He dropped back a pace, shifting his feet and imitating pure teen awkwardness. Though he wasn’t a teen, maybe just a couple of years into his twenties. He had a way of looking from under his floppy fringe. The fringe had a way of sucking in the sunlight from all around and making a fountain in the centre of the room.
He was paying attention to her now, saying, “I’m sorry, I mean tell me if you mind, but that’s a Ben de Lisi dress you’ve got there, isn’t it?”
It was. Lauren had picked it up in a rush of vacation shopping frenzy. She said, “Uh-huh, but I figure it’s not for me.”
“Did you try it on?”
“This?” She looked back to the dress dangling off its hanger on the tip of her finger. The thing didn’t weigh anything at all, she could forget it was there and just stare at the boy.
He was smiling, wide open. “Yes, the Ben de Lisi dress.”
“No, I didn’t try it on. I held it up against myself, but I didn’t try it on. I figured it was too young, you know?”
He began shaking his head, his fringe dancing out in filament threads of light. Even the beard, which she’d only just noticed, wasn’t exactly deplorable. What he was saying was, “Oh no no. No way. I mean, that’s a misapprehension. What it is, Ben de Lisi isn’t easy to wear. Not a nightmare or anything, but he’s a bit tricky… If you want, I could help you out.”
“You could? Do you work here.”
“I work around the department stores in general. I know women’s clothes inside out.”
She felt her smile creep out. She guessed she’d let him push it a mite further, see how far he was going to try and play the old gigolo. One eyebrow raised, she said, “So you’re, what, a kind of freelance consultant, huh?”
“No. I’m a chef. But if you want to come back into the changing rooms, I should be able to sort you out.”
The grin on the boy’s face, he knew he had her. But it was the kiddie enthusiasm that won her over, not anything he managed to blurt out. As she turned and walked back to the changing rooms, Lauren felt the vampish swing in her hips, like, va-va-voom. There were two changing rooms, the far side of the unattended archway. Lauren took the one to the left, Shampoo Boy was dancing right on her tail. It was his idea to lock the door.
“I‘m Hogie,” he said, trying to turn in the under-size box.
“Lauren.”
When he slid his hand up to take a hold of hers, she swore she could feel the pulse racing in his thumb. She took a half pace forward, knowing there was no room. They brushed together, remaining finger-locked until the back of his knees caught the edge of the corner seat and forced him to sit down. Hogie, the boy wonder, looking up at her like he couldn’t believe how far his luck had brought him. Lauren had put on a flower-print dress that morning and was tired of it by lunch-time. She knew it outlined the range of her curves and, in the hot weather, the material got so it was just about ready to bust. Now, standing above him, looking down at the wide boy blue of his eyes, she felt there was no good reason for the dress to hold together any longer.
He said, “Do you need help with the zip?”
“It’s at the side here,” she lifted an arm. Built into the seam was a six inch zipper, set at waist level.
He pulled on the zipper. And the hell with it, she would have to squirm like crazy to get out of the dress. He moved one of his hot little hands to her hip, ostensibly to hold the material straight, but he was out exploring.
With the zip clear, Lauren pulled the dress upwards and began shrugging her shoulders, lifting her arms as she tried to work the dress over her head. She was pretty much caught, blind, when Hogie reached behind her and took a hold either side of her butt. His grip was firm but not too tight. She stopped wriggling. There was a pause, then she went Hogie’s way with a moan. He slipped his fingers beneath her underpants and pulled them down. Somehow, the boy got himself in a position to push his mouth against her inner lips. She staggered and regained her balance. He was breathing shallow hot breaths. Whether it was his excitement or nerves or genuine technique, the damp heat of his breath was making her steam. She opened her legs by buckling her knees. His upturned mouth matched her own pouting lips, size for size. His tongue felt soft and fleshy as it pushed against her most sensitive spots. He spooned warm liquor over her inner ridges, his tongue trailed her everywhere.
