First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Lincoln Townley, 2014
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Lincoln Townley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-47113-541-5
ISBN (Ebook): 978-1-47113-542-2
Typeset in Aldine by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
This book is dedicated to my wife Denise,
for helping me become the man I am today.
Contents
Prologue
The Hunger
Wraps
Nutella Nights
Stairlift to Heaven
A Magical Christmas
How Difficult Can That Be?
Truth and Other Lies
The Grand Ball of Immortal Addicts
A Party in Cannes
Darkness in Soho
The Charing Cross Hotel
The Secret Society
Losing My Mind
A Bigger Splash
The Day of Judgement
So-Ho!
Epilogue
Afterword
This is my story.
I have changed dates, times and occasionally places to protect those involved. I have also re-named some people and places and sometimes created composite characters from the people I knew. What I have not changed is what I did or the nature of my addiction.
Prologue
And a Man sat alone, drenched deep in sadness.
And all the animals drew near to him and said, ‘We do not like to see you so sad. Ask us for whatever you wish and you shall have it.’
The Man said, ‘I want to have good sight.’
The vulture replied, ‘You shall have mine.’
The Man said, ‘I want to be strong.’
The jaguar said, ‘You shall be strong like me.’
Then the Man said, ‘I long to know the secrets of the earth.’
The serpent replied, ‘I will show them to you.’
And so it went with all the animals. And when the Man had all the gifts that they could give, he left.
Then the owl said to the other animals, ‘Now the Man knows much, he’ll be able to do many things. Suddenly I am afraid.’
The deer said, ‘The Man has all that he needs. Now his sadness will stop.’
But the owl replied, ‘No. I saw a hole in the Man, deep like a Hunger he will never fill. It is what makes him sad and what makes him want. He will go on taking and taking, until one day the World will say, “I am no more and I have nothing left to give.”’
Old Storyteller from Apocalypto
The Hunger
August 2009. 7 a.m.
Addiction is ugly.
And relentless.
I am running. My heart is pounding. Thrashing at my ribcage. Wanting to burst through and splatter on the ground. I see blood everywhere. Guts and spleen. Keep running.
There must be people around. I am moving past them, through them. They are shadows. All I can feel is the rage of my heart and the thud of my feet on the pavement. I am smothering in my own breath. There is no way out. It has gone too far.
There are strangers in my bed. I do not know who they are or how they got there: a mass of banged-up oestrogen, propped up, surrounded by lube, cocaine and condoms, an altar to my solitude. I am sprinting and my head is exploding. I am floating. Dying. People look horrified and let me pass. They part as I drive through them. They can see I’m running. And I cannot be stopped.
1 a.m. Six hours earlier
Tina is lying face down on the bed, her arse spread, a line of coke stretching from her mid-back to her crack. I am snorting it when the intercom buzzes. I finish my line and the vodka on the bedside table, slip on a dressing gown and walk out to the hall. It’s Rachel. She sent me a text earlier with a naked picture attached, asking if she could join us. I’m expecting three more Regulars and a Paid-For.
One by the one they arrive. They try to make small talk. I’m not interested. I ask if they want a drink. They all do. I send them into the bedroom and tell them to strip. I’m off my head, which means I’ve given myself permission to be more of a twat than usual. Katie is the last to arrive.
—You happy, Linc?
—All good. Go and join them and I’ll be with you in a second.
I go to the bathroom and take a sachet of Kamagra. I take one on Tuesday and one on Thursday, so there’s always some floating about in my system. The gel acts faster than the tablet and, when I come into the bedroom, my cock is rock solid. Four of the girls are on the bed while two, including Katie, are lying on the floor sharing a couple of lines with Tina. Katie is tall with long, willowy blonde hair. The first time I met her was in the bar at a Soho hotel. We went to the toilets and, before I could rip her dress to shreds, she laid out two lines on the seat and said:
—Coke before cock, Lincoln, always remember that.
The girls are all naked and they do not know there is a Man in the corner sitting on my best chair dressed in a long, black morning coat, starched white shirt with matching crimson cravat and handkerchief. He raises a glass of red wine and smiles at me. I smile back. The Man has been in my life, in one form or another, as long as I can remember. I used to think I was going crazy when other people didn’t hear him or even see him. I thought they were winding me up, so I would point at him and shout:
—He’s there! Look at him! He’s real!
Then I realised they couldn’t see him. He laughed at me:
—I am your dirty little secret, Lincoln, your dirtiest little secret!
I look across at him and he takes off his bowler hat, flicks his mop of ruffled black hair and lies on the floor next to the girls. He runs his finger along Tina’s back before stretching his pointed tongue around Katie’s neck. The girls shudder and look around. They sense the presence of the Man but they can’t see him, so they carry on snorting. The Man angles his head towards me in a gesture of triumph as his face breaks into a rakish laugh. He says:
—Let’s have some fun, Lincoln. I’m ravenous!
