by Irvine Welsh
— Shut your mouth, you fascist psycho bitch! I’m fucking through listening to you! This is the part where you fucking well listen to me, she screams. — I’m gonna stuff you like a frigging French goose! Two hundred pounds! You get outta here when you hit that mark on that goddamned scale!
In panic I pull myself up to a seated position. — My mom’s back! She’s gonna be round here soon!
— You said we had another two weeks, you fucking lying bit— she stops herself, — you fucking liar!
We actually have more; they are heading for Tel Aviv tomorrow morning. I sit down and look at the shit in front of me. I glance over and I can see my iPhone on the table, with the Lifemap app.
— It’s . . . there’s something I have to tell you—
— I said you’re through telling me—
— IT’S JERRY! I FUCKING KILLED HIM!
She looks at me in disbelief. — Don’t be stupid, how could you kill Jerry? He’s in New York—
— He’s on your rug with his head caved in.
— You really are fucking crazy! Lena roars, but there’s a look in her eyes that tells me she knows I’m not shitting her.
— No, no . . . listen, I urge, convulsing, struggling for breath.
Lena’s mouth hangs open. Her eyes burn.
— I was over at your place to check your mail and he was waiting outside. I was confused, I’d had an argument with my dad, and I wasn’t thinking straight—
— As opposed to your normal, rational . . . Lena interrupts, halfheartedly.
— He tricked me into letting him into the house. He was turning the place over, looking for some shit I had, I confess, a guilty shake of my head. — There’s a letter and notebook and some pictures in my purse, I nod over to the chair.
She goes to the purse and pulls out the package. Looks at the photographs, reads the letter, and starts to scour the notebook. Her eyes expand, then go glassy, then narrow. She’s struggling to keep her breathing under control as her nostrils flare.
— Like I said, I let him inside. I wasn’t thinking straight. Then I realized what he was doing and tried to get him out. He went crazy and we fought and I thought that he would kill me! He had me pinned down and I reached behind me and hit him with that ax, the ornamental one that you keep sharp, cause you sometimes use it to chop your animal carcasses . . . it was an accident Lena, I swear it! I was trying to protect myself, but I didn’t mean to kill him!
Sorenson continues looking at the photographs. Then she turns on her heel and heads out of the apartment.
— LEEENAHH!!
But I hear the door slam shut and she’s gone. I’m left to contemplate my last meal on this planet that isn’t jail food. I pick up one of the Big Macs (540) and large fries (540) and start to take bites, chewing and swallowing, letting the sugar, salt, and chemical toxins rush through me. Rendering me giddy. Making me want more . . . then I feel something rising in me as my body rejects the poisonous shit . . .
I look at the pile of vomit on the floor in front of me, through watery eyes. I need to do this. It’s my penance. I go to the bag and try again, this time small nibbles, feeling the rush of sugar and salt flooding every part of my body. So I’m eating and drinking factory-made chemical excrement, waiting for the sound of far-off police sirens to draw closer and the cops to come and take me away, to share the same fate as McCandless and Balbosa. Then, as the time drags on, I realize that it’ll maybe play out even worse; perhaps an unhinged Sorenson will be at a Home Depot, stocking up on power tools to torture and mutilate me, the way I did with Winter, or even destroy me, like I did Jerry.
I’m scared, and I’m pulling, pushing at this bracelet, at the obstinate pillar, screaming in anger and fear and frustration for I don’t know how long. She’s gone for ages and it’s pitch black outside. I’m on the mattress, all cried out, staring at the ceiling, floating between horrific thought and terrifying dream. I feel weighed down by a grief so old it could have grown in the Garden of Eden. Then the dread snap of the bolt in the front door as I wait for the end of my life, or at least this phase of it. The morning light is almost up when Lena reappears, looking frazzled and exhausted, heavy bag slung over her shoulder. — Lena . . . what happened . . . what did you do? Where did you go?
— Home. I had to stop off at the Home Depot to buy some new tools.
Oh my God, it’s going to happen . . .
