Flamingoes in Orbit

by Philip Ridley

  As it turned out, I didn’t need to get Karen any blindfold at all. She got so turned on watching the spanking movie that we fucked – really fucked – for the first time in I don’t know how long. Afterwards she said, ‘Just the spanking vids! Okay? No hardcore stuff.’ I said, ‘Of course. Just spanking. It won’t get any stronger than that.’ But, of course, it did.

  Wh-what was I saying . . . ?

  What . . . ?

  What . . . ?

  Clyde! I wanted to make sure my life was back in some kind of ‘presentable’ shape – by which, I mean get me in presentable shape – before Clyde came back from San Francisco, and I had to come face to face with him again. I wanted to shed some weight and have my teeth done (I’d lost a few fillings and the cap on a molar had come off). I kept asking Mum, ‘Any word about when Clyde’s coming back yet?’ And she’d just say, ‘He says he’ll be back soon.’ Which is what he’d been saying for bloody ages. I needed a date. I needed something to aim for.

  Just after the videos I was copying progressed from spanking to full fuck and suck (along with the occasional bondage and pissing), I got a phone call from Mum saying, ‘It’s July 9th!’ I said, ‘What is?’ She said, ‘Clyde. He’s coming home on July 9th. He’s got his ticket. St Jude’s want him to give out this year’s school prizes. He’s their very special guest. The headmaster told Clyde he’s one of their most successful pupils ever. I’m so proud of Clyde. Aren’t you proud?’ I said, ‘Oh, yeah, sure.’ Mum said, ‘Well, you don’t sound it.’ I said, ‘I’m feeling it all inside, Mum.’

  But all I was really feeling inside was dread. July 9th was only seven weeks away. I needed to really focus on getting myself in shape. I immediately went on a very strict diet. I threw all the junk food and sweet stuff out of the house. Karen screamed blue murder. She needed her chocolate gateaux and her Jaffa Cakes and her cheesy Wotsits! I said, ‘But if all that stuff’s in the bungalow I’ll be tempted to fucking eat it, won’t I. You’ve got to help me with this, Karen.’ She said, ‘Help you with what? Make yourself look a fool in front of your fucking brother?’ I said, ‘It’s just the opposite! I’m trying to look like . . . like – ’ Karen said, ‘Like him!’ I said, ‘I am not. I’m trying to look like I should. Like I used to look like before everything in my life went down the toilet! And I’ve only got seven fucking weeks to do it!’

  By the end of that first week I had put padlocks on two of the cupboards in the kitchen. All the biscuits and cakes and crisps (and stuff that generally makes you pile on the pounds) went in those. Only Karen had the key. We agreed that the fridge – as we couldn’t put a lock on that – would only have healthy (or not too unhealthy) stuff in it. I had my own cupboard where I put the food – fresh fruit, fresh vege­tables, whole meal pasta, lentils, red kidney beans – that was meant for me (and only me). I started doing sit-ups and taking laxatives.

  At the start of Week Two, Melv gave me a new video. It was called Couples Cum to Malibu. I began making copies immediately, then rushed to the local shopping centre to get a tracksuit so I could start doing some serious jogging. I got back, set another batch of videos to record, then went out for a run. I got as far as the Homebase store, which must be a good mile away, but came over a bit faint. I made it back to the bungalow and slept for a while, then when I woke up I was a bit fuzzy-headed and, without thinking, ate half a Mars bar I found in Todd’s room. I took some of the laxatives to compensate. I had to miss the day selling vids at the car park (the laxatives did the trick, but wouldn’t stop doing it) but, by the time I weighed myself on Sunday morning, I’d lost five pounds. I was over the proverbial moon. I asked Karen if she could see a difference in my waistline. She couldn’t. I looked in the full length mirror. I could. I’m sure I could.

  Week Three.

  Lesbian Wrestlers. I was managing to run to Chadwell Heath Station and back now. Four miles at least. Perhaps more. I stayed off the laxatives during the days building up to my day in the car park, Friday, but made sure I took a double dose over the weekend. I had lost five more pounds by Sunday night and some of my clothes were beginning to look baggy on me. I was tempted to buy some new gear (more stylish gear) but wanted to wait until I’d lost at least two stone, which I was sure I would very soon (if I ate even less, ran even more, and took a treble dose of laxatives at the weekend).

  Week Four.

  A Pussy’s Lips! Wow!

  I was drinking half a pint of strong black coffee every two hours, as Melv told me that speeds up the metabolism and thus burns fat quicker. Melv also advised me to get to a gym and do some weight training. I said, ‘I don’t think I can afford gym membership at the moment, Melv.’ Melv said, ‘I’ve got some weights you can use. I’ll bring them round. I’ll teach you some basic workouts too.’ The next day he came round with the dumbbells and stuff and ‘a little present’ in a plastic bag. It was half a gram of speed. Melv said, ‘This’ll help you incinerate calories, mate.’

