Not a fucking chance. I just want to run. ‘Just a minute,’ I say. I disappear inside, coming back out a minute later with my stash drawer. ‘Take it, it’s yours,’ I tell them as I fling its contents on the forest of nettles that is my front garden. The boys drop their bikes in the road and dive onto it, pushing their girlfriends out of the way and down onto the ground. I edge round them and make my way down the road, not caring that I’m not taking a single thing with me, or that I’m still wearing the fucking pink smock. I just want to get away to somewhere safe, where I can rest my head, and fall into a deep, deep sleep.
Chapter 18
‘Oh god, it’s you,’ she says. ‘What do you want?’
‘Jen, please can I come over?’
‘Why? Have you run out of paying customers to wave your dick in front of?’
‘Ah, so you heard about that.’
‘Yeah, I heard. OK, I’ve got the house to myself for a bit. You can get your arse over here now, but don’t outstay your welcome.’
‘Thanks Jen, I really appreciate this.’
‘Yeah whatever, bye.’
I’m staggering down that country lane again, trying to make it to the bus stop. I can’t believe I’m travelling on the bus everywhere again. I only had the new Elvismobile for one day, and now it’s abandoned in the car park of that fucking social club in Elk, most likely smashed to bits, or nicked. But like the cancelled bookings, right now I don’t care. All I want to do is get my head resting in Jen’s furry red bush and fall asleep.
The bus driver nearly doesn’t let me on because I look so rough, what with my swollen face, the bloody bandage round my head and the way my eyes keep on rolling upwards. But I tell him I’m going to the doctor’s, and he says he’s not bloody surprised and sells me a ticket. I can feel myself blacking out on the way over, and falling down that bottomless chasm, but the forward motion of the bus reminds me of the existence of the real world and helps me come to in time for my stop. It’s a sunny summer day, and on top of everything I’m struggling with the heat and sweating like a porker. I normally pay less attention to this sort of thing than I probably should, but even I can tell I may be something less than an attractive proposition right now. My wounds are beginning to fester and smell. But nevertheless I stumble on over to Jen’s, knowing that until Eddie’s people pick me up, rest lies only in her pubic hair. By the time I’ve reached her neighbourhood, I’m barely standing upright, and nearly crawling on the pavement towards her house. When she opens the door, I fall head first onto her welcome mat.
I must have blacked out, because next thing I know, I’m in the kitchen and Jen is pouring a jug of iced water onto my face.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, coming round here in this state?’ she says. ‘You stink. And what are you dressed like that for? Actually don’t tell me, I’m not remotely interested.’
‘Jen, I just needed to see you. I’m in a bit of a mess right now.’
‘That’s the fucking understatement of the year. Well. you’re no good to me like this. I mean, you’re obviously in no state for fucking, so you may as well just piss off.’
‘Jen, I’ll screw you later, I promise. I’ll screw you silly, just let me lie down with you and get some rest first. Then I’ll fuck you, scout’s honour.’
Jen considers it, and says: ‘OK, this is how we’re going to do this. First I’m going to put you in the bath to get rid of that disgusting smell. Then I’m going to do something about your injuries, so I don’t throw up at the sight of you. You can sleep for a while when the kids come home from school, but then they’ll be going out to scouts. Derek’s going round the Fatman’s after work to watch more bloody Elvis, so we don’t have to worry about him. Once the kids have gone you can fuck me, and you’d better make it decent because you’re making me go to a hell of a lot of effort just for one screw.’
‘Oh, Jen, you know it’ll be great. After all, I do have a very large dick.’
‘I wouldn‘t say that,’ she smirks, ‘but I’ll admit you at least hit my G-spot, which is more than Derek does. Size definitely matters when it’s that small. Now fucking get up those stairs before I hose you down.’
Jen runs a bath for me while I get undressed. I’m hoping she’ll soap me all over, but once the tub’s full, she leaves me to get on with it and goes to do the hoovering. Normally being even in the proximity of Jen would give me the raging horn, but lying in the bath I look down at it and see that it’s just a sad, shrivelled stump, like an acorn. It’s funny, not only am I not horny, but I don’t feel like I want any charlie. I realise I haven’t had any for two days, not since I left my packet in the dressing room of Elk social club, along with nearly everything else of importance. Oh well, ain’t going to be seeing that again. I expect those trolls are doing lines of it on top of the bar after hours, imagining they’re in Asgard, or else they’ve put it in lost property.
