by Will Self
– the b’b’boom-boom, b’b’boom-boom of his trip-hopping
heart as he mounts another flight of stairs, in another faraway land
of which … we know fuck-all. Then knocking on the door in a still
more stygian hallway, and pushed to the limit we dragged ourselves in.
Where’ve I been, Squilly? the Butcher asks – but when Squilly
begins sing-songing a full list of his postings since he joined the
Firm (Londonderry, Geneva, Tehwan, Thawejevo – ) he screams,
I meant RHETORICALLY! A cry which fills the motorway
flyover’s chilly cavities – for by now they’ve stumbled back into
town … just like a sacred cow. Christ, I’m high, Squilly (Too high
to hit your quarry, Butch?) Oh, no – you know me better than that.
(Was mir behagt …) Is the lively hunt! Always, Squilly, always!
With this noble cry, the Butcher slips out of his reversible jacket,
rereverses it, enters a spit-and-sawdust pub, strides to the bar, orders
a large Scotch, knocks it back for a quick straightener – no shit-stabber,
me … then leaves, making his way, via Charles Street and Princess
Street, to the New Conti, where he loses himself in the goosebumps
on the back of a plump girl’s thighs until it’s his turn to be
inefficiently frisked, no professional, he: Knockier izzit, mate? the
bouncer asks, hefting the Butcher’s mobile phone. Dunno why yer
bother – I mean, oo yer gonna call, Ghostbusters? Then the Butcher’s
in, watching from the wings, scenes he’s seen played, replayed and
played yet again: Bodies are, he thinks, big hands – which makes of
dancing … a frenzied gesticulation. The bass line shudders through
panting flesh: They call me Mister Loverman, they call me Mister
Loverman! and the Butcher thinks, You wish! Observation is the
key to successful hunting – soon enough he spots Tizer, whose
bull-head rises above the maelstrom, tossing in time. After that the
other junior officers are easy to locate: Shabba, giving it his all …
since it’s his theme tune, as he throws some shapes in the moon-face
of a seriously fat girl – Potso limboing under the disdainful
eyes of a black one. Even Anderson has a dance partner – a plug-ugly
Pee-wee Herman of a thing, with whom he’s attempting to
jive, swinging her so vigorously she slams into the other dancers.
But there’s no sign of the Butcher’s quarry, as he edges along a wall
papered with old flyers … Gerry prob’ly needs a pacemaker by now.
Come Monday morning, the Butcher thinks, I’ll swipe my card
against the sensor, punch my number into the keypad, go through
the electronic gate, say good morning to Gardiner, cross the atrium,
ride the lift to the lucky seventh, turn right at the Stubbs, then left
at the Landseer, unlock the door to my office, lock it behind me, go
to the cabinet, spin the Manifoil, get out the office laptop and begin
writing up a version of the last few days’ events … for Cumming’s
exclu–. (There he is!, Squilly interrupts) – he’s spotted Greeny over
by some dusty drapes in the far corner of the throbbing room which
must hide the doors to the bogs. ‘Scuse … ‘scuse … ‘scuse … the
Butcher makes his way between the disco dancers. By the time he
unzips, Gawain’s splatteration is already counterpointing the cistern’s
gurgle. Their shoulders touch and he double-takes, Oh … it’s
you. The Butcher reminds him, Mike, but let’s just shake todgers
rather than hands on this occasion. How’re you getting on? Your
mates must’ve got lucky … The junior officer gives a doggy shiver,
tucks in, zips up, mumbles non-committally, goes to the slimy
sink and begins … washing his hands! Oh, Squilly, I do so hope he
doesn’t have to do that every time he touches a penis! Staring at the
unexpected benison of a splodge of liquid soap, Gawain is nonetheless
petulant: Thought you said you had to get home … Said you
were married – wife’s a ball-breaker … that’s what you said. He
soaps his hands methodically, and his pursuer purrs, What say
