by Mark Gatiss
A distant rumble but I can’t tell if it’s thunder or the pulse in my head that keeps urging me on, on, on. Then there’s a honking sound and I think, It’s a car, and I turn and a blue dot on the wobbling heat-haze of the horizon resolves itself into a rusty truck. I step out into the road and hold up my arms but the horn blares again and the truck trundles past so I walk on, the hot road scorching my bare soles. Then I turn as another vehicle appears.
It’s an open-topped tourer and the driver is an old lady. I smile. She looks like a pig in a wig, her cloud of white hair framed by a huge pink hat. She slows down as she approaches and the breeze flaps at my open shirt and trousers.
She pulls up just by me and drags her white oval sunglasses down the bridge of her snout. A smile tugs at her lips. Her cracked carmine lips. Hi, she says, and she drawls it like a record slowing down.
Hello. The word sounds odd in my mouth. It’s yesterday’s voice. A young voice. Heading for Kingston?
Where’d you pitch up from?
I rose from the waves, my love, I hear myself saying. Like Venus.
Is that a fact? she chuckles, her flabby neck wobbling. She pats the white seat next to her. Well, hop in, honey. I could use the company.
So I get in and the car speeds away and I close my eyes and revel in the glorious feeling of the wind streaming through my long, sleek, jet-black hair. No one has gazed on this particular face since King Bertie died–and now this kindly old dame has me all to herself.
You got business in Kingston? she asks, shifting gear.
Pleasure, I say.
On pleasure bent, huh?
All pleasure should be a little bent, don’t you think?
She throws back her head and laughs, then takes one hand off the wheel to stop her sun-hat from flying backwards and then reaches over and squeezes my thigh.
Eyes close…
Eyes open…
And suddenly we’re in the city. She slows down the car and I hop out and turn back to blow her a kiss. She looks awfully disappointed.
I Pause.
There’s a bad aching in my joints and muscles because they’re new again and need wearing in. The hotel’s façade has taken on a peachy glow in the dying sun. It’s beautiful. Everything is beautiful. I am beautiful.
The black concierge is still sweating in his too-large uniform, the epaulettes wilting like dead chrysanthemums on his shoulders.
Then the pulsing pounding comes again and it’s like an orgasm and I grin with the sheer thrill of it all–my every sense more alert, sharper, quicker.
Then there’s a number in my head. Two-oh-nine. Two-oh-nine.
I begin to climb the huge plane tree by the eastern wall of the hotel. The ache is there again but it’s lost in the throb of the blood in my head and, with all my long-forgotten agility, I quickly scale the branches. Then I jump from the tree onto a striped awning and get a foothold on the first-floor balcony. From there I clamber up another floor and then another until I’m standing, panting but exhilarated, outside the half-open windows of Kingdom Kum’s room.
Muslin curtains flutter. The darkened interior is revealed, then hidden, then revealed. The boy lies dozing on the bed, one arm tucked under his head.
I draw aside the curtain and move towards him, my bare feet soundless on the thick carpet. Kingdom’s body is dark against the white counterpane. He’s wearing a pair of shorts. That’s all. I sit down next to him and gently begin to stroke my hand over his brown legs. He doesn’t stir, even as my fingers touch the white soles of his long, bony feet. The pulsing pounding begins to rise again and I feel my hair standing on end. Electricity floods through me. I glance down at him. The dead-straight fall of hair covers one side of his face. A tiny isthmus of spit connects the softness of his slightly parted lips. They’re pink as petals.
I move my hands to his waist. The brass button slips easily through the denim and the zip slides down a full inch in response. It’s easy work to pull the garment down his legs. He stirs and his lovely features crumple into a grumpy frown, like a child woken from a pleasant dream. But still he sleeps on.
I place my finger on the creamy curve of his backside and score my nail over his skin. He flinches ever so slightly. Then I run my tongue over his hipbone and across the flat washboard of his belly and he makes a gentle little grunting noise, as one of his arms flops over the side of the bed.
His skin tastes warm and slightly salty. He’s been in the sea. My tongue trips over his hairless legs and the high arches of his feet. Then I take the little toe of his left foot into my mouth and gently suck it. A lazy half-smile springs to his lips.