As he surfaced, she found a way out of her dress and threw it to the floor. Standing stripped to her bra and summer sandals, her arms pushed out to touch both walls of the dressing room, she felt she dominated that tiny room. Hogie stood to meet her, kissing her as he pushed himself into her curves. She returned his drenched kisses and they slithered together for minutes before Hogie dropped his trousers and told her she had better turn around. There wasn’t room for no other way.
She fell forwards with her arms outstretched, palms to the wall mirror and her body bent at the waist Hogie stood reflected behind her, looking downwards through the floppy bangs of his hair. As she felt him probing forwards, she pushed back and gasped as they swallowed together. Then she closed her eyes. He moved with a rhythmic stirring, matched by the movement of his hands on the soft cheeks of her ass. The air saturated with her perfume, with their double sweat and with the fresh smell of his hair. He had such a good smell and… maybe… he was a touch chaotic and in too much of a darned rush, but the burbling of his breath and the shout of joy as he came into her and that sweet sweet smell all around him, it made the world of difference.
She had powerful lungs. Hogie was knocked backwards, she was at least twice as loud as any of his friend’s mothers.
EIGHT
Cheb’s troubles kept him away from the unlocked restaurant for almost an hour. The whole length of Old Compton Street, all the gays treated the Cheb-and-Jools show like it was the day’s top entertainment. Unfortunately, they had him tagged as the villain and once Jools started weeping the mood on the street turned ugly. Cheb had no choice, he turned over his keys and helped her to a taxi. He even gave her his cigarettes to smooth the journey. The problem was, they all recognised her. He’d been out of the country too long, he couldn’t know she’d got herself elected as some kind of gay icon.
Back at the restaurant, George Carmichael was stood at the bar. Cheb saw him even before he’d opened the door. As he stepped through, the man turned on him with a glare, rasping: “I want a word with you.”
His voice was a subcutaneous croak, like Vaseline on sand. Cheb didn’t know when he last heard anything so fucked—in-the-throat. He nodded, stopped in the centre of the dining room. The man had the bar-top phone in his monster hand, his fingers part way through a dial code.
‘Wait there.”
Cheb froze.
There were no 999 calls, no hint of a murder case or even that George knew what was waiting for him in the kitchen. Cheb spent the best part of thirty minutes waiting, keeping quiet surveillance and wishing he hadn’t given his cigarettes away so easily. The calls were nothing but low intensity nonsense, drifting around the empty restaurant. What he learnt was that George Carmichael was queer for sure and he was only the frontman for the restaurant. The real owner was some woman, domiciled in España but soon to touchdown in London, England. Carmichael was ringing around to cancel anything that might clash with his appointment to meet her. The voice rumbled on, saying he couldn’t make it until late, he had to go through the accounts with this woman… blah blah blah.
Carmichael finally rasped out with a curt, “No, she’s an ally. It’s the husband who’s a problem… aren’t they always.” His goodbye words. When he slapped down the phone Cheb was nowhere: staring out into space. Carmichael snapped his fingers.
“So why was this place unlocked?”
Cheb shook his head. “Unlocked? Because you’re here.”
He held up his keys. “I only just arrived.”
“What, now?” Carmichael looked at his watch. “What about Hogie?”
“He’s not been in either, Mr Carmichael. We been…’ It had to sound good. “…s
peaking to suppliers Hogie’s still out doing the rounds. It’s the party tomorrow.”
Carmichael knew it. He picked Cheb’s case off the bar, holding it by one handle so it flapped open. “What about this. Isn’t it yours?”
Cheb looked at the empty case. “Not mine, Mr Carmichael.”
The man shrugged. Then said, “Well go and look round the kitchen. I’ve already had a glance and nothing seems to be missing but we’d better make sure before we decide whether to call the police or not.”
Cheb nodded, “Alright”, and pushed through the swing doors.
He didn’t know where he should look. Anywhere but the wheelie bin. He opened a drawer, all of it neatly laid out with whisks, ladles, pastry cutters The next drawer was full of knives.
When he heard the man’s footsteps, he turned around. The kitchen doors opened out like wings behind Carmichael as he stood, considering the room. He had hold of a bottle of Otard cognac in one hand, two brandy glasses in the other. The cigarette dangling from his lips was about double the girth of a Marlboro.
