Hound Dog

by Richard Blandford

  The look of incomprehension on his face is truly beautiful.

  I pause to savour it before I smack my fist right into his mouth. Then I push him down onto the ground and give him a good kicking. Fortunately for him his glasses fall off on the way down, but it wouldn’t bother me if they hadn’t. Anyway, I kick him and stamp on him until his face is a mess of blood and dirt, and he’s grabbing his balls in agony and screaming. I bend down and grab his hair, and slam his head several times into the ground for good measure. ‘You fucking bed-wetter,’ I say, as I do all of this, ‘how dare you think you can fuck with me, take my gigs, try to upstage me. You got lucky, you fucker, that’s all. My Elvis could wipe the floor with you, and no one would care about your precious fucking Buddy Holly. And do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to go right round your flat and fuck your girlfriend. And she’s going to fucking love it. I’m going to go and do that right now, while you’re lying here. How’d you like that, you little bed-wetting freak?’ After a while, he stops screaming and his limbs aren’t spazzing all over the place, which means he’s dead or unconscious. I want to stamp on his head some more, but figure his screams may well have attracted some attention, so I leave him where he is, look around again quickly to make sure nobody saw me, and dart into the trees, scramble up the bank before hitting upon a path that leads to the road. Once I reach it, I decide to go in the opposite direction from which I came. By now I’m starving, so even though I’m making the effort to put as much ground between me and him as possible, I’m also looking out for a decent takeaway. I stumble across a Chinese, and while I wait for my Peking Duck, I hear the sound of ambulance sirens in the distance. They stop, and by the time I find a wall to sit on while I eat, I hear them again for a minute before they fade away. After the Chinese I’m feeling pretty stuffed and just want to go for a pint somewhere, but sitting there on the wall it occurs to me that I only have a small window of time to get round Buddy’s house and make a move on Em before the police notify her. After that she might be at the hospital for days or weeks on end. Depends how long it takes Buddy to get better, I guess. Or snuff it, if he hasn’t already. It takes me about forty minutes to walk back to their place, and doing it on such a full stomach gives me cramps. Anyway, it turns out it was a waste of time. From the top of the street I can see a police car parked in their road, blue lights flashing. I turn back quickly the way I came and make myself scarce. So where to now? I suppose it might make sense to head for the bus station and get the fuck out of Cambridge, but I fancy a pint and I can’t be bothered with the bus right now. So instead, stomach cramps and all, I walk to the town centre and find a quiet pub with a dartboard and a telly.

  So I’m sitting there minding my own business for I don’t know how long, half following whatever crap’s on the telly, soaps mostly. Then the landlord switches it over for the news, and wouldn’t you know, Buddy’s on it, sort of. Apparently police are investigating the attack on a thirty-eight-year-old man in Cambridge, who is in a critical but stable condition in hospital. They don’t give out any details of a suspect, but are appealing for witnesses. I don’t think anybody saw us, which means I’m safe for the time being, or at least until Buddy regains consciousness, if that should ever happen.

  The landlord tuts in my direction. ‘Quite near here, that,’ he says. ‘Never used to be like this. Now you never know what’s going to happen. Could be murdered in your bed tomorrow. Christ, mate, do you want a plaster or something?’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You‘ve cut yourself, look.’

  He points to my hand and I see that my knuckle is bleeding.

  ‘How’d you do that?’ he asks.

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘You’ve been in the wars a bit haven‘t you?’ he says, pointing to my bandaged forehead.

  ‘Yeah. I guess I have,’ I say. I down my pint in one and leave. I decide that I’m risking too much, staying so near the scene of the crime. I should go home, I think, and I make my way to the bus station. All of a sudden I just want to go to bed. I almost nod off waiting for the bus, but I come to my senses when I see that blood has begun to ooze from my knuckle. It just keeps on bleeding, so I stick it in the pocket of my elasticated trousers. I feel faint as a dark red circle begins to spread across them. As the evening turns to night and the bus rolls down the country roads, I have the sensation that I might be about to die. I sense when it’s my stop, although I can’t see it, as everything‘s disintegrating into geometric patterns in front of my eyes. Yet I manage I step off the bus somehow, and start to walk. Somewhere along that country lane, I fall. I must have landed in a hedgerow or something, but in my head I just keep on falling, for hours upon hours, like I’m heading for the centre of the Earth. I pass Eddie and Bridget on the way down, of course, but neither of them has a chance to get hold of me, because I’m falling much too fast. I don’t come round until dawn, when I’m woken by the sound of my mobile phone ringing.