we get the fuck outta here – go somewhere we can really let our
hair down? Gawain’s breath smells of humbugs – confectionery the
Butcher also uses to … hide my own hypocrisies. But since he’s in the
cavalryman’s face, he takes his time examining it: a soft and sandy
complexion … he’ll freckle in the sun – ahhh! standard-issue blue
eyes … a little gweilo for my taste … an honest, dimpled manly jaw,
surprisingly full kissable lips and a perfect nose! He’s the one, Squilly –
the one! A one, moreover, who, although trapped in the malodorous
corner of a bog by a man barely known to him, makes no attempt to
break free! Dunno, he says, early start tomorrow – and I’ve a match
in the afternoon … Football? the Butcher asks. – No, rugby …
Rugger! the Butcher exults to Squilly (And you imagine he has
whyming proclivities, do you, Butch?) Well … he adopts his most
sincere tone … we wouldn’t want you underperforming on the
pitch. How about this: I guarantee to get you back to the Britannia
in one piece by oh-three-hundred? Fit bloke like you – shouldn’t be
too much the worse for wear … ‘Sides, you know you’ll be kicking
yourself tomorrow if you pass up the opportunity – I mean, when’re
you gonna see some proper action again? In the street the Butcher
considers his options: he could take Gawain to Manto’s for a few
rounds – but the place will almost certainly be ram-packed with
Nellie queens … Instead, he ducks into a Pakki shop, buys a can of
Coke, snaps it open and, while Gawain’s distracted Superman steps
into a phone booth, gets his stash out and deftly transforms the soft
drink into a cocktail of hard drugs: two parts of emmdee-emmay to
one of Rohypnol … don’t want him going under before he’s come up.
Then they’re trolling on down the road, Gawain’s Adam’s apple
rising and falling as he guzzles from the can. They pass by young
women tottering on high heels – one’s collapsed altogether by some
wheelie bins, her skirt having ridden right up, while her lucky pants
haven’t proved to be fortunate at all – although she remains a very
shapely lass. Gawain’s eyes take in bare, splayed legs, but reassuringly
… don’t linger. It’s only a hop, skip and glug to the Paradise – the
Butcher wonders whether to persist with his false flag operation,
or if Gawain’s sufficiently out of it by now to risk making him conscious
his companion is one of those … boys who like girls who like
boys who like boys. It’s well past midnight yet the venerable Victorian
buildings still heave and pulse – synthy skirls, over-revving car
engines and frequent bestial howls rend the filmically bright darkness.
Manchester, the Butcher speculates, has been camouflaged by
itself: a vast sheet has been thrown over the city, one patterned with
towers, domes and cupolas – all the superfluous ornamentation
you’d expect to see if you were arriving by camel for Belshazzar’s
feast. He relieves Gawain of the Coke, slakes �
�� my dreadful thirst,
and, backing him into a doorway, breathes sweetly into his expectant
face: You, um, require a little … adjustment, Lieutenant. Where
we’re going the dress code is as strict as any mess, but … um,
messier. The Butcher gets out his little tin of Vaseline, dabs his
fingers, musses the adorable sandy-blond hair, exulting the while,
because: He doesn’t flinch! Which gives the Butcher further licence
to yank Gawain’s shirt-tail from the waist of his preppy chinos.
There’s nothing he can do about the dreadful blazer – although it
might count in their favour, since: All the nice girls love a soldier,
All the nice girls love his Glock … the Butcher sings as they troll
on … ’Cause there’s something about a nine-millimetre semi-automatic
pistol that reminds them of a man’s –. This … this is …
Gawain breaks in … a gay club. Which is, the Butcher, thinks, not
terribly observant for a man trained in long-range reconnaissance.
