by Nick Hornby
I remember with satisfaction and relief that I recently visited the launderette and washed a new duvet, which I’ve got on my bed. So when we get back to mines I’m delighted that Selina and Yvette are both still out and I don’t have to go through tiresome introductions. We shoot straight through to the bedroom and I’m fucking one of my best mates’ twin sister. I’m on top of her and she’s chewing her bottom lip, like … like Charlie when we were in Ibiza last years. We’d pulled these two lassies from York and we were riding them back in the room, and I looked over and saw Charlie biting his lower lip in concentration. Her eyes, her brows, so like his.
It was putting me off, I could feel myself going a bit soft.
I pulled out and gasped, – From behind now.
She turned over, but she didn’t get on her knees, just lying flat and smiling wickedly. I wondered for a second whether or not she wanted it up her arse. I wasn’t into that. She looked good though, and I was rock hard again, the troubling Charlie associations all gone from my nut. All I could see was that long hair, that slender body and that peach of an arse, spread out before me. I struggled to push in to her fanny, trying to keep some of my weight on my arms as I thrust into her.
It was going in though and soon we were fucking away again for all we worth. Lucy gave the odd appreciative groan, without making a big fuss. I liked that. I was looking at a spot on the headboard to avoid getting too turned on and blowing early, it had been a while and I …
… I was feeling …
WHOOSH …
PHOAH …
OH …
OOOOHHH …
No …
I thought I’d blown it there for a bit, the room seemed to darken and spin, but I came to my senses and we were still at it.
The strange thing was that I was suddenly aware that her dimensions seemed to have changed. Her body was like it was rounder and fuller. And she was quiet now, it was as if she had passed out.
And … there was somebody in the bed next to us!
It was Mellissa! Charlie’s wife, and she was asleep. I looked at Lucy, but it wasn’t Lucy. It was Charlie: I was … I was … I was fucking Charlie up his arse …
I WAS FUCK …
A spasm of horror shot through me, the rigidness going from my erection to my body. My cock instantly went limp, as God’s my witness, and I pulled out, sweating and trembling.
I realized to my further shock, that I wasn’t home any more. I was in Charlie’s flat.
WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS …
I slid out off the bed. I looked around. Charlie and Mellissa seemed to be in a deep sleep. There was no sign of Lucy. I couldn’t find my clothes, all my gear had gone. Where the fuck was this? How the fuck did I get here?
I grabbed a smelly old Millwall top with South London Press on it and a pair of jogging trousers that lay in a heap on a laundry basket. Charlie liked to run, he was a fitness fanatic. I looked at him back there, still dozing, out for the count.
I pulled on the clothes and went through to the front room. This was Charlie and Mellissa’s place all right. I couldn’t think straight, but I knew I had to get out of there fast. I promptly left the flat and I ran like fuck through the streets of Bermondsey until I got to London Bridge. I headed to the Tube station but I realized that I had no money. So I trotted over London Bridge towards the city.
My head was buzzing with the obvious questions. What the fuck had happened? How did I get to South London? To Charlie’s bed? To Char … it was obvious that my drink had been spiked in some way, but who the fuck had set me up? I can’t remember!
I CANNAE FUCKIN’ REMEMBER!
I’M NO AN ARSE-BANDIT!
That fuckin’ Lucy. She was weirdo. But no her brother, surely no. Me and Charlie … I couldn’t believe it.
I couldn’t …
But the strangest thing was that just when I ought to have been fuckin’ suicidal, I was, in spite of myself, settling into this weird calmness. I felt tranquil, but strangely ethereal; somehow disassociated from the rest of the city. Although I was still at a loss to work out what had happened, it all seemed secondary, because I was cocooned in this floaty bubble of bliss. I must have been daydreaming, as I crossed the road at the Bishopsgate, because I didn’t see a cyclist come careering into me …
FUCKIN’ …
WHOOSH …
Then there was a flash and a ringing in my ears and miraculously I was standing at Camden Lock. There was absolutely no sense of any impact having taken place with the boy on the bike. Something was up here, but I wasn’t bothered. That was the thing. I felt fine, I didn’t care. I headed up Kentish Town Road, towards Tufnell Park.