  Chapter 17

  I don’t recognise the number, but I answer it anyway.

  ‘Elvis,’ the voice says, ‘it’s Em.’

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I say, my throat full of sleep.

  ‘Elvis, something terrible’s happened. Buddy’s been attacked. He’s in a coma.’ She starts to sob.

  ‘God, that’s terrible. I’m really sorry.’

  She’s trying to tell me something but it’s a while before she stops crying enough for me to be able to understand it. ‘Elvis,’ she says when she’s finally coherent, ‘the police want to speak to you. They’re trying to trace Buddy’s movements from when he finished work. He was found on a riverbank and no one knows what he was doing there. Did you see him at all yesterday? He must have gone back to the flat because he wasn’t in uniform.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I’d skipped out of your flat by late morning.’

  ‘You silly billy! I bet you haven’t been to casualty yet, have you?’

  ‘No, Mum, I haven’t.’

  ‘Anyway, I couldn’t tell the police how to get hold of you because I didn’t have any contact details, and I don’t actually know what your name is! All I could tell them was that we always called you Elvis, and that wasn’t much help to them. I found this number written down in Buddy’s Buddy room just now, and thought I should give you a call.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’

  ‘Now shall I pass this on to the police or—’

  ‘No! No, what I’ll do is… I’ll go to the station myself and make a statement. So tell them I’m coming to see them, there’s no need to give them this number.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘If you must know, Em, it’s a stolen phone.’

  ‘Oh, Elvis.’

  ‘Look, you take care of yourself, OK? I’m sure Buddy will be fine. I’ll go and make my statement, then I’ll come and see you both in the hospital, how does that sound?’

  ‘OK,’ she says weakly.

  ‘Now Buddy’s going to be fine. He’ll be right as rain in no time. But you’ve got to be strong for him, OK? Chin up, there’s a good girl.’

  ‘Yes, Elvis.’

  ‘So I’ll go and make my statement now and I’ll see you later, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You take care now, bye.’

  ‘Bye-bye.’

  Oh my god, how stupid is this woman? It’s obviously me who did it! Why can she not see that? Why does she harbour this insane belief that I am in any way a decent person, when all the evidence suggests I’m a drug-crazed loony with no self-control who clearly wants to fuck her senseless. The police know I did it of course, it’s just finding me that is proving difficult for them. Just goes to show how being known only by the name of a dead celebrity can work in your favour. Even so, the situation is not good. The pigs will be talking to the bar staff at the pub by the river soon if they haven’t done so already, and that will fix me as being with Buddy yesterday afternoon. Also, the description they will give, of a man wearing a pink woman’s smock with a bandaged h
ead, will potentially lead to them tracking my movements for the rest of the evening, from the Chinese to the pub, and most importantly, the bus home. I’m beginning to think that maybe I should have thought this all out a bit better, but I guess my rage and desire for Em’s wobbly bits got the better of me. Ah, Em, I doubt I will ever gaze on your lovely face again, unless it’s in court, or see you naked. Fate has dealt us both a crushing blow, but I fear mine is the more severe. In fact, it’s dawning on me that I am in some serious shit. So serious, in fact, that I call Eddie.

  There’s the usual rigmarole of the male secretary and ten minutes of ‘MacArthur Park’ on the pan pipes before I finally hear his squeaky, slightly sinister voice. ‘Well hello, my boy,’ he says, ‘how are you on this lovely morning? Not like you to be up before eleven.’

  ‘Eddie, I’ve got to go away for a while.’

  ‘Do you really? Now what do you mean by that?’

  ‘Eddie, I’ve done something, which I can‘t talk about on the phone, which means I’ll have to go away. Would you be able to help me?’