They’ve joined the back of a queue mostly consisting of pumped-up
clones in tight white T-shirts, who jitter-jig to the chukka-chukka
ah-ahh spilling from the doors … love’s gone mad again. An outrageous
figure wearing a green lamé dress and leggings teeters
between the clones on nine-inch heels. His/her face is plastered
with white pancake and fissured by blood-red zigzags. Perspex
fragments embedded in this car-crash maquillage glitter as he/she
approaches, while the small battery-powered toy car he/she sports
in lieu of a toque spins its wheels rrrrRRRRrrrrRRRR … ! in
his/her bleached-blond/blonde bouffant hair-do. He/she waves a
windscreen-wiper wand, bestowing a blessing on this clone: You’re
in … and anathema on that one: Off you jolly well fuck … Cuddle
up, soldier, the Butcher hisses, sliding an arm under Gawain’s
blazer and round his gorgeous hips … He won’t let uss in if he
thinkss we’re sstraight. Why? Gawain hisses back. Why do we want
to get in? Because, the Butcher insistss, it’s only the besst place to
pick up birdss – no competition! – Ooh! the walking car crash has
reached them: Somebody can’t keep her hands on her ha’pennies,
he/she says, shaving Gawain’s cheek with the rubber blade. The
best a girl can get, eh … Okay – you’re … in! In! In! In! In to
three storeys chock-full of … abandonment: the dance floor’s a
heaving mass of bare and sweat-slicked torsos – and the Butcher
dives in, dragging Gawain behind him. The house music’s satiny
fabric, stitched together with repetitive beats, enfolds their bodies.
Gawain’s gyrations – the Butcher coolly notes – are part parade
ground, part assault course: his hands reaching for invisible holds –
his feet marching … on the spot. The regimental ram embroidered
on his blazer pocket is rampant, then couchant, then rampant
again … annagain. The Butcher thinks of sheep he’s seen grazing
aloft in scrubby trees … astonishingly agile. The packed dance floor,
a single entity, throws its arms up … and out! We’re all Action
Men, the Butcher thinks: drilled to perfection and capable of adopting
… any pose. Look at the cavalry one, full of pharmaceutical
fodder – see him canter amongst the clones, his eyes rolled back in
their sockets … whitely sightless. See his muzzle, flecked with foam
as he whinnies along with the rest of the prancers: In dance floor
stag! In leatherman drag! Dressed to please! Stripped to tease!
Strip for me ’cause I WANT YOUUUU TOOOO! The Butcher,
conserving his energee, shuffling on the spot, watches as Gawain is
flayed by the flailing arms – first his blazer, then his shirt – until
he’s like all the rest. Still the sonic earthquake rumbles on … Still the
beat doubles and … redoubles, whipping the dancers into yet more
frenzied gyrations … round annaround, again annagain, until the
lights start strobing and the hellish inferno of the Paradise Factory
suddenly … stills. They’re stills, Squilly! the Butcher cries. Nobody’s
really moving at all! Gawain hunched over, digging a flagstaff into a
pile of corpses – Gawain bow-legged, riding an invisible horse along
Whitehall – Gawain, arms outstretched, running down a Vietnamese
road, his skin … hanging off his back. As the Butcher slots these
stills into his viewfinder, he edges closer and closer to a revelation
concerning … perception itself and what it is to truly see! (Who the
devil d’you think you are … Squilly speaks from out of the burning
bush – thome thort of philosophucker?) Then the house music begins
to fade, the house lights come up, and the Butcher sees his quarry
being led by the nose towards … a bottle of fucking amyl! Now then,
now then – lads-who-love-lads and lasses who love other … lasses!
The car-crash trannie is back, standing on the low stage in front of
the speakers. Enough of yer bloody skrikin’, he/she cries, there’ll be
time enough fer love when I’ve made the announcements … Thank
you, Dave Kendrick, fer spinnin’ the discs that risk … Now then,
now then … there’re representatives from the Lesbian and Gay
Switchboard in da house handing out da rubbers – he/she tosses
his/her car-crash head – C’mon, it’s not rocket science – jus’ roll one
on your rocket, when yer get it outta yer … pocket! The Butcher,
becalmed at the side of the dance floor, sees eyes-on from the
balcony: Obvious plods, eh, Squilly … (Plain as the pwoverbial
pikestaff, Butch) Prob’ly looking for dealers, eh … (Prob’ly – are
you bothered?) I’m not bothered … (Well, you should be.) Why?