The door of my flat was locked and I had no keys. The girls might be in. I went to rap at the door, and bang … a whoosh of air in my ears and I was standing inside the living room. Yvette was ironing, while watching the television. Selina was sitting on the couch, skinning up a joint.
– I could handle some of that, I said. – You’re no gaunny believe the night I’ve had …
They ignored me. I spoke again. No reaction. I walked in front of them. No recognition.
They couldn’t see or hear me!
I went to touch Selina, to see if I could elicit some response, but then I pulled my hand away. It might break the spell. There was something exciting, something empowering, about this invisibility.
But there was something wrong with the pair of them. They seemed in as much shock as I was. It must have been some night they had as well. Aye, girls: we pay for our fun.
– I still can’t believe it, Yvette said. – A bad heart. Nobody knew he had a bad heart. How can something like that not be picked up?
– Nobody knew he had any heart, Selina snorted. Then she shrugged, as if in guilt, – That’s not fair … but …
Yvette looked sharply at her. – You fucking cold cow, she hissed in anger.
– Sorry, I … Selina started, before slapping her forehead in confusion, – oh fuck, I’m going to take a shower, she suddenly decided and left the room.
I opted to follow her into the bathroom, to watch her take her clothes off. Yes. I’m going to enjoy this invisibility lark. Just as she started to undress …
WHOOSH …
I wasn’t in the bathroom any more. I was pumping away … yes … ye-es … I’m fucking somebody … they’re starting to come into focus …
It must be Lucy, it was all some fuckin’ daft hallucination, some acid flashback or the like, it was all …
… but no …
NO!
I was on top of my mate Ian Calder, shagging him up his arse. He was unconscious, and I was giving him one. I could see we were on the couch in his house back in Leith. I was back up in Scotland, shagging one of my oldest pals up his fuckin’ hole, like I was some kind of queer rapist!
OH NO, MY GOD … NO IN FUCKIN’ SCOTLAND …
I felt as if I was going to throw up all over him. I withdrew, as Ian started to make those delirious sounds, like he was having a bad dream. There was blood on my cock. I pulled up the bottoms on my tracksuit and ran out the house into the street.
I was in Edinburgh, but nobody could see me. I was going mad as I ran screaming, up Leith Walk, down Princes Street, trying to avoid people. But as I picked up speed on the corner of Castle Street I collided with this old woman and a Zimmer frame.
Then …
WHOOSH …
I was in a prison cell, but I was fuckin’ well shagging this guy up his arse. He lay unconscious on the bed underneath me.
OH, FOR FUCK SAKE …
It was my old buddy Murdo. He was inside for dealing coke.
YUK …
I pulled out and jumped down from the top bunk. I was sick, but in dry, racking coughs, holding myself upright against the cell wall. Nothing would come up. I looked around as Murdo came to, his face twisted in pain and confusion. He turned round, touched his arse, saw the blood on his fingers and started screaming. He jumped down, and I started to shout, crip
pled with fear, – I can explain mate … it’s no what it seems …
But Murdo ignored me and moved over to his sleeping cell-mate in the lower bunk, launching into a savage attack on the poor cunt. His fist thrashed into the startled jailbird’s face. – You. Ah ken you! You did something tae me! Ah ken you! Ya dirty fuckin’ sick buftie bastard! Ya fuckin’ beast!
– Aagghh! It’s hoosebrekin’ ah’m in fir … the boy protests through his shock.
WHOOSHHH … the guy’s screams faded as I was …
I was standing in a chapel of rest, at the back of the hall. The crematorium – Warriston, or Monktonhall, or the Eastern. I didnae ken, but they were all there; my Ma ’n’ Dad, my brother Alan and my wee sister Angela. In front of the coffin. And I knew, straight away, just who was inside that coffin.
I was at my ain fuckin’ funeral.
I’m screaming at them; what is this, what’s happening to me?