— Lena, please . . . I back toward the steel support pillar.
She shakes her head at me as she lowers the bag. — I’m not gonna hurt you, she says contemptuously, making me feel like a pathetic fool. — I fixed everything.
— What . . .?
— I cleaned up your fucking mess.
— But . . .
— That’s all you need to know. We won’t mention this, or his name, ever again. You got that?
— But—
— I asked you if you got that.
— Yes, of course! But God, Lena . . . I . . . I really owe you—
— Big fucking time, she snaps, reaching into the bag, pulling out a carton full of warm, early-morning bakery goods and dropping them in my lap. — Now eat!
47
CONTACT 18
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Things I Need To Say
Lena honey,
We never told you just how proud you made us when you got into the Art Institute, then had your first exhibition while you were still an undergrad. Your father more than anyone. He tells everybody at the hardware store, and church, about how famous and talented his daughter is. As do I. I know he still keeps that article from the Star Tribune as I see him take it out his wallet and glance at it from time to time.
Why are we always so quiet and guilty in our pride?
Why can we tell other people those things, but not each other?
You’re so right, Lena, all those things you said were harsh, even cruel, but they needed to be said. All we really have in this life is each other, and we really should give those close to us our appreciation and support.
So I’m trying to follow your plan, although the fruit and vegetables thing is harder than you think—this is Minnesota, not Florida! Most of all is the news that I’ve stopped baking! I’ve been reading online about flour, and how it has bad qualities.
I’ve always wanted to learn a language and I thought, it’s never too late, so I’ve started beginner’s Spanish at the community college. So when I come visit you in Miami, I’ll be hablo española!
Whatever we go through, you are our wonder girl and we love you.
Much love,
Mom xxxx
48
ONE WAY OR ANOTHER
I FEEL TIREDNESS in every nerve and bone. But there’s a wave of exhilaration, pulling me up. My work, which is my destiny: it’s all going so well. This is what I was put here to do. I walk into the apartment and go straight to the bedroom. I can hear Lucy’s cries coming from the living room. — Lena! Why are you doing this?! It makes no sense!
I’ve stopped talking to her as it disquiets me. I don’t like to hear the gloating Hollywood villain coming out in my voice. Who can have such power over another person and not descend into showboating arrogance? As for her: after what we’ve been through, I wonder why she even bothers to try and work on me!
This bedroom she would sneak into at night; the inflatable mattress, the thin comforter. Her books; mostly sports science and obnoxious performance-management stuff. The few personal items: purse, makeup, clothes. Yes, she really was almost as much a prisoner here as me. The most amazing thing, apart from that horrible mess she left me to clean up back at my home, was the string of emails from “me” to my mother. The mail I always wanted to send, but never could. And they have changed my relationship with the woman, possibly forever.
As I’m putting on my new purchases, I realize that I’m wearing a matching bra and panties for the f
irst time in, months, many months. What a sin for a single woman! My major item from my shopping trip feels strange. I start to walk; it’s so awkward and uncomfortable at first, then I relax, and I move down the hallway and push open the door.
Lucy stands there, yanking helplessly at the chain. — Why? she softly asks, those huge, manipulative eyes, almost batting. — Why are you doing this?
I move toward her. She seems not to notice my uncomfortable gait. I look at her. — Well, the question is why the fuck did you care about me, to the extent of wanting to do this shit to me? To the extent of ending up killing my fucking ex-boyfriend?
Lucy starts to blink rapidly, like she’s got a shiver in her eye. — I do care! And now you’re trying to punish me! Look at you! She points at my torso with her cuffed hand. — I gave you that!
— So now I want you to tell me why. I’m assuming that kidnapping your clients and keeping them captive is not the way you habitually deal with them, so why me? Either that explanation, or two hundred pounds. The choice is yours, I tell her. — Either path to freedom will do.
— I’ll go to two hundred, she sneers, — and be ripped again at 125 in two months!
I move closer to her. — Just tell me: what was in the kidnapping for you?