They’re not Branchers, are they – ‘sides, I’ve never been declared oop
North … Gawain appears at his side, balled-up shirt and blazer
clutched to his bare and heaving chest … rubimdownallfoamyin-thestableyard,
and the Butcher says, You look like you could use a
little rest and recuperation. They mount through dry-ice clouds,
past Fred Perries feeding on each other’s faces, into a World of
Leather: a chill-out room full of the sort of queens the Butcher
hasn’t seen since the glory days of … the Motor Sport Club. He
pilots Gawain to a banquette and they slump down – opposite are
a matching pair, peaked caps, complete with Totenkopf insignia,
shading rouged cheeks and eyelids caked with mascara. Gawain,
his eyes bugging out, struggles gamely back into his red shirt.
BEYOND THIS SIGN, the Butcher thinks, YOU WILL BE
DOWN RANGE. Slumping down into the stinking vinyl,
Gawain struggles to articulate: I … I … I’m … and, despite a
finger pressed against his lips, he won’t be silenced: I’m … I’m
engaged to be marri–. Until his gob is stopped … with mine.
Tongues are ropes with which we bind our lovers, the Butcher
thinks, as he skips around in Gawain’s salty-sweet mouth. Focused
intently on all the data streaming into him through his nervous
system, the Butcher is nonetheless assailed by odd images: a dropsical
fake-gold watch time-swollen, and hanging by
its wristband
from a mechanical claw … An open telephone junction box – its
multicoloured tangle of conversation being invisibly combed … He
hears the icy chimes of the chill-out music shining somewhere in the
clubbable hubbub – hears also the harsh Alllouaahhh Akhbaaaarrrr!
of an amplified call to submission – all of which seems perfectly
appropriate for a first kiss. At first tentatively, but then with greater
authority … it’s the habit of command! Gawain leans into him,
forcing the turncoat to … swap sides! I was gagging for it, Squilly
(So you were, Butch – now you’re gagging on it.) Next, Gawain’s
hand is probing the Butcher’s crotch – Whoa, Soldier, didn’t you
hear mein poofy host – keep yer hands on yer ha’pennies, not mine:
this isn’t some glory hole … and for long moments the Butcher
recalls the haul through crotch-stinking darkness … his only handholds
… greasy poles. Gawain’s eyes are shut, his expression is utterly
guileless – compellingly vulnerable. Right now, Squilly, I could get
this man to do anything – anything at all. And betray anyone –
anyone at all. (It’s been a thuccethful appwoach, Butch – no one
would deny that. But have you given any thought as to how you’re
going to wun him?) Oh, it’s deep penetration for this one, Squills –
he’s a keeper, a sleeper, a midnight creeper – (Wooh-wooh, Butch,
wooh-wooh!) Despite the drugs, the heat and the animal frenzy,
these are militarily trained men who crave routine … So for the next
couple of hours they alternate between marching up and down on
the dance floor and feeling each other up in the chill-out room.
At about four ayem the car-crash emsee returns to the stage, the
music stops, and, taking the mic, he/she delivers a little homily:
Ooh, yer all a little overexcited, children, aren’tcha … No … well,
seriously now, lissen up! There’s stuff going on out there in the real
world you lot should pay attention to … But the strung-out ravers
aren’t paying attention to anything much – just standing around
snapping each other’s bovver-boy braces. The Butcher, looking
at Gawain’s top pocket, thinks of the Green Slime’s regimental
crest … a rampant pansy resting on its laurels. – Lissen up! I’m
dead-blüddy-serious … He/she holds the mic against his/her
