by Dan Tyte
‘Come on Albie, let’s do it like old times. Our little girl’s all grown up and going to college…’
And so I let her ride me. I had a raging hard-on from dreaming about Mrs Brannigan, my mother’s friend with the dark red fuck-me lips. We’d been doing it on a craps table in Vegas, while a crowd of ice-blonde Russian double agents and Texans in 10 gallon hats watched on aghast but aroused. Coming round to being mounted by a 40-something plump lady, while initially disconcerting, was still as rare as hens’ teeth for me so I kept as quiet as I could. The old girl didn’t usually hit the sauce and was so gone on Babycham and gin she didn’t seem to notice. I managed to last longer than with Laura, which I think I have the whisky to thank for. She soon tired, rolled off and started snoring. Sobered up mentally if not physically, I got the hell out of there. The party had died down by then and I managed to escape unnoticed. I even managed to knock one out thinking about the Vegas situation when I got back. Right in Ivana Kickarlakov’s apple martini. I was getting better at this.
Ever since that night I kind of took Scotty under my wing, making sure he wasn’t picked last on street football teams, that he didn’t catch hell off the kids on the school bus. Apparently his old man hit the fucking roof about the missing whisky but it was Sylvia’s then-boyfriend who got the blame. They never did think he was good enough for her anyway, what with her going to Oxford and all. There’s a lesson for Mr Jenkins in there: try to fuck my mother, I’ll fuck your wife. And drink your whisky. Not a bad mantra to live by, that one.
Third time was most definitely not lucky. After the incident with Mrs Jenkins I’d gone through a bit of a dry spell. Which for a 16-year-old who’s just been introduced to the reality that other people could help you get your rocks off is a bit like telling a dope fiend they’ve won a muffin factory in a raffle and then hiding their ticket. It was tough. I figured the only way anyone was going to have sex with me again was by investing the time in a girlfriend. The lucky fuck I’d had was like a lottery win, albeit one in a developing country. Finding a girlfriend wasn’t going to be the easiest task for a spotty little smoker like me. Sure, Laura had gone for that routine, but she was pretty wild. I don’t mean sexually, just in her outlook. What I needed was a nice girl. One to take home to my mother, which I certainly couldn’t do with Mrs Jenkins.
I was clearing about ten fags a day now, and was struggling to pay for them through my measly pocket money and occasional gifts from well-meaning aunts. There was a particularly sharp card racket being led on the 512 bus by an entrepreneurial kid by the name of Tony Bonano, but my hand rarely came up. So I got myself a Saturday job at the local pet superstore. Petsworld: Where Pets Are Friends.
The first time I saw Trisha she was in the dog grooming parlour, wearing a red all-in-one shell boiler suit, blow-drying a particularly vicious poodle. She remained patient. She was caring. She seemed kind. A giver. Just what I needed. I’d yet to realise that these qualities in a 16-year-old girl equalled frigidity.
We endured what my grandfather would have referred to as a long courtship. If I’d have been a fish I’d have wiggled my tail so much my scales would have fallen off. But I wasn’t. I was a cashier at a large domestic animal emporium. The equivalent of my waggle-dance could be finding the price on a tin of dog food, giving her the coppers from my float or dealing with difficult gay couples returning dog chains with guilty faces. Anything to build up enough good will for some form of physical contact. I had to be her work bitch for six whole months before she’d even see me outside of my yellow uniform. Oh, and not like that. Not out of my clothes, just in a non-work situation. Where the same routine picked up. For dog food prices see helping with homework, for float fiddling see walking her home from work, for rent-boy refunds see chaperoning to awful fucking chick flicks.
But good things come to those who wait. That’s what decades of Guinness advertising taught me. Unfortunately, while Trisha looked good in the glass, the drinking certainly wasn’t quite as good as a pint of the black stuff. Similar iron content, but mostly from the blood that seeped out of her pussy, down my legs and all over my boxfresh Adidas Trimm Trabbs. They were ruined, and so was she. It was her first time. As someone with two stripes on my shoulder already I’d quickly become unsympathetic to the traumas of the newly christened. ‘Doing It’ hadn’t turned out to be what Trisha was led to believe by glossy magazines, late night shows and sluttier friends. And after becoming a virtual pariah to get a fuck, I now couldn’t give one. Next.