She actually steps back, but her blazing eyes are locked into mine. — What are you going to do to me?
I reach out and push her hair back from her face. She looks curiously at me, like she’s affronted, but she doesn’t stop me. So I step in closer to her and wrap my arms around her. — Something I wanted to do for a long, long time, I whisper in her ear, — but I didn’t feel worthy, and then my mouth is on hers and as I feel her respond, a slow yawning tremble spreads through my body.
— I wanna touch you, I tell her.
— Yeah, she rasps, like a drunk.
So I’m undoing the knotted cord on Lucy’s sweat pants, then tugging them over her hips, letting them slide down her thighs to her ankles. She’s breathing heavily as I fall down onto my knees, getting between her legs. She doesn’t ask to be uncuffed, as I slip her panties down and spread her outer lips, entranced by those soft, brown pubic curls, resplendent above her clit, glistening with her juices and sweat. I pull on her hips, guiding her to a recumbent position on the floor. Then I move onto her, darting my tongue into her entry, licking north like a Chicago snowplow from her soaking cunt to her clit. Lucy’s body involuntarily jerks and a moan explodes from her. I can’t believe how wet she is as my finger glides inside her and I start to softly lick the hard knot of her clitoris. I slide my finger in and out of her, increasing the velocity of both clit-licking and finger-fucking until she emits a sound like a long squeak. I feel her hand resting on top of my head, gently but firmly securing me to my task. Her cunt tastes so sweet, and I really want to tease that hateful bitch, to make her beg, but that option is unavailable as her grip tightens on my hair and she comes in the spasms of a heaving epilepsy victim, spraying my face with her juices.
For a few seconds I think that I’ve made a terrible mistake, that I’m hers again, as her grip is so strong and that sinewy, muscular arm radiates power, but then her hips buck in a startling reprise, as another moan bursts from her lungs and her legs kick out and twitch like somebody dying, before she slumps into peace and her fingers open to the relief of my burning scalp. I rest my head on her rippled abdomen (she could never be described as having a belly), as she strokes my hair, and I almost absent-mindedly push two fingers back deep inside her, a couple of light strokes forcing another orgasm to rip through her. — Oh, Lena, baby . . .
49
EAT OR BE EATEN
AND AFTER A stunned, prostrate few minutes I’m calling out to Lena Sorenson to finger-fuck me again, to make me come, telling her how good it feels, and she says, — You’ve been such a bad girl, and she pulls back and I see her heat: that dildo she’s wearing that I hadn’t even noticed. — I’m going to stick my cock into your cunt and fuck you hard. Would you like that?
— Yes, I nod, thrusting my hips forward in anticipation. I could put her in a boa-constrictor hold with my legs now, choke her into unconsciousness with my free hand. Just the thought of it is exciting me, but I won’t do it, cause this, a good fucking, is what I crave more than anything.
Lena does exactly as promised, inserting the dildo head into my wet cunt, thrusting slowly forward. When it’s all in me she rotates her hips to batter the cock against the perimeter of my cunt. Her initial thrusts are slow and easy, building my excitement as she feels out my insides. The cock pistons in and out of me, Lena’s strokes increasing in speed and power until she’s gripping my ass and pounding me, biting frantically at my neck saying, — That was it, why you wanted me here, so we could play like this . . . wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?!
What the fuck . . .
— Oh my God, Lena, keep fucking me . . . I’m begging, as it feels so good. Really good. Fuck knows how she learned to use that dildo! My surfeited cunt is electrified, as my whole body tingles. — Make me . . . make me fucking come!
She stops, buried deep inside me. For one second all movement ceases; I can hear her breathing, ponderous and straining, then a popping as she suddenly pulls out, tearing part of my soul away with her.
— No . . . don’t stop . . .
She looks at me with a cruel expression and tells me, — You are such a sexy fucking bitch, I knew you wanted it, then she suddenly lunges at me again, throwing herself back on me, pushing that plastic power cock back into my starving pussy. But there’s no hip movement this time as she yanks up my T-shirt and bra, exposing my breasts. Her hands grope my tits hard, mangling them like a clumsy high-school boy desperate to shake off his virginity. Then she cups my breasts, pushing them together, her eyes wide in fascination. — Do you want me to really fuck you?