  ‘I think so, my boy, I think so. Yeeesss… when do you need to go?’

  ‘Right now, Eddie. There are certain people trying to get hold of me, and I don’t want them to.’

  ‘Well, listen carefully. I’m going to give you an address. Go there for nine o’clock this evening. Can you keep yourself occupied until then?’

  ‘Sure, Eddie.’

  Eddie puts me on hold and ‘MacArthur Park’ keeps me company while he finds the address, or has it found for him. When he finally gives it, it turns out to be a pub in King’s Hedges, one of the less appealing parts of Cambridge. ‘Now, don’t you worry about a thing,’ says Eddie, ‘we’re going to look after you. We’ll keep you snug as a bug in a rug. How do you like the sound of that, my boy?’

  ‘Um, it sounds great, Eddie.’

  ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Bon voyage.’

  The line goes dead. Now where to? I want to get away from any place I’m likely to be found, but I could also still do with a good lie-down. I’m still not feeling at all well. But I also don’t want to go to prison. Thinking about the nick makes me remember my house is full of weed. My mind races forward, exploring all the possible future scenarios, none of them pleasant, that are opening up for me. If the police get a warrant to search the house, there’ll be a nice surprise of a whole drawer packed with skunk waiting for them. So if they catch me, even if I somehow get away with GBH, they’ll get me on possession with intent to supply for sure. I don’t have a huge amount there, but more than enough to make it apparent to any jury it’s not just for personal use. So what am I going to do with it? I can’t take the stuff with me, and I don’t want just to dump it somewhere. Maybe my priorities are a bit skewed, but I spent good money on that skunk, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to get something in return for my investment. Then I have an idea, one that may happily solve another of my problems along the way.

  I walk down the country lane into my village. Being in the fresh morning air seems to do me the world of good, and I’m feeling excited about the task I’m setting myself, along with the rewards I might potentially reap from it. I keep my eyes peeled for any of the teenage scum I usually sell to. Being first thing in the morning, they’re pretty thin on the ground, but I find one acne-scarred simpleton doing wheelies on his bike up a cul-de-sac. He eyes me with suspicion, contempt and pretty much every other negative emotion going as I walk towards him. ‘Hi, Steve,’ I say, as I get closer. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘What’s your fucking problem?’ he snorts.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I’m going on a business trip for a while. I‘ll be gone for some time, and the thing is, I’ve got to get rid of all my gear before I go. So I was wondering… would you be at all interested in… Look, Steve, I’ll give you a bag of skunk if you can get your girlfriend to suck my cock.’

  ‘You what?’ he replies. ‘Fuck off, you twat, or I’ll fucking batter you.’ He rams his front tyre into my leg. It actually hurts a bit.

  ‘OK, just tell your friends, an ounce of skunk for a blow job. From a girl, obviously.’

  ‘You’re a fucking nonce. You should be locked up.’ He spits on the ground in front of me, then cycles off. ‘You’re a fucking tranny and all,’ he shouts over his shoulder. I don’t know what he means at first, and then I remember that I’m still wearing Em’s pink top and elasticated trousers, as well as my white Elvisboots. But I don’t care, because if I know the moral standards of my clientele, I’m about to have my dick sucked dry. I get stiff just at the thought, and can hardly wait to get back. I expect they’ll be queuing round the block for it.

  I finally make it back home. I don’t have my keys, as they’re back in the social club in Elk along with my wallet, so I smash a back window and let myself in. I know I should get some things together, or at least change my clothes, but suddenly I feel very tired again and not that well. I collapse on the sofa, and fight off the urge to black out. Dots are already skimming in front of my eyes and I feel like I’m falling again. I’m not sat down five minutes, though, before the doorbell rings. I feel like ignoring it. It’s either the police or a teenage girl wanting to suck my dick, and I find to my surprise I’m not that interested in either. But then, I ask myself, if it’s the latter, when will I get an opportunity like that again? Probably never. So, inevitably, my desire for young flesh forces me upwards, and I stagger across the floor of the living room to look out the window. It’s Steve’s girlfriend, Caroline, along with the bird of one of his friends and another girl I don’t recognise. They’re wearing the usual alluring combination of tracksuits and gold jewellery. I close the curtains and let them in.