“Anything missing?”
Cheb said No. The man turned around and put the glasses on the work top. His greying skinhead rucked into soft folds at the back of his neck as he guessed at a couple of unmeasured shots, weighted in his favour. ‘Well, there’s no reason to bother the police then.”
Cheb said No.
Speaking over his shoulder, the man said, “Was it Hogie who told me you were a Buddhist?”
Cheb closed the third drawer—palette knives and a bunch of stainless steel things he couldn’t put a name to—and walked over to accept his cognac. “I know a bit about it, Mr Carmichael But I’m definitely not a Buddhist.”
George shrugged, he must have misunderstood “Hogie told me you studied Buddhism out East.”
“Yeah, I studied it. But on my own, I didn’t go for instruction.”
“So you’re not one of these tantric sex gurus I’ve been reading about in the style magazines?”
Cheb shook his head. No he wasn’t one of those.
“You’ve never had a five hour sex session?”
Cheb thought he would have remembered.
Carmichael looked around for an ashtray. When he couldn’t see one he handed the smoking butt over to Cheb and let him run to the sink to douse it. Cheb tried to maintain an efficient look, keeping a lid on his nervous twitches. He dropped the sodden butt in an unused soap dish and handed it to Carmichael. “Will that do?”
“Thanks. So what’s your take on Buddhism, kid?”
Cheb took a gulp at his cognac, taking it all in one shot. By the time it reached the back of his throat, he was gagging for air. “What?”
“I was asking what you thought of Buddhism.”
Cheb tried to gauge the man’s interest. He was lighting another cigarette. It was the only thing that cracked his down—turned mouth, semi-permanently clenched between heavy jowls. With a face like that, Cheb didn’t know if the guy cared or not. There were no signs of outright negativity. He was ready to give it a shot. It was better than the horror in the wheelie bin.
“What do I think? I think it’s sick.” Cheb gave him the equation: “Buddhists live off rice, and rice gives you Beri Beri, which is a wasting disease.”
“Is that right?” Carmichael nodded his huge slab of head, his eyes narrowed in the bulges of his lids. “Is this something I should worry about, as a restauranteur?”
Cheb zeroed the idea. “No. It’s pretty rare, now. If you’re worried, then stick to brown rice. Do you have a spare cigarette?”
Carmichael handed the packet over. Gitanes. He said, “Yeah, I’ve heard of people eating brown rice. Me, I prefer to eat white. But I guess some people like both brown and white rice. What do you say?”
The man was playing with him. The offer carried a subtext but it wasn’t genuine. Though it was delivered with some style. Cheb said, “I wouldn’t know. I never touch either.”
“A genuine pervert.”
Carmichael lifted his glass and sank the last drop of his brandy. When he stood the glass on the kitchen surface and poured his next measure, Cheb slipped his own glass next to it. Moving so fast, he worried the gesture screamed desperation. Carmichael just looked from glass to kid, then smiled “Cute.” He slopped another few ounces out of the bottle and left the freshened glass for him to pick up.
Cheb could have sucked the whole bottle down in one but he tried to slow the pace. He let his next sip spread over his tongue, feeling it burn into the jelly as he tried to figure a softening tactic.
He went for the full clinical account of Beri Beri.
“I’m not saying all Buddhists have Beri Beri, Mr Carmichael. But a priest who lives on a handful of rice a day is more likely to have it than a peasant who mixes a few vegetables with his meal. What happens, the disease shuts down the central nervous system. Which is why you get these guys pushing spikes through their arms or burying themselves alive. All of those nappy-wearing gimmicks.”
Carmichael sipped on his cognac. He seemed to be listening and Cheb wasn’t ready to quit.
“The priest gets the peasants respect because he’s totally indifferent to pain. So, eventually, the kind of life Beri Beri makes possible becomes the blueprint for all the devout And right at the limits of possibility, you got the promise of nirvana, total inertia: the natural end of a society devoted to malnourishment.”
Carmichael thought he might have heard this shit before. Whatever, he was definitely cooling on the conversation. “Is this one of those ‘opium for the people’ speeches? Buddhism is nothing but a way to bear a sick civilisation.”