The Paid-For is staring at my cock. Her eyes are a little too wide and she’s too clean, so I pick her first. I lay her on the floor and pound her for about an hour. She may be a hooker but she’s never been fucked like this before. Her eyes are bulging and I worry in case they pop out of her head and hit me in the face.
When I’m finished with her she can’t move. She is delirious. I line up the other girls, arses out, and fuck them one at a time. Tina is in hysterics and can’t stop laughing. I tell her to shut up because she’s putting me off. She winks at me and begins ramming a butt plug in Sandra, who is trying to keep her head steady above a line of coke. We’re at it for about five hours. I come twice then I fall asleep. An hour later I wake up and my bedroom is in chaos. I am shaking and my throat is dry. I look around. The Man is nowhere to be seen. I get dressed and go out for an eight-mile run through the city.
10 p.m. Three hours earlier
I’m at The Office in Soho. It’s not an office like the ones where people waste their lives getting things done. It’s actually a bar where I w
ork at creating Chaos. The boys are all upstairs getting hammered, as the smell of food wafts from the kitchen into the disabled toilet where I’m working. Before I took her to the toilet, the girl, whose name I can’t remember, said:
—My boyfriend is meeting me here.
—He’s not here now, is he?
—Well . . .
I place my hand on her wrist and she looks deep into my coked-out eyes.
—I really want to fuck you.
And now I’m hammering her so hard in the toilet that the pan cracks. I think I must remember to tell Mario, the manager. It’s the decent thing to do. Then I focus on the pounding and forget what it was I had to remember. My memory isn’t jogged even when a big chunk of china breaks off and hits the floor.
When we walk back upstairs into the restaurant the boys are looking worried. I notice a tall guy towering above them. As soon as he sees me and the girl he walks over to us. He is not happy.
—Where have you been?
The girl is silent. He tries to take a swipe at her. I block his arm. She is crying and shaking, her dress torn at the seam. I may be a twat but I’m a considerate one and I don’t like bullies.
—Try that again and I’ll deck you.
He looks at me and takes another swipe. This time at me. I warned him. I hit him with two punches – one to the solar plexus and another to the side of the neck. He drops unconscious to the floor. The girl screams.
—You’ve killed him! You’ve killed him!
I think perhaps I have. Mario rushes towards me.
—Fucking hell, Lincoln. Take it easy. My God, I think you’ve killed him.
I wonder if Mario is a mind reader, then I look at the lifeless body on the floor and I realise he’s stating the fucking obvious.
Maynard and Terry get up off the table and throw two glasses of wine over the man’s face.
—That was a fucking waste!
—Sorry, Linc, we’re only trying to help.
I lean over him and press my ear to his chest. He’s still breathing. I look at the girl and think she looks so sexy in that torn dress. I want to fuck her again. NOW. The man rolls his head to one side and groans. I want to knock him out again. I NEED him unconscious. Just another twenty minutes. That’s all I crave. Mario props him up and soon he is standing. He sees me and tries to lift his arm but it falls limp against the bar. I walk up to him.
—Don’t even think about it, and if you lay one finger on your girl, I’ll fucking kill you.
He doesn’t respond. I grab him by the collar. No one tries to stop me.
—Do you hear me?
He nods.
—I didn’t fucking hear you.
—Yes . . . yes . . .
I walk over to the girl and give her my card. Lincoln Townley, Sales and Marketing Director, The Club.
—If he gives you any trouble call me and I’ll deal with him. She has mascara all over her face.
—Thanks.
Outside on the street, the Man with the crimson cravat, whose name is Esurio, is leaning against a wall, smoking a cigar.
—That was splendid, Lincoln, splendid. Where shall we go next?
—Fuck off!
—Now that is an absurd idea. I couldn’t possibly fuck off when we’re having such fun!
3 p.m. Seven hours earlier
My favourite hour of the day. The Gym, Soho.
Most people want to get fit. Build some muscle. I don’t. I just want to go fucking mental. I begin with twenty minutes on the treadmill. Sprinting. Then a hundred press-ups on my knuckles in under two minutes. There’s a reason I do press-ups on my knuckles. I severed the tendon in my right wrist bench-pressing 120kg ten years ago. It hurt. Pain like I’ve never experienced before or since. The surgeon said the best he could do was to fuse it together again but it would be rigid like a pole. I said no. Then the pain got even worse and I went to him and asked:
—Can you please cut my hand off?
He said no. But he did the operation and, after a couple of years, it was more or less normal. I can’t bend it fully or put too much pressure on it. Other than that, it’s fine. One strange thing: I still wank and wipe my arse with my left hand. Which goes to prove that habits can be changed when the pain gets too intense. That thought comes to my mind as I bench press 100kg. I say to myself:
—That’s a good observation, Lincoln.
Then I forget it and carry on with the circuit: 200 curls, 150 sit-ups, 50kg lat-pulls and on into exhaustion. The last lift: 100kg bench-press. My teeth clench and I scream:
—Push! Push, you fucker! Push!