Moving up the bed, I nuzzle the dark brown circles of his nipples. They harden and spring to life beneath my teeth. Then my clothes are on the floor and I slide my naked body against Kingdom’s.
The warmth of him is like a balm.
His almond-shaped eyes flick open and then they’re wide with surprise.
His mouth opens. To cry out? To protest? To welcome?
Then the pulsing and the pounding is like a tidal wave in my head and Miss Beveridge can go hang and I’m Lucifer Box and I’m alive again and I fall upon him like a starving man upon a banquet.
His soft nose bends against my face as my kisses crush him, my cheek is hot against his neck and the delicate curves of his cupped ears. Then I force his arms down onto the counterpane and lick and bite at the dark, hairless pits below. Kingdom writhes, his pretty head twisting back and forth, hair plastered to his forehead. His long, lean legs curl around my hips and he looks up and grins at me; dark lashes beating softly.
Above us, the ceiling fan judders through the sticky air. I’m only distantly aware of the honking of the sluggish traffic in the crowded streets below, and then there’s nothing but sweat and spit and my eyes pressed to his and then we’re dozing on the destroyed sheets.
Eyes close…
At last, the boy opens one lazy eye and tickles his long fingers over my chest.
You’re full of surprises, baby, I hear him say, though his voice sounds funny, like a bad connection on the telephone. What happened to you?
I got lucky, I say. You like?
I like. Good thing I love older men, huh?
I laugh. What is there between us now? Five years? Six? I sit up. Stretch. I feel rested. But not sated. Impossible to be sated now. I must go on, on, on!
What now? I say. What shall we do now?
Well, in case you’ve forgotten, lover, I have some bad men to track down.
I wave that away and jump off the bed, throwing open the shutters and letting the orange blaze of the sunset wash over my flesh. No, no. We have to track them down! You and me. Must get on! Run. Swim. No! I did that. Maybe we could go for a drive? Would you like that, Kingdom? Drive down to a casino and lose a pot of money–hm? No, we have to get after Black Butterfly, don’t we? Oh! I know something you don’t know!
Kingdom flicks his hair from his burning black eyes and laughs. Slow down, honey.
But I don’t like the sound of that. I won’t hear of that. Slow down? Why? Why should I? Don’t you see what a gift I’ve been given?
The boy’s face creases in a frown and that’s a shame. It’s a lovely face. And now I want to kiss it again so I do. Again and again and again and he has to stop me so he can say: Gift?
Yes! Come on. Get dressed. We’re going for a ride.
Thought we just did.
I slap at his rump and he swears and giggles and then, leaping out of bed, throws his arms around me. Seriously, baby. You got to go easy…
He looks deep into my eyes and then his face creases again and he says, Oh God. Not you, too.
But I’m not listening because, visible through the parted shutters, is a beautiful blue Chevrolet Corvette convertible. It glitters in the light from the ocean. Among the cheap heaps that surround it, it’s like a jungle beast. Now there’s a new sound joining the pulsing and the pounding–and it’s my heart thudding in my ribs. I want it so badly. I must
have the car. I wanted the boy and I got him. Now I must have the car.
And then I’m throwing on my shirt and trousers and I tear the room upside down in search of shoes, stupid shoes and at last I come upon a pair of rope sandals and pull them on and I’m at the door. Come on!
Kingdom slips back into his tiny denim shorts and rushes after me: Wait! Wait!
My sandals make a clapping sound on the marble floors that I find hilarious. The stairs go by, two at a time, and I’m giggling like a child at the wonder of it all. Then I’m through the lobby and the concierge is reading the Daily Gleaner and its pages are sun-bleached and he’s a stupid idiot to be wasting his life reading about things instead of doing things–like me!
The night. It’s warm and beautiful and alive with the chant of insects.
Then Kingdom’s hands are on me–but they are no longer a lover’s hands. Now they try to pull me back, to constrain me. Take these! You must take these, baby! but I push him away. He comes back so I punch him and he goes down.
Then I’m inside the car and trying to start it. The fat concierge is at the window and he says, What the hell are you doing? I laugh and laugh and he opens the passenger door and jumps in. Then there’s a cloud of dust and scorched rubber and we’re thundering onto the main road. Where? Where? Where? I shout, and I glance quickly at the man next to me.