But again, nobody can hear me. No, that’s no quite right. There’s one fucker who seems to be able to; this fat old boy with white hair, who’s wearing a dark-blue suit. He gives me the thumbs-up. The old cunt seems to have a glow about him, with shards of incandescent light emanating from him.
I move across to him, completely invisible to the rest of the congregation, just as he seems to be. – You … you can hear me. You ken the Hampden Roar here. What the fuck is this?
The old guy just smiles and points at the coffin at the front of the mourners. – Nearly late for yir ain fuckin’ funeral thaire, mate, he laughs.
– But how? What happened tae me?
– Aye, ye died when you were on the job with your mate’s sister. Congenital heart problem you didn’t even know about.
Fuck me. I wis mair ill than I thought. – But … who are you?
– Well, the old boy grins, – I’m what you’d call an angel. I’m here to assist you in your passage over to the other side, he coughs, raising his hand to his face, stifling a laugh. – Pardon the pun, he chuckles. – I’ve had all sorts of names in different cultures. It might help you tae think of me as one of the ones I’m least fond of: St Peter.
The confirmation ay my death induced in me a bizarre elation, and no small relief. – So I’m deid! Thank fuck for that! It means I never shagged my mates up the arse. Ye hud me worried for a bit there!
The old angel cunt shakes his heid slowly and grimly. – No, because you’re not over to the other side yet.
– What d’ye mean?
– You’re a restless spirit, wandering the earth.
– How come?
– Punishment. This is your penance.
I wasnae having this. – Punishment? Me? What the fuck have ah done wrong? I ask the bastard.
The auld guy smiles like a double-glazing salesman who’s about tae tell me there’s nowt they can dae aboot their crappy installation. – Well, Joe, the truth is that you’re not a bad guy, but you have been a bit misogynistic and homophobic. So your punishment is to make you walk the earth as a homosexual ghost buggering your old mates and acquaintances.
– No way! No way ah’m ah gaunny dae that! You cannae fuckin’ well make me … I said, lamely tailing off as I realized that the sick old bastard had been doing exactly just that.
– Aye, this is your punishment for being a queer-basher, the angel gadge smiles again. – I’m going to watch and laugh at you being crippled with guilt. Not only am I going to make you do it, Joe, I’m going to make you keep doing it until you enjoy it.
– No way. You must be fuckin’ joking. I’ll never enjoy that, I point at myself. – Never! You cunt … I sprang at the bastard, ready to throttle him, but in another swish of sound and flash of light he was gone.
I sat at a vacant seat at the back of the chapel, my head in my hands. I looked around at the congregation. Lucy had come up for it, she was sitting quite close to me. That was nice of her. Must’ve been a fuckin’ shock for her. One minute you’ve a stiffer inside ye, the next it’s just a stiff. Charlie was there too, he was with Ian and Murdo at the back of the hall.
They were all standing up.
Then I saw him. That dirty old cunt of a Priest.
Father Brannigan. Him, putting me to rest! That filthy, evil auld cunt!
I’m looking over at my parents, screaming silently at them for this appalling betrayal. I mind of me saying to them, I dinnae want tae be an altar boy any mair, Ma, and my mother being so disappointed. My old man never gave a fuck. Let the laddie dae what eh wants, he said. But when I didnae come tae our Angela’s communion and I couldnae tell them why … Aw fuck … that dirty old cunt touching me, and worse, making me do things to him …
I never would, never could say. Never. Never even thought about it. I always vowed he’d fuckin’ well get it one day. Now he’s here, he’s sending me off, his pious lies ringing throughout this chapel.