My eyes get caught in the lights of the gym and I can hear the same words:
—Push! Push! Push!
It’s a woman’s voice. I blink hard and turn my eyes away from the light. I am nineteen and holding my girlfriend’s hand. The midwife continues with her mantra:
—Push! Push! Push!
First the head. Then the screaming, I am holding my son, Lbloodied body, and a few minutes later ewis, in my arms. I think:
• I know I am happy to die for my son
• I know I love my son
• I know I do not love my girlfriend
• I know I will marry my girlfriend
• I know my marriage will end
I can’t remember the day I got I married. I can remember the day it ended. Lewis was eighteen months old and my life, free and full of possibility, felt like a Dark Desert. This is what I learned in the Desert:
• I can lose my wife and smile
• I cannot lose my son and live
• I understand true love for the first time
When I leave The Gym, I walk over to The Club and down a bottle of Rioja and I’m just starting on the shots when Maynard, Terry, Simon and Steve join me.
11 a.m. Four hours earlier
The Boss watches me walk into The Club. I think he hasn’t seen me grip the door handle to stop me falling to the ground. There are only half a dozen offices in the basement of The Club and they are built from floor-to-ceiling glass panels – of course, he hasn’t seen me! I smile at him as I walk into my office. He smiles back. He’s thinking:
—You’re fucked, Lincoln.
I’m thinking:
—You’re fucked, Lincoln.
George, Jack and Mark, his business partners and Joy, his secretary, are all there. They’re all in their sixties and seventies and have been together for decades. I’ve been here three months and it’s fair to say opinion about me is divided:
George thinks I am a cunt and doesn’t want me anywhere near the clubs.
Jack thinks I am a cunt and believes I am the best sales director he’s ever worked with.
Mark thinks I am a cunt and, like any good accountant, doesn’t give a fuck as long as I keep bringing the punters in.
Joy is too nice to think anyone is a cunt.
And The Boss thinks I am a flash cunt and I think that is the biggest compliment anyone has ever paid me.
Although the offices are just about big enough to swing a cat in, The Boss has invented his own, unique internal communication system. It’s a fucking bell that sits on his desk, one of those old-fashioned brass ones where you hit a little knob on the top. Each of us has a number of rings allocated to our name. I am five rings and, as soon I sit down, the bell rings five times. I squeeze my eyes tight shut as my head feels like the biggest, boomiest bell chamber in the world. I get up and walk ten feet to his office.
—How many times, Lincoln? He is staring at me.
I hate that stare.
If I had to put a name to it I would call it paternal and that’s what I hate. If he was a tosser, a typical Soho club owner, all ego and no heart, I wouldn’t give a shit. But he’s neither. The Boss is a one-off and I love him.
—What?
—Don’t give me ‘what’. Sit down.
I sit down. My chair is lower than his.
—You can’t fool me, Lincoln. I’ve seen it all. You stumble into my off
ice off your head. You can barely stand. How many times have I told you, you’re going to kill yourself? Worse than that, you’re going to kill off my punters.
—Give me a break, Boss. You know I can fill the clubs better than anyone.
—I’m always giving you breaks. I give you breaks when you shag yourself to exhaustion. I give you breaks when you don’t know what day it is. I give you breaks when George tells me to kick you out. How many more breaks do you want?
He’s right except for one little word. I don’t ‘want’ breaks. I ‘need’ them. Thousands of them. Now and tomorrow and the day after and every day after that. Without them I’m in the shit, and I know the more air I pump into my ego, the higher it flies, the more likely I am to fall into some dirty, narrow little gutter where I will disappear without trace. Some people have even been kind enough to point this out to me. One of them was Frank. He was my boss before I worked at The Club and he ran one of the biggest transport companies in the country. I was the youngest and best Sales Director he ever employed. I wasn’t drinking too much then. No drugs at all. I whored a bit but other than that I was in a stable relationship. I bought my first Ferrari, a 355 Berlinetta, when I was twenty-five, and my Mum still has a photograph of me holding a monthly pay cheque for sixteen grand. She told me to use my money wisely. She might as well have told a Banker to stop investing in strippers. When the money was gone I made a list of Wise Things I Did With My Money Before I Blew It. It was a short list. This was it:
• Fun days out with my son, Lewis.
I had him every weekend. I took him to fairs, amusement arcades, played conkers and football with him, cooked him roast dinners, sent paper planes into orbit and I paid his maintenance without ever missing a month. Not much wisdom, I agree, but enough to keep me sane. When I picked him up in my Ferrari he said:
—Daddy, go fast! Go fast!
When I didn’t go fast, he said:
—Why slow?
The reason was simple. I was in a convoy with my salesmen on a motorway when they began racing each other. Jim, one of my sales managers, was in the lead when he flipped over the central reservation and flew into the grill of a fucking monster truck. I saw the windows of his car splash with blood as his body burst open like a tomato. I never drove my Ferrari or any other car over seventy. So I said:
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