“There’s no such thing as a healthy civilisation. Buddhism doesn’t mask the symptoms of a sick society. It is one of the symptoms. But it’s also the program-code that allows the disease to spread without oriental societies ever quite collapsing.”
“You made all this shit up?”
Cheb nodded. “Some of it. You know, from reading and talking, seeing the sights and visiting the shrines.”
Carmichael stubbed the dying butt of his last cigarette in the soap dish and gave Cheb the once over. Then, shaking his head, he said, “Listen kid, do the theorising on your own time. This is a straight place. I don’t want any freaky psychotic shit disturbing the ambience.”
He carried the makeshift ashtray over to the bin, saying: “Just keep the place clean and we’ll get on fine.”
Cheb couldn’t stop him. The man had opened the bin and was looking down.
*
What Carmichael said, the bin lid in one hand and a brand new expression on his face, was, “We might have a problem.”
He had taken his time, staring down into the bin for forty ticking seconds. Cheb just counted them.
Cheb said, “A problem?” He was already backing towards the doors.
“Yes, I would definitely say so.” Carmichael stared at him and this time there was nothing to crack the grim line of his mouth. His look coming straight at Cheb through slitted eyes. “Listen kid. You’re a sick fuck, wouldn’t you say? Well, I’ve got a paying job for you. I just hope you can handle it.”
Cheb nodded, working himself up to showing surprise as Carmichael began outlining exactly what was on his mind.
NINE
Lost in the perfume hall, Susan had managed to sidestep the first girl. The second took her out with a five second burst of perfume at breast level and struck her down. The amphetamine sulphate in her bloodstream vapourised, leaving her defenceless against a raging headache. She reeled to the left and ahead of her the main doors swung open. She reached the street without looking back, forgetting that she was being pursued. Her hand went out blindly, taxiing her to the edge of the pavement.
Her driver asked more than once if she was alright. Huddled on the back seat, she mumbled, she thought she could hold on. She only wished the cab didn’t stink so heavily of peach air freshener… she felt like she was being smothered under a tart’s duvet. They were past Portman Square befor
e she began to regret losing the chase through the department stores. She couldn’t expect to see the blonde boy again.
*
Later, when the entry phone buzzer woke her, Susan had no idea where she was. She took it piece by piece and worked it out: a furnished mansion flat on New Cavendish Street, Marylebone. The taxi driver had got her there thanks to a scrawled address she’d found in her handbag. Once she’d found the hidden key and was safely through the door, she staggered from room to room until she hit a bed, passing out as she flopped down. According to her watch she’d been asleep for almost six hours. The buzzer kept on raging at intervals for as long as it took her to answer it.
There was a four inch monitor screwed to the landing wall. It was lit—up bright white, radiant as a distress flare and shrieking like a bitch. On-screen, George Carmichael came out of nowhere in glorious, looming fish-eye.
Susan said, “George.”
Out of the box, the familiar growl; “Susan?”
“Get your finger off the fucking button or I swear, I’ll bite it off.”
“Susan?”
“Come up George. I’ll be in the shower—but make yourself comfortable.”
She unlatched the front door and tried to get a sense of where she was. In the kitchen she found a plastic bag holding a pack of English sausages and a dozen eggs. One hundred servings of one-cup tea bags were scattered around the melamine worktop, the grey tissue squares soaking up a pool of spilt orange juice. There was a Food And Wine store on the opposite corner, abreast Marylebone High Street, but she didn’t remember buying anything. She noticed the orange juice was produce of Seville: concentrated, hydrated, half—empty.
After a live second cold shower she dried off, shivering: remembering she had no clean clothes. At least someone had hung a bath robe behind the bedroom door, the only welcoming thing in the whole room. Otherwise, it was flowery wallpaper and matching sheets, scattered lace doily’s and pine bedroom furniture. In the bathroom, as in the kitchen, the sink had separate taps rather than a mixer faucet. Everything as it was, only slightly skewed. Over time, it seemed she’d grown unaccustomed to English ways.
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