After I’ve soaked for what must have been an hour, and my fingers and toes have wrinkled in the lukewarm water, Jen comes in with some fresh bandages. ‘Haven’t you heard of soap?’ she moans. ‘Oh well, if you get your wounds infected, that’s your affair.’ She sits me in a wicker chair, where she cleans up my head and my knuckle, and applies fresh bandages. I imagine Jen is a good mother, if a little stern. Or then again, for all I know she might be the worst mother on Earth, with all her kids doomed to end up going on a rampage with a shotgun in Debenhams when they grow up. Seeing as I’ve never supported any of my children, I’m not sure what good parenting involves. I’m pretty sure not molesting them is a part of it, but other than that, I’m at a loss.
She sends me to the bedroom and tells me not to come out or make a sound, or she’ll personally castrate me right then and there. I get between the sheets and immediately find myself drifting into sleep. OK, I’m not using her furry red bush as a pillow, but her normal pillows are pretty fucking all right. The fact that it’s Gaylord’s hard-earned pay that’s allowing me this moment of rare luxury gives me cause for a little chuckle to myself as I go under. Then I sleep so soundly I’m not even bothered by the usual stupid dreams, instead I just sink into a big expanse of gorgeous, velvety black nothingness. It is truly blissful. I’m dimly aware of the sound of children in the house for a bit, then the closing of the front door, followed by quiet. This must mean that it’s some hours later already, and that Jen will be coming to fuck me in a minute, but I hope she can spare me a few more minutes’ rest. Alas, she doesn’t, not even a second, as she immediately storms in naked. ‘All right, it’s time for you to fuck me now, and do a decent job of it. Don’t come before I do, or I’m kicking you out of the house without your clothes. And lick me, before you do anything else.’
She rips the duvet off the bed and lies down on it with her legs open. Groggily I crawl into position as ordered, where she holds my head down as if she’s trying to drown me. There, after what seems like days of trying to get to it, I have reached sanctuary. Peace at last in the furry red bush of my dreams. At least that was the plan. But it’s more like a medieval torture device, spiky long hairs stabbing into my face. I lick as if my life depends on it, and knowing Jen, it might well do. She feels her breasts as I do it, and I reach up to touch them myself, but she slaps my hand down, snapping, ‘I didn’t ask you to do that.’
There is only one problem. I’m still not feeling very turned on. Jen lifts my head up by the hair. ‘OK, get in,’ she says. Then she sees that my cock is only semi-erect. ‘What the fuck is this?’ she says. ‘What fucking good is that to me? Christ, the shit you put me through…’ She rolls me on my back and sighs as she prepares to suck me. ‘I hate doing this,’ she mutters.
After a minute or so, she’s got me fully erect. She climbs on top and slides it in. Unthinkingly, I touch her breasts again, only for her to slap my face. ‘I said I don’t want you to do that!’ she screams.
Things go OK for a couple of minutes, but it’s not long before I feel all the energy drain out of me in a flash. As
it goes, I feel my erection slip away with it. Inevitably, it falls out. ‘Fuck!’ she shouts in my face. ‘Oh just forget it. Get out.’
‘No, it’ll be OK, it’ll come back in a minute…’
‘Yeah, well I can’t be bothered waiting. Go on, fuck off.’
‘Jen, you can’t be serious. I’m sorry the sex didn’t work out but…’
‘Look, the only use I have for you is fucking. If you can’t get that right then there’s no point you being here.’
‘OK, I’m going, I’m going.’ I locate my clothes, which Jen had washed and dried in the hours I must have been asleep. This wouldn’t have been for my benefit, she just wouldn’t have wanted to smell them. These clothes are still humiliating, but at least they’re clean, I think to myself as I slip the pink smock over my head. I tie up my white Elvisboots and make my way to the door. It’s time to go anyway. ‘Right, I’m off now, Jen,’ I shout up the stairs to her.
