughts of Tony Wisely. Although he tried to blank him from his mind, Matthew could not avoid reflecting on their brief encounter and his role in the man’s demise.
With thoughts of mortality at the forefront of his mind, he began to ponder the consequences of the evening that lay ahead, questioning whether he would have the courage to do what had to be done.
At half past five he showered for the second time that day and poured himself a whisky and coke from the mini-bar. His hand was jittery as he took a couple of shallow sips before swallowing the contents in one. With his throat burning as a result, he caught the lift to the lobby and entered the restaurant.
As he was shown to a table on the periphery of the cavernous dining hall, he became aware that he was the first customer of the evening. He felt rather absurd sitting alone and beside so many empty tables, while all around him numerous waiters scurried, preparing the hall for service. Nevertheless, by the time he had ordered his meal, another six tables had been filled and he did not feel so isolated and out of place.
He ate his curried prawn starter hastily – the first thing he had eaten all day – and sipped continually the red wine that he had ordered as accompaniment. He enjoyed the roast duck main course and the strawberry mousse dessert that followed, and finished around three quarters of the bottle of wine, despite finding it bitter on his tongue.
When he stood to go – less than fifty minutes after he had sat down – the dining hall was almost full and he wondered how so many people had entered without him noticing. He walked to the exit with a poise he had previously been lacking, yet with a nervous anticipation that tightened the muscles of his stomach. Making his way from the restaurant to the lobby bar, he ordered a coke and a separate tumbler of whisky, which he mixed together himself to avoid possible embarrassment.
One whisky alone proved insufficient to shore up his confidence, however, and so he bought a second and then a third, by which time the twitch in his stomach had become the familiar burning he encountered whenever he drank spirits. Although his head felt suddenly woozy, a sense of euphoria elevated him above doubt.
With this new found resolve, he walked outside and headed in the direction of the burger restaurant. Unburdened by pain from his ankle, he arrived before his determination had had a chance to wane; and there, sitting in front of the restaurant, just where he expected him to be, was the beggar in the cowboy hat.
‘Right, my friend, what would you like to eat? Whatever you want, it’s my treat.’
The beggar peered from beneath the brim of his hat and smiled a toothy grin. ‘Guy, I wondered when you were coming back. How was the club the other night?’
‘The club? Good. Excellent, in fact. Now, are you hungry, or what?’
‘Fuck me! You’re in a rush tonight.’
‘I’ve got places to go. Things to do.’
Before the beggar had spoken again, Matthew proceeded inside alone. He emerged several minutes later and handed him a bag of take-away, which the man accepted with a grunt of appreciation.
‘What’s the food for, then, Guy?’ he said, drawing out a handful of fries and cramming them into his mouth. ‘I mean, charity’s one thing, but there ain’t no such thing as a free meal. What are you after?’
‘Women. You told me you know where to find them.’
‘Women, eh? And what sort of women did you want?’
‘Doesn’t matter, as long as they do the job. So, can you help me?’
‘I reckon I might be able to. But it won’t come cheap.’
‘Money’s not a problem. Just show me where I have to go.’
The beggar tilted his head. ‘And there’ll be something in it for me?’
‘I bought you dinner, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah. But women are worth more than a burger.’
After a pause Matthew nodded. ‘You point me in the right direction and I’ll see you’re all right. I don’t want some old drug addict whore, though. A clean girl, or the deal’s off.’
The beggar let out a raucous laugh. ‘Clean, in this city? That’s asking for a bleeding miracle. Don’t worry, Guy, the girls I have in mind wash themselves in all the right places, if you know what I mean.’
As Matthew stood over the beggar, waiting for him to finish, a wine-flavoured belch rose from his stomach and softly rippled his windpipe. He watched as the man’s grubby fingers held the burger to an unshaven, pockmarked face and felt a pang of revulsion.
‘I’m not trying to be funny, but what happens when you n
eed the toilet?’
The beggar grimaced and, with a mouthful of burger, garbled a response. ‘What do you mean what happens? I just go.’
‘But where, when the shops and bars are closed?’
‘Listen, Guy, when you’ve got to go, there ain’t a force in the world going to stop you, is there?’
‘I suppose not.’
Unhurriedly, the beggar finished eating and tucked the empty polystyrene food-carton behind his bundle of possessions.
‘I use them as a pillow,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Right, are you ready to do this?’
‘I think so. Are you not bringing your stuff this time?’
‘No need. I ain’t got anything worth nicking and I’ll be back before anyone can grab my pitch.’
They set off and, as before, Matthew remained a couple of steps behind; this time, not through fear or mistrust, but rather the desire not to be associated with a filthy beggar. He was taken slightly aback when they turned down the side-street along which the sex shop was located. Thankfully, the beggar halted at an unmarked doorway before they reached it and pressed a button on an intercom system.
‘Is this it?’ Matthew asked over his shoulder.
‘Sure is.’
‘Couldn’t you just have told me where it was?’