Anyway, enough of those early scores and back to the one who actually meant something once, somewhere in the deep and dark distant past. Her name was Deborah. The three year honeymoon period afforded by a slack degree and slacker attitude to knicker elastic had been glorious, but as with all good things, I had too much, too soon. A weariness snuck in, a plateau had been reached. After the Kodak moment of throwing our caps in the air on the steps of some ancient limestone building paid for by the slave trade, a very real, tax-paying, putting the bins out on a Monday existence had had to start. No more 2-4-1 nights, no more long lazy naked afternoons. The honeymoon had become a retirement cruise, only with less buffet lunches. Like meeting up with a holiday romance who seemed less exotic when the backdrop shifted from palm trees to pallid streets, once removed from the carefreeness of college, our relationship seemed a trick. This wasn’t what I signed up for. I was just glad of a shag, and got carried away. I always get carried away.
When the rat race replaced the sack race, we had excuses to see each other less and less. Carving out some kind of crappy career got in the way, but frankly work became a welcome reason to keep out of her way. Take away the fucking – which she was – and the girl who’d helped me hit my sexual stride was boring, staid and dull dull dull.
Fun was a box-set. A new recipe. A farmer’s market. A visit from her parents. As a 20-something, I still wanted my life to be ripe with recklessness to feed my inner raconteur. Not a patchwork quilt, Pecan pie and E fucking R. One day. Perhaps. I’d rather drink in the pub, making friends with strangers. I’d climb into our bed later and later, with no explanation asked for or offered. She’d resigned herself to not wondering what we were doing that weekend. She already knew. She was sitting in, alone. I was out, somewhere, anywhere but there. Crawling from park bench to party to strange beds to her. We were in a circle so vicious it had teeth. Something had to give.
And that was when she asked me the big question. My answer confirmed what 12 months of Byronesque behaviour had illustrated. I was in love with the idea of her. I was also in love with the idea of the three day week, free bars and blow-jobs on the National Health Service but often the 2 + 2 of the ideal and the reality made 76. I couldn’t face the months of perpetual groveling and not being myself that was the by-product of easing the conscience after an indiscretion. Which would inevitably lead to others. It was time for a spring-clean. This, for a messy fucker like me, was damned hard work. Luckily, cleaning of any kind was not high on the agenda in my new place of residence.
After leaving Deborah I’d floated around on stained sofas and friends’ floors for a while until I took a room with a couple close to the Turkish part of town. Now, I don’t mean that it looked like Constantinople. More that every other shop front showed off a grotesque picture of a doner kebab. The area was less up-and-coming, more been-and-gone. I’d met Craig and Connie in one of the many pubs I frequented and they’d seemed idealistic, environmentally aware, in love and short of cash. Fuck knows why they thought I’d make a good housemate but the pursuit of money pushes people into very strange situations. I’d thought that for a couple of hundred a month I could perhaps learn something about relationships from them. Either that or split them up. One of the two. Time would tell.
The house was from the Victorian period and retained much of the era’s ambience. The living room was very well lived in, the walls and upholstery taking on a nicotined hue that could well have been a desirable shade had Keith Richards been an interior designer.
A barefooted walk on the carpet was a lucky dip with prizes of burnt roaches, ring-pulls or pizza crusts. The piece de resistance was a poster of a ginger cat clinging by its claws for dear life from a broken branch, underneath the bubble-written advice to ‘Hang On In There’. Sitting on the sofa and looking at it felt like being in a post-apocalyptic Athena.
My bedroom would certainly never fall foul of the Trade Descriptions Act. It was a room, with a bed, and no space for much else. This spartan approach to my quarters felt like a well-earned penance for leaving my cosy flat and cold girlfriend behind. Who needed Ikea side tables, feature mirrors and retro lamps anyway? Just more stuff to throw in the heat of an argument. It was fair to assume that it was best if I kept the lights switched off when bringing company back.