She appears on the landing. ‘Elvis,’ she says, ‘you do know that Derek and the Fatty have been poaching all your bookings by phoning them up and telling them about how you got your cock out on stage the other night, don’t you?’
The treacherous little bastards. Of course, they have all the details of any future gigs. That explains the messages on my answering machine. Any other day I’d want to smash their heads into brick walls until their brains formed a pool on the floor, but right now I’m on the run from the police, I feel ill and I really can’t bring myself to care. ‘I didn’t know that, Jen. Thanks for telling me.’
‘That’s OK. Now for Christ’s sake, fuck off.’
That’s what I do. It’s quite a walk to the pub, especially in my condition, and I don’t get far before I pass a newsagent’s selling that evening‘s local paper. ‘POLICE SEARCH FOR “ELVIS” ATTACKER’ read the boards outside. I pop into the shop and scan the front-page story. They’ve got hold of some publicity shot of me as Elvis, as well as an identikit photo, complete with bandage and a description of me wearing a pink top, elasticated trousers and white boots. Who put that together for them, I wonder? Presuming that Buddy’s still in a coma, it must have been the bartender from the pub, I guess. Or Em. I suppose I’ll definitely never get to fuck her now and slap her big arse with my groin, now that they’ve convinced her I put her husband in a coma. Oh well, you win some, you lose some, and I did get my cock sucked by three different teenagers this morning.
It’s a good job the newsagent doesn’t read what he sells, or I’d be done for. Instead he’s just sitting there behind the counter, flicking through one of his top-shelf magazines. Still, it was pretty stupid of me to go into the shop at all, so I scarper. At least I’ve found out how much the police know, which is pretty much everything. I ditch the bandage, despite the fact the wound has yet to scab over. If I’d kept it on, though, I’d have been a walking wanted poster. I also take off the pink smock, and walk topless in the warm summer evening. For the first time in many years, my white, flabby belly is exposed to the open air. After a while my man-breast nipples point up as the temperature drops, but I daren’t put the smock back on, not now everybody knows I’m wearing it.
I finally get to the pub about half-eight. I take a risk and put on the smock, then I go in and order a pint. I sit in the darkest corner I can find. It’s a scummy pub for scummy people, and I feel quite at home here. Even if the barman had been curious about the open wound on my forehead, I don’t think he would have cared. He probably knew who I was anyway. I wait there for a while, and drink several pints, before finally, some time after ten, a man with short, shaved hair, obvious muscle under his leather jacket and very good skin comes in and orders a half pint of Coke. I’m certain I’ve seen him before. He sits at the bar and scans the room until he spots me. He walks over.
‘Hi Elvis,’ he says, with a cheery grin.
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘Eddie says hello. Won‘t you come with me?’
And of course I follow him out into the street where a stretch limo awaits us, illegally parked outside the doors of about three terraced houses. It’s not exactly subtle, and probably not the best vehicle to make a quiet getaway in, but that’s Eddie’s sense of humour. Elvis has left the building and is being driven away in a big stretch limo. Ha ha fucking ha. I have a feeling Eddie’s got more where that one came from.
Chapter 19
The limo is ridiculous, a big long white thing with a bar, a television and a mirrored ceiling. I’ve got enough legroom to breakdance in, and the seat is comfier than any sofa I’ve ever owned. The bloke from the pub is in the driver’s seat. He won’t tell me where we’re going, saying that Eddie wants it to be a surprise. He will tell me that his name is Dave, and that he’s got something I might like.
‘What’s that, then?’ I ask.
‘A CD I bought a while back that I’ve been really enjoying,’ he says. ‘Listen.’
He presses play, and I hear that old familiar voice, singing to me from Heartbreak Hotel.
‘I didn’t really know much Elvis until that “Little Less Conversation” song came out,’ Dave tells me. ‘I mean I only usually listen to dance music and the stuff that’s in the charts, but I really liked that song, so when this CD came out with all his number one records on, I thought I’d try it out. Bought it in Asda actually, only eight quid. Bargain.’
‘So you like it then?’