The concierge’s eyes flicker back and forth. He’s nervous. Why? I’m a good driver. A great driver. The best driver. Best in the world, I shouldn’t wonder.
Please, he says. Stop the car, sir. You’re crazy.
I scream with laughter. Crazy? Crazy? I’ve never felt so good in my life! I throw the car into fourth and ram down my sandalled foot on the accelerator but it’s not fast enough. I want my foot to go clean through the floor.
Ahead of us, boxy cars flash by. Ugly, squalid, stupid little cars. I jab the heel of my hand against the horn and the hot evening splits apart with the shrill blast. Come on! I yell. Come on! Out of the blasted way!
Tail-lights bob and weave ahead like animals’ eyes caught in a flashlight, and the highway becomes a kind of tunnel as we tear along, swerving round other vehicles, street lamps blurring, neon advertising signs jumping out of the darkness: smiling girls with toothpaste smiles. And I’m grinning now and my face aches with it and the shrieking laughter that I can’t keep down.
And the concierge looks scared stiff and that makes me laugh even more.
Slow down, mister!
The giggle rises in my guts again and then bubbles to my lips. I rock back and forth, back and forth, gripping onto the steering wheel for grim death or grim life, my teeth bared in a rictus of pleasure. And I floor the accelerator because we have to go faster, faster, faster.
Houses that are just corrugated roofs glitter in the neon wash. We zip past and I try to overtake a fat Mercedes. Its horn screeches in response. I catch a glimpse of the driver’s bleached face and he looks so scared that I laugh again and then swing the Chevy towards him. There’s a big crunch and its loudness surprises me but I like the sound so I do it again.
Jesus! screams the concierge. Pull over, man! Pull over!
But I ignore him completely. Instead, I swing the car left and then roar back towards the Mercedes. The other car’s left headlight explodes into fragments that scree past us like comet dust. I see the driver’s face again and it’s comical, wildly animated, his mouth jabbering curses at me. He tries to drop back but I don’t want to let him, so I grapple with the gears and smash the Chevrolet into him again.
I feel long and lean and brilliant. The concierge is sweating, pale. He grips his seat and screws shut his eyes.
What’s the matter? I cry. It’s fun! It’s like Ben Hur! Ben HIM!
For God’s sake, he hisses, and his teeth are clamped together. You’re gonna kill us! You’re gonna kill the both of us!
I shake my head and find I can’t stop. The pulsing pounding is like a marching band inside my temples. And the slamming of my heart is hot and furious as lava, coursing through every vein, every sinew.
But then the Mercedes suddenly drops back and I’m totally blind-sided and he hammers into the rear of me. The concierge yelps in panic as we lurch forward and then I’m disappointed because I lose control of the car. I grapple with the dimpled steering wheel but my hands are slick with sweat and the Chevrolet leaps into the oncoming lane. There’s a fresh chorus of enraged horns. It’s a fanfare. I laugh again.
Oh God–Oh God–Oh God! whines the concierge, clasping his arms around himself as a pair of huge headlights rear up before us. Then there’s a stomach-deep thump and then a whiplash that makes me feel sick and we’re flung violently to the right and then there’s nothing but a skidding swirl as the car spins off the road. Headlights and tail-lights and neon signs and bar signs screw up into fireworks and then the car crunches onto its side and I feel heat as though an oven door has swung open. Then sudden cool and I know I’ve been thrown clear and…
…and the light is strange and different and I taste coarse sand in my mouth.
I look around quickly. Distantly, the black ocean glitters under a half-moon. The Chevrolet is on its side next to a knot of palm trees, flames licking at its rear. I struggle forward on my elbows. My heart is still racing and my mouth is parched. Through the shattered windscreen, I see the concierge, his head lolling on his chest, and I know he’s dead.
But I don’t care about him. Why should I? I have to get going. And the pulsing pounding is like thunder, blocking out all other sounds.