  ‘Hello girls, come in.’

  ‘If we all do it, right, do we get a bag of skunk each?’ says Caroline.

  ‘Yes, yes. I can probably spare two each. Gotta shift it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we better do, or you’ll be fucking sorry.’

  ‘You look fucking awful,’ says her friend.

  ‘And you smell fucking rank,’ says Caroline.

  ‘Look, do you want your skunk or not?’

  ‘Yeah, just saying.’

  I take them into the sitting room. ‘All right girls, take off your tops.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Take your tops off. I want to see your tits.’

  ‘Do we have to?’ whinges the one I don’t recognise, a podgy girl with bad skin and a stomach hanging out over her belt.

  ‘Just do it, Rach,’ says Caroline, a vicious-looking piece of work with a face like broken glass. ‘You’re about to suck his dick so it doesn’t fucking matter does it?’

  The other girl is quite pretty, I suppose, although she’s stick-thin with a waist so tiny it looks like she’d snap in a high wind. They are all about eighteen, which round here means they look about thirty-five.

  It’s just my luck, I finally get the opportunity to get sucked off by not one but three teenage girls, and for the first time in forty years, I’m not in the mood. I’m feeling really fucking ill now, and I just want to go to bed for a very long time. I keep on having to fight the urge just to send the girls home and curl up in a ball on the sofa. Still, me being me, by the time they’ve got their tits out, I’ve at least managed a semi. Sitting on the sofa, I pull down the elasticated trousers and let it sway in my lap.

  ‘That had better be fucking clean,’ says Caroline as it works its way to a full erection.

  ‘OK, you first,’ I point to the fat girl.

  ‘I don’t want to go first,’ she says.

  ‘For fuck‘s sake, Rach, just fucking do it!’ screeches Caroline.

  The fat girl steps up nervously and kneels down, touching it, then letting it go, before closing her eyes tight before grabbing it and shoving it in her mouth like she’s eating spinach. Her friends stand around with their arms folded, looking round the room and tapping their feet. I have a feeling this may take some time. I’m not feeling it much. In fac
t it’s a struggle to keep it standing. After a few minutes, I push her off and point to the pretty stick girl. ‘All right, you take over.’ She slouches her way over, before kneeling down and matter-of-factly getting on with it. It’s not helping. I don’t feel like I’m going to come. Worse, it’s going soft.

  ‘Fucking hell, mate, are we ever going to get out of here?’ snaps Caroline.

  ‘You,’ I point to the fat girl. ‘Show me your arse.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to.’ she murmurs.

  ‘Show me your arse, now!’

  ‘Do as he says, show him your fucking arse, Rach!’ screams Caroline. The girl looks like she’s holding back tears as she pulls down her tracksuit bottoms and shows me her fat arse.

  ‘OK, you off, you on.’ I beckon for Caroline to take over. It slowly gets hard again, and after a few minutes I feel I’m finally going to come. I shoot into her mouth and she chokes, coughing it back up and spitting it on the carpet.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ she says between coughs, ‘you could have fucking said.’

  ‘My jaw really hurts,’ says the thin girl, to no one in particular.

  ‘OK, you lot, you’ve earned yourself two ounces of skunk each. Now scarper.’ I measure the gear out for them and open the door. Waiting for them outside are Steve and his mate. God knows who the fat bird was getting it for. The girls walk out without saying anything. The two boys grunt at them to make sure they got what they came for, and then they are silent.

  Stepping back in the house, I notice that there are messages on the answering machine. I don’t want to listen to them, but I do. Just various future bookings mysteriously cancelling without explanation. I decide I have to get out of here. I’m just about to get some stuff together when the doorbell goes again. There are four more girls standing there, their boyfriends doing figures of eight in the road behind them. Worse, one of them’s brought their mum with them.

  ‘You giving skunk for blow jobs?’ she asks. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be, but I’ve got experience.’ She lifts up her Bon Jovi T-shirt, flashes her tits at me, and laughs.