‘Yeah, love it, mate. Never heard anything like it. That’s why I got to pick you up. Somebody else was going to do it, but I asked Eddie if I could instead.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, well I hope you don’t mind, but I just had a few questions about Elvis I thought you might be able to answer for me.’
Christ, this is Fatty and Gayboy’s territory, not mine. ‘Do my best,’ I say.
‘Like, you know that Pet Shop Boys song, “Always On My Mind”, is it true Elvis did that originally, ’cos someone told me he did, but I thought, that can’t be true, it doesn’t sound anything like him.’
‘Well, umm… the very first version was by, I think, Brenda Lee, but it was Elvis who had the hit with it. In 1972, I think.’ Sometimes I surprise even myself. Where did I learn that?
‘Really? Can’t imagine how that would sound.’
‘You don’t want to, believe me.’ That’s better. Wouldn’t actually want to encourage anyone to listen to the fat buffoon or anything.
‘And another thing,’ says Dave, ‘is it true he died on the toilet? Someone else told me that, and I thought, no way is that right. He died in a car crash, didn’t he?’
‘No, you’re probably thinking of Eddie Cochran, or Princess Diana. Yes, Elvis did die on the bog, from a heart attack, in fact, caused by the strain of doing an enormous dump.’
‘That can’t be true, can it?’
‘That’s what his obituary said in the New York Times, that he died “straining at stool”.’ Christ. I shouldn’t know this stuff, it’s not healthy.
‘Wow,’ says Dave. ‘That must have been a big shit.’
‘By the end of his life, Elvis’s shits were roughly the size of an elephant’s. He would actually break the toilet bowl into pieces with the sheer weight of them. Eventually, he did most of his crapping in a field outside Graceland. It would then be collected and used as fertiliser by local farmers.’ OK, I’m taking the piss now, that’s more like it. Leave the facts to Fatman and Gayboy.
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘I only wish I were.’ Now I’m enjoying this. Maybe it’s the relief of finally getting out of Cambridge, or maybe it’s because it’s the first time in days I’m talking to someone who’s glad to see me, but chatting to Dave is getting quite fun. OK, I’m taking the piss with him, but I think I’d enjoy it even if I weren’t. Sometimes it’s good to be the centre of attention.
‘Dave,’ I say, ‘did you know that at the time of Elvis’s death, there were 170 known Elvis impersonators in the world? There are now 85,000. If that rate of growth is sustained,
then by 2019, one-third of the population of the planet will be an Elvis impersonator.’
‘Is that right?’ he says. ‘Oh, hang on, I love this song.’ He turns up the volume. It would just have to be, wouldn’t it, it’s fucking ‘Hound Dog’. Dave sings along, even though he obviously doesn’t know or understand half the words.
‘Dave, word of advice. I wouldn’t let Eddie catch you singing that.’
‘Why not? Eddie loves Elvis.’
‘Mmmm. That’s just the problem.’
After a while, the conversation peters out and Dave concentrates on his driving. By the time Elvis has entered his movie period on the chronologically ordered CD, we’re on the motorway. I try to work out what direction we’re going in, but I’m feeling weak again, my eyes hurt, and I have difficulty concentrating on the signs and soon give up. Instead, I find myself thinking about my third marriage, which is strange as that’s something I don’t usually dwell on, even though technically it lasted the longest. It began when I was in the dumps after Nanette fleeced me for everything I had, doing bits of work here and there and a bit of Elvis through an agency. I’d moved away from London, away from a scene where everybody knew me as a yesterday’s man, a right charlie who’d had his wife poked by a top gangster and was too sissy to do anything about it. I don’t know why I chose Cambridge. I vaguely knew it from my childhood, I guess, as my mum’s parents used to live there and every so often I’d go to stay. I used to like to watch the people punting on the river. But mainly I just needed to go somewhere that wasn’t London. I needed a change, make a new start in a place where I had no history, where no illegitimate children would spring out of the woodwork, and where no one would laugh in my face and ask me how the wife was. I was a wounded man. All my pride had gone. I’d been fucked in the arse, first by Eddie for real, then figuratively by Johnny and Nanette. I was practically dead. I realised the only way I could save myself was by doing it to someone else. And that’s where Chrissie came in.
Hound Dog Page 13