The bathroom had the unusual feature of a secret passage, which led downstairs. Although it wasn’t so secret. There was no need to pull on a dusty tome on a bookshelf for it to be revealed. At the toilet’s three o’clock was a gaping big hole which looked out directly over the kitchen sink. This made shits perhaps more interesting due to the conversational possibilities on offer, but certainly more self-conscious. The stench caused by my body repelling the red wine and Guinness I saw fit to constitute lunch wafted down to the kitchen, rarely being drowned out by the smells of the cheap nutritional non-entities those poor fucks I lived with served up each and every night. It was a wonder the three of us didn’t catch scurvy.
Chapter 6
‘Carter Road… number 35. Which side is that? On the right? Ahhh. I used to see a girl who lived in the first road off there on the left. When I was in University, that was. Cracking girl. Cracking girl.’
He looked wistfully to his shelf of certificates and family portraits.
‘Never did know what became of her. That was way back in the seventies.’ He looked at the records on the computer screen. ‘Before you were even born, lad. Anyway, what can I do for you?’ My eye scanned the room and rested upon his shelf. Old medical prizes and photos of kids, horses, holidays. One photo looked at me. 1976-2004 read some gold lettering at the bottom of an Olan Mills style portrait. I looked back to Dr Edwards. Same wavy hair, but greyer. Same apple shaped head. Same monobrow. Fuck. If the son of a practicing medical professional could peg it before thirty, what chance did I have?
‘Anyway, lad, what can I do for you?’
‘Well it’s a bit of a delicate matter to be honest, Doc…’
‘Come on lad, my business is delicate matters. There’s nothing on God’s green earth I haven’t seen twice in this room.’
‘It’s to do with my…’
‘Penis? Your old boy?
‘Erm… yes.’
‘Right, well let’s have a look at him then. Come on, don’t be shy. Mrs Walters is waiting to see me next and the poor old girl’s got chronic bronchitis. Over on the table there….’
‘Okay.’
I’d never before undone my belt under the watchful eye of a moustached middle-aged man. It was all very procedural. I imagined this is what being bummed in public school was like. Very matter of fact.
‘Ah, there he is. What seems to be the problem with him then?’
‘Well, I’ve had a woman look at it. A woman doctor I mean. And she thinks I may have a genital wart…’
He took my cock in his cold left hand, the silver of his wedding band sending a chill through my nervous bell-end.
‘It’s hard to say for sure as these things come and go without ever really going. And strictly speaking you’ve come to the wrong place, but I’m never averse to checking out a little fella. You really should go and visit the specialist genito-urinary medicine clinic over at the hospital. But what I can do is give you a referral so you won’t have to queue up for too long.’
I put it back in my pants while the doc scribbled out a slip for me and then pressed it into my palm, his hand warmer this time.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Glad to be of help, lad.’
As I left the office I could hear him muttering ‘Carter Road’ over and over under his breath. He laughed to himself as I shut the door. Mrs Walters gave me a stinking look.
My email account was a magnet for electronic missives that ranged from the banal to the biting to the bizarre. If it wasn’t Miles demanding a forward planning meeting on the Brompton account, or Carol after inspiration for a strapline for a new brand of hand lotion, it was Jill telling me what a cunt she thought Miles was and asking if I agreed, or messages from a Ukrainian blonde declaring her desire for a strong man to start a big family and make long love. I don’t think it helped that I clicked through on these ones.
Every now and again though, Trent would mail me the CV of girls who’d applied for a job with the company, sadly thinking that working with us could be their first step on the ladder to a meaningful career in the media industries. Delusion. Now, as you’ve probably already guessed, I wasn’t part of the recruitment team, God forbid. How Trent had got the gig was beyond me. But there was fortitude in Trent’s forwarding. Pressing ‘send’ meant I could search the young hopefuls on Facebook and we could compare marks out of ten and work out whether or not we’d need to shave/iron/not smell of booze on the day they’d come in for a grilling.