  Week Five.

  Sexy Swingers’ Enema Party.

  Chicks With Dicks Vol. 7.

  I was running to the motorway roundabout by now. How many miles is that? Lots. Ten perhaps. I was getting my hips back. I planned to buy some new clothes soon. Calvin Klein underwear. Skinny ultra-tight jeans. Clothes that showed off my shape.

  Week Six.

  Farmer Girls and their Pigs.

  Deepthroating Nurses Vol. 3.

  I got off to a great start. I ran to Bathroom & Kitchen Paradise. That’s practically a marathon. Perhaps it’s longer than a marathon. I might enter the London Marathon next year. I bet I’d win. I’ve bought new jeans and they fit me perfectly. I don’t have to do turn-ups or anything. There’s a bit of my belly still hanging over the belt but that will be gone soon – I put another batch of videos into the recorders, then decided to do some weight training. I’d set up a mini gym in the corner of the living room. I was lifting the dumbbells when I felt a pain in my left hip. I’d been feeling an ache there for a while, but put it down to using muscles I hadn’t used in a long time. I’d taken painkillers. They had helped. I had meant to take more painkillers this morning but I forgot and – AWWWW! The pain was suddenly so intense my whole left leg went into spasm. I felt my left buttock clenching tight as a knot. I called to Karen, ‘I think I’ve damaged something.’ She said, ‘It’s not a hernia is it?’ I said, ‘I don’t think so. It’s my left leg and— Oh, Jesus! It feels like someone’s whacking it with a sledgehammer.’ Karen drove me to the hospital. I had sciatica. What’s that, Doctor? ‘You’ve slipped a disc in your back. The membrane between the discs is pressing onto your sciatic nerve. It runs all the way down your leg. It’s the biggest nerve in the body.’ What’s the cure, Doctor? ‘Rest. If the pain doesn’t go away, there’s an operation that might help. But that’s a lot further down the line. Just rest and take painkillers. I’ll give you some Tramadol. They’re very strong. Addictive. Use them wisely. The sciatica should ease off eventually.’ How ‘eventually’, Doctor? ‘It varies. A few days. A few weeks . . . A few months.’ Months!?

  When I got home I tried to lift some weights but it was hard to even stand, let alone do exercise as well. I thought, ‘Jesus! I’m going to be limping when I meet Clyde!’ I decided not to see him until the sciatica had cleared up and I was back on track again. If I have to delay it for two or three months – longer, even! – then so be it. Me and Clyde have gone for years without seeing each other, what difference would a few months (or more) make. I was not at his beck and call. I said to Todd, ‘Get your mum’s key to the cupboard. I want some chocolate gateaux.’

  Week Seven.

  Anal Safari Vol. 12

  Pizza Girl Loves Big Salami.

  Chicks With Dicks Vol.12.

  Melv asked if I could still get out to actually sell any of the new porn. I told him, ‘Sure. Todd can load the car up. I can still drive. And I can walk slowly if I have enough painkillers.’ Melv said, ‘Take these.’ He gave me a packet of tablets. I asked, ‘What’re the
se, mate?’ He said, ‘Codeine. Mix a couple of these – just a couple, mind – with the tablets your doctor gave you and you’ll be floating to la-la land in no time.’ I said, ‘Thanks, mate.’ When Melv had gone I took two codeine tablets with two Tramadol (the medication I’d been prescribed). Within thirty minutes I was wrapped in cotton wool and didn’t have a care in the fucking world. I phoned to order three chicken kebabs, six garlic breads, nine donuts and five bottles of Coke from the local takeaway. Me, Karen and Todd sat eating it while we watched The Goonies. I love The Goonies. It might be my favourite film of all time.

  July 9th.

  Mum phoned and said, ‘Clyde’s here! Do you want to speak to him?’ I hate it when she does that. What else can you say except, ‘Yes.’ So I said, ‘Yes.’ Clyde came on the phone and said, ‘Hello, brov.’ I said, ‘Hello, brov. How was your flight?’ He said, ‘Oh, not too bad. I slept through most of it. How are you, brov?’ I said, ‘Couldn’t be better, brov. And how are you?’ He said, ‘I’m all the better for being back home. Mum’s cooked my favourite dinner – shepherd’s pie.’ I said, ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ Clyde said, ‘Well, I’ll give you a call when I’m over all the jet lag, brov. You must come round and see my new studio and flat. It’s in Shoreditch.’ I said, ‘I will, brov.’ Clyde said, ‘Love to you and Karen and Todd.’ I said, ‘And lots of love to you.’ He handed the phone back to Mum. She said, ‘I thought you might have come round and had some shepherd’s pie with us.’ I said, ‘I didn’t know I was invited.’ She said, ‘I’m inviting you now.’ I said, ‘Karen’s already cooked our dinner, Mum.’ I hung up, took a handful of painkillers and watched The Goonies again.