— Yes! I want to come! Make me fucking come, Lena. I squirm under her leg to try and get her to start fucking me hard again.
Lena just pinches my nipples tightly, provoking a pained yelp from me. — I think that’s what you want. But I wanna hear you fucking beg for it like the bitch you are! Beg!
— Lena . . . please . . . fuck me, it’s no joke . . . I need to come, I really need it more than anything . . . please fuck me!
She flashes the victor’s smile, then goes back to pounding me with her dildo, while stroking my clit in hard tight circles. As I grab handfuls of her ass with my free and shackled hands, the shock waves of orgasm tear through me. My hips shunt forward as my nails sink into her flesh. She lets out a gurgling sound as she’s climaxed too, as she stops fucking but stays inside me. Our faces are cheek to cheek, our rapid breathing subsiding into a gentler rhythm.
I could wrap either arm around her now, but I can’t move; I don’t want to move. Even some groggy minutes (hours? days?) later, when she’s getting up, and pulling her clothes on, I’m still immobilized. I hear her move over to a big brown paper bag full of polystyrene cartons. — Now you eat, Lena says.
I can’t even begin to move. I’m fucked and stuffed with sex. I manage to say, almost dreamily, — What purpose . . . what purpose does all this serve?
— I had to learn a lesson. And I did. But now you have to learn one too.
And I look up at Lena, and feel this tearful veil mist over my eyes. I get it. And I sit up and munch on this sugar- and fat-filled, carb- and calorie-laden shit, and I do it in gratitude and love.
— Good girl, Lena coos.
As I’m forcing it down, Lena suddenly takes the burger from my hand. Lays it down. Then she’s holding me in her arms. I don’t know why. Then I realize that it’s because I’m shaking and crying. — Let it go, she whispers. — Let it all go.
I look up at her. — She’s gonna die, that Amy chick, the twin, yeah?
— It looks that way, she says, and clicks on the TV. Professor Rex Convey is condemning the forthcoming operation as barbaric. — It is nothing more or less than murder. The plans to film this procedure on television as some kind of reality show
are sick and depraved. Is this what we’ve become? Televising the medical execution of one young young woman, while we sing in triumph that the other gets to lead a normal life?
Lena shakes her head, switching over to a news program. Several pundits are discussing Guantánamo Bay. Suddenly, a breaking news bar appears, flashing at the bottom of the screen.
CONJOINED TWINS OPERATION CANCELLED . . . ANNABEL WILKS PULLS OUT . . .
Lena and I look at each other in bemusement. The Botoxed TV anchor cuts off a speaker who’s talking about terrorism, and says, — Obviously important ramifications for civil liberties in this country. But we have to stop there, in order to give you a sensational update on the development of the Arkansas conjoined twins story. Annabel and Amy Wilks are sixteen-year-old conjoined twins, and after differences between them, they agreed to a risky separation procedure, where Amy’s chances of survival were estimated at a high of 40 percent and a low of 10 percent by differing experts. Now Annabel, the dominant twin, expected to recover fully and live a normal life, has pulled out of the operation, scheduled to take place in a few weeks’ time. Antoinette Mellis reports from Yellowtree County, Arkansas.
They cut to this leafy glade and the Wilks house. The cloying voice-over: — Amy and Annabel Wilks are normal teenagers, but with a difference. They are literally tied to each other. Like all teenagers, they quarrel and fight sometimes, and decided, after a falling-out over a boy, that they would go their separate ways. Now Annabel, the twin who stands to have a normal life, has called time on the dangerous separation procedure.
We cut to the girls, rocking on their swing seat on the porch. Annabel looks at Amy. — I’d rather have Amy with me every day of my life, than never see her again and be so-called normal. God made us this way, and we was meant to live together, not to die apart.
Amy looks back at Annabel. — I love her more than I can say.