Trent’s real name was Kevin Fisher but he’d changed it by deed poll because he thought it made him sound more Hollywood. He had aspirations of becoming an actor but with a portfolio that boasted two kitchen cleaner commercials, a callback to play bus driver #2 in a television dramatisation of the 7/7 London bombings, and five long empty years of lounging on his arse, we all knew Trent should change his name back to Kevin and be done with it. But the guy loved tail and talking about tail, and for this I tolerated him. It was better than writing punch-myself-in-the-face press releases. This morning’s inbox contained one of those ‘now and then’ moments.
From: trent.rogers@morgan&schwarzmorgan&schwarz.com
To: bill.mcdare@morgan&schwarz.com
Subject: The new project
Christy Kelkin
Tel: 07723 765678
Email: [email protected]
Personal statement:
Highly efficient administrator seeking positions vacant. The position should allow the application of organisational skills. Highly motivated and able to take the lead in achievement of the business’ vision and mission. Ready to use report writing and project presentation skills for the advancement of the company.
Educational Qualification:
Diploma in Business Administration from the Miller School of Business in 2011
Certificate in Secretarial Studies from the Lee Community Secretarial School in 2012.
Other Qualifications:
e-Type Touch Typing Award
Japanese GSCE.
Work Experience:
2012 – 2013 Administrative Assistant at One Voice Music Enterprise
Organised company functions and events
Kept records of the company’s events and progress
Organised and kept schedules for managerial team
Met with clients and ensured that they were well informed on the company’s policies
Provided information to prospective and current clients
Assisted in the preparation and presentation of reports.
Achievements
Assisted in the development of a new and innovative record keeping system software.
Interesting. Well, ish. She had a foreign-sounded name and seemed practically teenage. Good fucking Lord. I logged onto the internet, found Facebook and tapped the name ‘Christy Kelkin’ into the search bar. Not surprisingly, there was only one.
Christy Kelkin… is laughing. To herself.
Gender Female
Birthday 15th February 1990
Basic info
Siblings Joe Kelkin
Relationship status It’s complicated
Political views Look after yourself, they won’t
Religious views Ha
Bio Whatever
people say I am, that’s what I’m not
Favourite quotations There has been much tragedy in my life; at least half of it actually happened – Mark Twain
Likes and interests Music Nirvana, Nick Cave Films Disney
These days, you could tell more about someone by trawling through the open-hearted hooey they saw fit to share over the World Wide Web than you did by sleeping with them. Sure, you’d swapped bodily fluids and made her call you daddy, but did you know that her favourite novel was The Bell Jar?
So, what of this one? Well, she seemed just like the kind of teenage car-crash that would have the office’s alpha males turning hard at the mere thought of her vulnerability. These were the kind of girls guys in our industry preyed upon. Young, appreciative of dark, heartfelt music, impressionable, damaged.
But what of her marks out of ten? Well, it was pretty difficult to assess a piece of ass when she hid behind a Hallowe’en mask in her profile picture. Bringing down the office sport like that. Trent would be disappointed.
It wasn’t long before we got to see behind the mask. Trent had discovered she was booked in for an interview with Miles in two days’ time. The company was in desperate need of a new receptionist after what happened to the previous incumbent of the front desk’s red swivel chair. The incident had become known as ‘Die Dina Debacle’. Not because Dina had died, but because Jill, the septic source of much of the office’s trash talk, had spent two years as an au pair in Bavaria and was a sucker for alliteration and the unnecessary use of foreign words.
Dina was a nice well-meaning young lady. Her wholesomeness rooted in her rural upbringing. The only daughter of a widowed down-at-heel dairy farmer, her self-sufficiency and strong moral fibre made her the perfect filter for the trumped-up businessmen, tricky callers and time wasters that swam to our switchboard each and every working day. She’d ask for names and numbers as a rule, tell phone spammers we were stuck in strategy meetings, or solve problems herself with a wherewithal and wit that were rarely seen – but highly desired – as the front-face of an organisation like ours.