  I went to bed. The throbbing in my leg kept waking me up. I took Tramadol. I limped to the kitchen. I ate some chocolate gateaux. I start recording a batch of vids. Throbbing in leg. Codeine­. Kebabs. Tramadol. I drive to the car park. I sell vids. I eat a Big Mac. I drive back home. Codeine. Chocolate gateaux. Mum phones and says, ‘Clyde’s giving out the prizes at St Jude’s tomorrow. He wants you to come.’ I say, ‘I’ve got sciatica, Mum. I told you.’ She said, ‘Well, surely your leg can’t be so painful you can’t come and see your brother give out prizes.’ I say, ‘It is.’ I hang up. Next day. Tramadol. I drive to the car park. I sell vids. I eat a Big Mac. I drive home. Mum phones. ‘Oh, Clyde was so wonderful at the prize giving. The pupils loved him.’ Next day. Tramadol. Chocolate gateaux. I drive to the car park. I sell vids. I eat a Big Mac. I drink a chocolate milkshake. I eat three apple pies. Codeine. I drive home. Next day. Tramadol. Gateaux. Car park. I sell vids. Big Mac. Choco­late milkshake. Next day. Tramadol. Gateaux. I sell vids. Next day. Big Mac. Home. Next day. Tramadol. Next day. Gateaux. Vids. Big Mac. Next day. Home. Next day. Karen says, ‘Clyde phoned.’

  I said, ‘Clyde phoned?’ She said, ‘Yes. Did you know your dad wanted his ashes scattered over Victoria Park?’ I said, ‘What? No! Mum’s never a word to me about it.’ Karen said, ‘Well, he did apparently. Your mum wants you and Clyde to do it. Tomorrow.’ I said, ‘Why tomorrow?’ Karen said, ‘Because it’s your dad’s bloody birthday.’ I said, ‘Dad’s birthday’s not until November.’ She says, ‘It is November.’ November?! November?! How did that happen? It was July the last time I looked. Karen said, ‘And I told Clyde you’d go with him to the park.’ I said, ‘You said what? Why?’ She said, ‘Because you should fucking do it! He’s was your dad, for Christ’s sake! And it’s time you met Clyde and got all this postponing and postponing over and done with.’ I said, ‘But it’s not a good time for me to – ’ Karen said, ‘It’s never going to be a good time. And the longer you leave it the worse it’s going to get because – believe me – you’re looking shitter by the day.’ I said, ‘Oh, thanks!’ Karen handed me a piece of paper and said, ‘Here! This is Clyde’s address. He’ll said he’ll meet you there tomorrow at twelve. His car’s on the blink or something, so you can both go to the park in yours.’ I said, ‘But . . . but . . .’ Karen said, ‘I’d stop faffing about and start cleaning the car. It stinks.’

  The next day I got up, had a shave and a bath, put on my jeans, black T-shirt, trainers, jumper, scarf, and a dark blue overcoat (one of the few things from my ‘slimmer’ days that didn’t look too small on me). I asked Karen, ‘How do I look?’ She said, ‘Where’s that baseball cap of yours?’ I said, ‘It’s on top of the wardrobe.’ She said, ‘Put it on. It’ll hide your bald spot.’ I put it on. I said, ‘How’s that?’ She said, ‘It makes you look fatter.’ I said, ‘You’re not exactly filling me with confidence.’ She said, ‘Get a chocolate gateaux on your way back.’

  I looked Clyde’s address up in the A-Z, but it didn’t help much. The whole area was a maze of bloody one-way systems. For about half an hour I kept missing the correct turning and had to go all the way up to Old Street roundabout, then all the way back down to Shoreditch again. Eventually, though, I did get to where he was – an alleyway off Curtain Road – and parked the car.

  There was a door with INKFEVER INC written on it. I was expecting a flash, fuck-off sign (in pink neon or something) but it was scribbled felt tip pen on a large piece of cardboard. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. I saw a buzzer. I pressed it. A voice said, ‘Hello.’ I said, ‘I’m here to see Clyde. I’m his brother!’ There was a clicking sound. The voice said, ‘The door’s open. We’re on the first floor.’ The first floor! Steps! Mum must’ve told Clyde about my bloody leg problem. He’s done this on purpose. I pondered whether to buzz again and say, ‘Can you ask Clyde to come down and meet me here please.’ But that would come over as if I didn’t want to see his ‘studio’ and stuff. As if I was jealous in some way. And nothing could be further from the truth. Who gives a toss about his fucking ‘studio’? Who gives a fuck about his flat?