The beggar smiled. ‘I’ve got to do something to earn my commission, haven’t I? Anyway, you don’t know the password.’
‘The password?’
‘Yeah, they don’t let anyone in off the street, in case they turn out to be coppers.’
A female voice sounded through the intercom and the beggar said ‘Hermaphrodite’. The door promptly buzzed and the beggar pushed it open.
Matthew, meanwhile, attempted to inhale a deep breath for courage, but was caught short when another fruity burp rattled his diaphragm, leaving an acidic residue in his mouth.
‘Well, Guy,’ the beggar said, already inside the dimly-lit passageway. ‘You coming, or what?’
Matthew took a moment to compose himself, reinforcing in his mind the reasons he was there, before stepping inside. He followed the beggar up a narrow carpeted staircase, his legs becoming heavier the further they climbed. When they arrived at a door on the third floor, the beggar rang a doorbell and Matthew swallowed deeply, trying to clear the acidity from the back of his throat.
‘These girls, they’re all right, aren’t they?’
‘Don’t worry, Guy. They’ll look after you fine and dandy.’
He suppressed another gaseous burp as the door opened to reveal a blonde woman dressed in an unflattering blue dressing-gown. She had crow’s feet around her eyes and age-lines on her heavily made-up face.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ the beggar said, moving inside. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘Can’t complain. Summer’s always a bit slow, but we’re surviving.’
‘I’ve brought along my good friend Guy.’ He nodded to Matthew, who remained on the landing. ‘I thought one of you lovely ladies could help him out.’
The woman looked Matthew casually up and down. ‘He’s a bit young, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah, well, they gotta learn some time, haven’t they?’
She continued to scrutinise him. ‘And he’s got money, I take it.’
‘Of course I’ve got money,’ Matthew interjected, at last stepping across the threshold. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.’
The woman smiled. ‘Just checking. Cash is paid up front, or else you don’t get a look in.’
‘Fine.’
‘OK, I’ll see who’s available. Why don’t you take a seat?’
She motioned to a brown leather sofa positioned on one side of the reception area, before disappearing through a beaded curtain beyond. Matthew and the beggar were once again alone.
‘Don’t worry, Guy, the other girls are better-looking than Mo,’ the beggar whispered, as if reading his mind. ‘Now, about my commission …’
With a clammy hand, Matthew retrieved his wallet and gave the man a couple of notes. ‘Will that be enough?’
‘You’re a very generous guy, Guy.’ The man stuffed the money into his pocket. ‘Now we’ve got that sorted, I’m gonna leave you to it.’
‘You’re not going to wait?’
‘Guy, I’ll come in and watch if you want; but that’ll cost extra.’
Matthew shook his head.
‘Chill out, Guy.’ The beggar winked. ‘Enjoy it. The girls will look after you. They know what they’re doing, trust me.’ He patted him on the shoulder, opened the front door and passed onto the landing. He was already a way down the staircase when he called out: ‘Let me know how you get on, you dirty bastard.’
While Matthew waited alone, although the euphoria had long since left his body, he experienced a moment of calm. The blonde failed to reappear, and in her place a different girl, brunette and much fresher-faced, emerged from behind the beaded curtain. Slender and pale-skinned, she wore a black oriental-style robe that extended to just below her thighs. On her feet, meanwhile, she had on a pair of furry rabbit-shaped slippers.
‘If you’d like to follow me.’
Inhaling deeply to centre himself, Matthew stood and followed her through the beaded curtain and along the corridor that extended beyond. Passing several closed doors, the girl led him to a small room that smelled of talcum powder and fresh linen. Lit by a single dim bulb from above, the room boasted a double bed covered in pale blue sheets, and a washbasin beside a shelf of folded towels. A single chair rested close to a window obscured by Persian blinds, while the dull hum of an extractor fan sounded out of sight.
As the girl sat on the bed, Matthew saw her robe hitch up further, revealing milky thighs.
‘I’m going to need the money up front, you realise.’
Slightly put out by her directness, Matthew took his wallet and gave her what she demanded.
‘You can leave your clothes on the chair,’ she said, placing the notes in a shoebox she retrieved from beneath the bed.
Experiencing a sudden cramp inside his stomach, a shiver extend to the tips of Matthew’s fingers. Another belch rose inside, which he let ripple silently over his dry lips.
‘Well, come on,’ the girl prompted. ‘You’re not going to get far unless you undress. Or would you like me to help you?’
With a shake of his head he began unbuttoning his shirt. ‘How old are you?’ he mumbled, trying to detract from his own anxiety.
‘Older than you, that’s for sure. You realise you only get forty-five minutes? You should probably make the most of it.’ Leaning over, she reached out and touched his bare stomach, just above his waistband.
Instinctively, Matthew pulled away at the coldness of her fingers.
‘You are jumpy, aren’t you? Are you sure you want to go through with this?’
Matthew coughed, clearing the mucus from his tightening throat.
‘I don’t really have a choice.’