– Joseph Hutchinson was a kind, sensitive, young Christian man, taken untimely from us. But through our grief and loss, we should not fail to remember that God has a plan, no matter how obscure this may seem to we mortals. Joseph, who once served at the altar of this very house of the Lord, would have understood this divine truth more than most of us …
I want to roar the truth at them all, to tell them what that dirty old cunt did tae me …
WHOOSHHHH …
Then I’m on auld Brannigan and he’s screaming under my weight; his old, skinny, smelly bones, crushed under my bulk. I’m giving it to the dirty old cunt; pummelling him right up his arse and he’s screaming. I’m snarling in demented rage: … You cannae tell anybody, or God will punish you for being a sinner, and I’m fucking him and fucking him harder and harder. He’s screeching beyond agony and bang … his heart stops, I feel it stop as his last breath escapes him. Brannigan’s body judders underneath me and his eyes roll towards heaven. I feel his essence rise up through his body and through mine, planting a thought into my psyche that says you cunt as he floats away, a soundless cry coming from his spirit like a balloon farts out air as it flies into space.
I’m sobbing and crying to myself, saying over and over again in my self-disgust, – When will it be over? When will this nightmare end?
WHOOSH …
And then I’m with my best mate Andy Sweeney. We grew up together, did almost everything together. He was always more popular than me; better looking, brighter, good job, but he was my best mate. As I said, we did everything together, well, almost everything. But now I’m on top of him and I’m shagging the arse off him … and it’s horrible. – WHEN? I’m screaming, – WHEN WILL THIS FUCKIN’ NIGHTMARE END?
And he’s in the room with us, the auld St Peter boy from the funeral. He’s just sitting in the armchair watching us in a studied, detached manner. – When you start to enjoy it, when you cease to feel the guilt, he tells me coldly.
So there I was shagging my best mate up his arse. God, was I feeling disgusted and crippled with revulsion, loathing and guilt …
… feeling sick and ugly, in constant torture as I was compelled to pump away like a rancid fuck machine from hell, feeling like my soul was being ripped apart … going to a place beyond fear, humiliation and torture, and hating it, loathing it, detesting it so fuckin’ much … a pain so great and pervasive that I’d never, ever grow to feel anything other than this sheer horror …
… or so I kept telling that daft cunt of an angel.
Walking into the Wind
JOHN O’FARRELL
There’s a moment when you’re up on stage when you suddenly become aware that everyone is looking at you; that the entire room is totally focused upon what you are doing. In that terrifying split-second your performance can crash to the ground or it can soar to great new heights; but the fact that you have the power to throw it all away is partly what’s so thrilling about being in the spotlight. It happens to every performer – I bet you that in the middle of the Nuremberg rallies Adolf Hitler was tempted just to spoil it all by blowing a raspberry and saying: ‘Actually I’m gay and
I’m proud.’ But of course you never do shatter the magic because for that precious hour or so the audience completely loves you and that is why being on stage is the greatest job in the world.
‘You have got to be the luckiest bloke I know,’ said Richard the first time he saw me perform at the Edinburgh Festival. ‘Twenty-three years old; doing exactly what you want to do, everyone thinks you’re great; no office, no boss, no suit and you get paid a bloody fortune to boot. How cool is that!’
‘It’s cool,’ agreed Neal.
It was quite cool I have to admit. In fact it was very, very cool, but the thing about being cool is you can’t really let on how delighted you are about it. You never see James Bond ringing his mum to tell her how well he’s doing.
Fifteen minutes earlier I’d been bowing and wearing my modest ‘no-you’re-embarrassing-me’ smile, as two hundred people cheered me and clapped and shouted for more. I’d glanced down and seen Richard and Neal in the front row clapping proudly and then as the rest of the audience got up to leave they rushed up to me slightly too quickly. ‘Guy, that was brilliant, Guy!’ they said, and then everyone else knew that they weren’t just ordinary members of the audience, they were friends of Guy’s.
Now we sat in the pub opposite the theatre and I counted out the two hundred pounds cash that I’d just been paid. I knew it took Richard and Neal a couple of weeks to earn that much money, so I thought I’d better just check it again. A beautiful girl approached our table and asked for my autograph. She blushed and told me that she’d really enjoyed my show and thought I was brilliant. ‘Well, I can’t take all the credit myself,’ I said, which probably sounded a little insincere after a one-man show that I’d written and produced on my own. My friends looked on open-mouthed as I scribbled my name in her programme. It was the first time this had ever happened to me. ‘You sort of get used to it,’ I told them.