  I went inside and started to walk up the steps. I had some codeine in my pocket and wondered if I should take a couple (or more). I decided against it. They make me woolly. And woolliness is the last thing you want to be when you’re meeting Clyde. He’ll read it as a weakness.

  I was about to knock on the ‘Inkfever Inc.’ door when it was opened by a young woman with dyed purple hair. She said, ‘There you are! Come in, come in.’ I looked around. I was expecting a huge place, vast room after vast room, like the Daily Planet offices in the Superman films. But it was just a couple of small rooms. And there were only about four or five people. They were sitting at drawing boards or on the phone. They were all mid- to late-twenties, except for one guy, with very blond hair, who looked about eighteen or nineteen. He was making coffee. Almost at once, Clyde came rushing up to me saying, ‘Brov! Welcome to Inkfever Inc!’ I was prepared for the hug this time and braced myself for it. I even managed to hug him back. He introduced me to everyone – he called them all ‘the Inkfeverers’ (Jesus!) – and everyone smiled and did the ‘So nice to meet you’ thing.

  Clyde said, ‘Let me show you around.’ He showed me where they had their daily meetings, he showed me their ‘storyboard corner’, their ‘ideas corner’ and their ‘chill-out corner’. It all sounded (and looked) very childish to me, and I wondered if any of them knew what it was like to do a real day’s work. Clyde said, ‘Let me show you my flat.’ We had to go up another flight of stairs. I tried to keep up with Clyde, but my leg was heavy, and throbbing like fuck. Clyde looked back at me and said, ‘Mum mentioned you’d pulled a muscle or something.’ I said, ‘I’ve got sciatica.’ He said, ‘Oh! Mum never told me that. Jesus. Are you going to be okay?’ I said, ‘Yeah, yeah, don’t worry.’

  We went into his flat. Again, it was smaller than I expected. Just a glorified bed-sit really. Clyde said, ‘What do you think?’ I said, ‘It’s cozy.’ He said, ‘Yeah, it is cozy.’ He pointed at some framed stuff on the wall. ‘This is the cover I did for Fever Summer. The thing that got the whole Inkfever project started. And here’s the cover for Neville’s collection of – ’ I interrupted, ‘Shall we get to the park?’ Clyde said, ‘Oh, yeah, yeah, sure.’ He got the rosewood box containing
Dad’s ashes from a shelf. He said, ‘I’ll tell everyone we’re going. You going to be okay with the stairs, brov?’ I said, ‘Yeah, no problem.’ It was easier walking down than up. We went into the studio. Clyde was saying to me, ‘Dad didn’t say where in Vicky Park he wanted his ashes scattered. And it’s huge, brov, as you know. Then our very own Luke here came to the rescue.’ He pointed at the blond boy. Clyde said, ‘Tell my brother what you said, Luke.’ The boy said, ‘Well, my dad used to take me to the park when I was a child. His favourite place was an old oak tree. I’ve done a map showing exactly where it is.’ Clyde looked at me and said, ‘Luke lost his own dad last year.’ I said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Clyde said, ‘We’re off, then. See you all later.’ And he ruffled the blond boy’s hair and the blond boy looked at Clyde and they both smiled and I knew – I knew! – that there was something going on between them. They might not be actually fucking each other. But there was something there. Clyde looked at me and said, ‘You okay going down the rest of the stairs, brov?’ I said, ‘Oh, yeah, yeah, no problem.’

  As we went down Clyde said, ‘We’ll go in your car, brov, if that’s okay. Mine’s – ’ I interrupted, ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s broken down. Karen told me.’ We get in my car. I head down Hackney Road towards­ Victoria Park. Clyde started looking at the map the blond boy had drawn. Clyde said, ‘We need the entrance gate on the roundabout, brov.’ I said, ‘Okay.’ Clyde said, ‘Luke’s so neat with everything. Look at this map. It’s so precise.’ I said, ‘I can’t look when I’m driving, brov.’ How come Clyde’s got this sex bomb of a teenager drooling over him? No girl that age would give me so much as a second bloody look, and I’m younger than Clyde. It’s not fair! It’s just not!

  Clyde said, ‘Here’s the entrance, brov.’ I said, ‘Yeah, yeah, I see it.’ Clyde looked at Luke’s map again and said, ‘So . . . we go all the way down this road here . . . and we should see the oak tree about half way down on the right. Okay, brov?’ I said, ‘Yeah, yeah, I think I’ve got that.’