‘Sure, you have a choice. You know, a lot of people come here just to talk. We lie together, all comfy like, and I listen while they tell me their problems. I’m not an agony aunt, exactly, but it sure works for some people.’
‘No offence, but I haven’t come here to talk.’
She shrugged sympathetically. ‘In that case, you’d better take off your trousers.’
While the girl reclined on the bed, Matthew wiped his shirt across his moistening forehead and then draped it over the chair. Another cramp seized his stomach, which he tried to subdue with an inhalation of breath.
Relieved to take the weight from his feet, he sat on the chair and bent forward to remove his shoes and socks. As he straightened himself, an acidic belch brought some bile up his oesophagus, which he swallowed uncomfortably.
Continuing, he unbuckled his belt and eased off his jeans, leaving him in just his boxer shorts. A sudden chill, though not from cold, gripped his body and made him shiver from head to toe. As he folded his jeans along the seams, he peered at the girl, who ha
d removed her oriental robe and was climbing under the covers, naked.
More acidity welled and he held his breath and tensed his muscles to counteract the effect. He enjoyed only the briefest respite, however, as his head and stomach began throbbing as if they had been physically struck.
With a momentary blankness darkening his vision, he had just enough time to lurch towards the washbasin before the muscles of his stomach convulsed, he choked, and a volley of vomit poured from his mouth.
Unable to resist, he leaned into the sink and spattered thick violet puke against the ceramic bowl. From behind him he heard the girl scramble from the bed and begin shouting, but he could do nothing to stop the convulsions that bombarded his stomach.
‘Fucking gross!’ he heard the girl scream.
As quickly as they had come, the convulsions abated and Matthew was left trailing mucus from his nostrils and spitting residues of puke from his mouth. Despite his throbbing head, he understood completely the ramifications. The girl was no longer in the room as he opened the basin taps, attempting to wash away the accumulated mess. Looking down, he was thankful that most of the vomit had landed in the basin, with only a small spattering on the carpet.
Leaving the taps open and pouring, he hurried to the chair and pulled on his jeans and shoes and socks. He was just in the process of fumbling his shirt buttons when the two women, the brunette and the aged blonde, appeared in the doorway.
‘Look at what the little prick has done,’ the brunette hollered. ‘I’m sorry, Mo, but I don’t get paid enough for this kind of shit.’
‘It’s all right, Candy, I’ll deal with it,’ the blonde calmly replied. And then to Matthew: ‘Well, mister, you sure have made a mess, haven’t you?’
Matthew edged towards them, tears clouding his vision.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but you’re going to have to let me out.’
‘Oh? And who’s going to clear up behind you?’
‘Look, I’ll give you all the money I have, but please, I’ve got to get out.’ Reaching into his pocket, Matthew emptied his wallet of the handful of notes that remained. He stuffed the wad into the blonde’s reluctant hand.
‘Is that all you’ve got?’ she scoffed.
‘Please, I need to get outside. I think I’m going to be sick again.’
‘Shit, Mo, he does look as white as a ghost,’ the brunette said, suddenly appearing as worried as Matthew.
‘Doesn’t he just! Go on then, you’d better get out before you make even more of a mess.’
The women stood aside.
Matthew slipped past them and hurried to the front door, releasing it from its latch. He only just made it downstairs and onto the street before unleashing another volley of puke against a rubbish bin.
The convulsions came and went like before, but the burning on his brow intensified, more so as he made the dash along the river’s edge towards his hotel. He halted once more to throw up in a gutter, witnessed by several disgruntled passers-by, and finally made it back to his hotel room before soiling anywhere else.
He vomited twice in quick succession in the en suite bathroom and continued vomiting sporadically for the next hour and a half. However, with less and less in his stomach, the shorter and more straining the sickness became.
In the pauses between vomiting, he lay on the bed, fever causing sweat to saturate his brow. His mind became filled with morbid thoughts and several times he contemplated calling someone for help. Yet, every time he reached for the phone, it caused his stomach to churn with the promise of greater torture ahead.
After the ninth bout of vomiting, he barely had the strength to lift himself from the bathroom floor and return to his bed. By now he could find no comfort in any position. Sat upright, lying flat or on one side, it made no difference: his head still throbbed, his stomach still smarted and sweat still streamed from his body.
Manoeuvring in bed, seeking the least agonising position, desperate thoughts continued to fill his head. Soon the pains became so severe that he could envisage no future beyond the suffering of his present. Gathering what strength he had, he reached for the notepad on the bedside cabinet to write a message, in case the worst occurred. With a jittery hand, he wrote:
To Mum and Dad
I’m sorry, but
That was as far as the letter progressed, as once again he crawled into the bathroom to vomit.
With his head hanging over the toilet bowl, and entirely drained of energy, his desperate thoughts were compounded by the flecks of blood that sullied the droplets of bile he had forced from his gullet. That final bout of sickness ebbed and he lay on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, a welcome antidote to his raging fever. A smile came to his lips as he closed his eyes and slipped into oblivion.
PART FOUR: Devil