I drag myself under some palms just as the fire takes hold and the car explodes. I turn my face away from the fierce orange flame and then I hear another car. It screams across the beach and Kingdom Kum gets out and runs over to me. Then his long fingers are on my mouth and something bitter is dropped on my tongue and he’s forcing me to swallow. But I’m not interested in him because I see something that doesn’t make sense. In the hard, white sand is one of the Chevrolet’s wing mirrors. It’s cracked in two but in the moonlight and the glow from the wreck, my own face is reflected back. And it’s the face of an old man.
.16.
WHO LOOKS INSIDE, AWAKENS
A man with an unkempt moustache was shining a pencil-thin beam of light in my eyes. I could see nothing except him, pooled in darkness. I recoiled, then realised that his thumb was holding open my eyelid. I cursed him–his fingers stank of nicotine–and then there was a hand on my arm and a voice: ‘Easy, baby. Easy.’
Then sleep crashed over me like the surf on the bone-white Kingston sand.
I turned over, hot and anxious, the bedsheets too tight, swaddling me. I cried out and then felt a hand on my jaw again, but this time a gentle, cool hand. I tasted the same bitterness in my mouth, though this was assuaged immediately by a drink of water. It spilled over my chin and onto my chest, but I didn’t care about that. Sleep dragged me down once more.
I felt a bar of sunlight on my face and was suddenly awake. I took in the iron-framed bed, the white-walled room, the ridiculous pyjamas into which I’d been decanted.
Kingdom Kum, searching me with wide-open eyes, sat opposite.
‘Hey,’ he said.
I blinked.
‘How’re you feeling?’
I rubbed a hand over my bristly chin. I felt ancient, fragile as a disinterred mummy, and my muscles were weak. I remembered the feeling from my schooldays. Trying to button my shirt after a freezing cross-country run. Hands too numb. Why was I thinking about school?
‘Where am I?’ I said at last.
‘Private hospital in Kingston.’
I shivered inside my pyjamas, muscles throbbing, hamstrings aching. ‘Lovely place,’ I murmured. I felt my eyes roll in my head and made an effort to focus. ‘Kingston-upon-Thames. Leafy. Very leafy. Hm?’
Kingdom Kum got up and poured a glass of water. ‘You don’t remember what happened?’
I took the water and then noticed my own trembling hand. My delicate, veiny, age-spotted hand. �
��I know you, don’t I?’ I said, smiling at the boy. He nodded. ‘And there was something about butterflies. I’m rather fond of butterflies.’ I drank some of the water.
Kingdom Kum looked worried.
I shivered again and closed my eyes, fragments of memory spangling and flaring in my mind’s eye like a shaken kaleidoscope. I thrust the glass back at the boy, fighting down the sensation.
‘It’s okay, baby,’ soothed Kingdom. ‘Take it easy.’ He stroked the hair back off my forehead. ‘Thought I’d never catch you. I got the antidote into you just in time.’ He took a glass tube from his pocket and rattled it. ‘I liberated them from the clinic, remember?’
I shook my head and laughed. ‘You had me worried back there. I thought we were gonna lose you.’
‘I didn’t know you cared,’ I said. ‘Oh, that was very rude of me. Why am I being rude to you? You’re very, very pretty.’
‘I couldn’t tell you who I was working for, baby—’
I grinned stupidly. ‘No?’
‘No. Orders from the top. I was to keep you out of trouble. Gently encourage you to quit the field.’ Kingdom beamed suddenly, wonderfully. ‘But there ain’t no stopping the great Lucifer Box, is there?’
‘I expect not!’ I cried. Then: ‘Who’s Lucifer Box?’ My mind clouded again and I sipped at the water like a child.
‘You saw Mr Playfair–you remember that?’
I shook my head. Then nodded, eagerly. ‘Playfair, yes. Yes, I know someone of that name.’
‘And then where did you go?’
I frowned, trying desperately to remember. I knew I wanted to please the young man. He was extremely alluring. But nothing came. Nothing except the sweet sensation of the pulsing blood in my temples, the rush of adrenalin and a beautiful car that I was urging on and on and on…
‘I remember a Chevrolet.’ I looked over at the boy, and the soft line of his neck and jaw brought back other, even sweeter sensations. ‘And I remember you.’ I winked at him. ‘Fancy a fuck?’
