The Hunger
Authors: Lincoln Townley
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Lincoln Townley, 2014
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Lincoln Townley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-47113-541-5
ISBN (Ebook): 978-1-47113-542-2
Typeset in Aldine by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
This book is dedicated to my wife Denise,
for helping me become the man I am today.
The Grand Ball of Immortal Addicts
This is my story.
I have changed dates, times and occasionally places to protect those involved. I have also re-named some people and places and sometimes created composite characters from
the people I knew. What I have not changed is what I did or the nature of my addiction.
And a Man sat alone, drenched deep in sadness.
And all the animals drew near to him and said, ‘We do not like to see you so sad. Ask us for whatever you wish and you shall have it.’
The Man said, ‘I want to have good sight.’
The vulture replied, ‘You shall have mine.’
The Man said, ‘I want to be strong.’
The jaguar said, ‘You shall be strong like me.’
Then the Man said, ‘I long to know the secrets of the earth.’
The serpent replied, ‘I will show them to you.’
And so it went with all the animals. And when the Man had all the gifts that they could give, he left.
Then the owl said to the other animals, ‘Now the Man knows much, he’ll be able to do many things. Suddenly I am afraid.’
The deer said, ‘The Man has all that he needs. Now his sadness will stop.’
But the owl replied, ‘No. I saw a hole in the Man, deep like a Hunger he will never fill. It is what makes him sad and what makes him want. He will go on taking and taking, until one
day the World will say, “I am no more and I have nothing left to give.”’
Old Storyteller from
Apocalypto
August 2009. 7 a.m.
Addiction is ugly.
And relentless.
I am running. My heart is pounding. Thrashing at my ribcage. Wanting to burst through and splatter on the ground. I see blood everywhere. Guts and spleen. Keep running.
There must be people around. I am moving past them, through them. They are shadows. All I can feel is the rage of my heart and the thud of my feet on the pavement. I am smothering in my own
breath. There is no way out. It has gone too far.
There are strangers in my bed. I do not know who they are or how they got there: a mass of banged-up oestrogen, propped up, surrounded by lube, cocaine and condoms, an altar to my solitude. I am
sprinting and my head is exploding. I am floating. Dying. People look horrified and let me pass. They part as I drive through them. They can see I’m running. And I cannot be stopped.
1 a.m. Six hours earlier
Tina is lying face down on the bed, her arse spread, a line of coke stretching from her mid-back to her crack. I am snorting it when the intercom buzzes. I finish my line and
the vodka on the bedside table, slip on a dressing gown and walk out to the hall. It’s Rachel. She sent me a text earlier with a naked picture attached, asking if she could join us. I’m
expecting three more Regulars and a Paid-For.
One by the one they arrive. They try to make small talk. I’m not interested. I ask if they want a drink. They all do. I send them into the bedroom and tell them to strip. I’m off my
head, which means I’ve given myself permission to be more of a twat than usual. Katie is the last to arrive.
—You happy, Linc?
—All good. Go and join them and I’ll be with you in a second.
I go to the bathroom and take a sachet of Kamagra. I take one on Tuesday and one on Thursday, so there’s always some floating about in my system. The gel acts faster than the tablet and,
when I come into the bedroom, my cock is rock solid. Four of the girls are on the bed while two, including Katie, are lying on the floor sharing a couple of lines with Tina. Katie is tall with
long, willowy blonde hair. The first time I met her was in the bar at a Soho hotel. We went to the toilets and, before I could rip her dress to shreds, she laid out two lines on the seat and
said:
—Coke before cock, Lincoln, always remember that.
The girls are all naked and they do not know there is a Man in the corner sitting on my best chair dressed in a long, black morning coat, starched white shirt with matching crimson cravat and
handkerchief. He raises a glass of red wine and smiles at me. I smile back. The Man has been in my life, in one form or another, as long as I can remember. I used to think I was going crazy when
other people didn’t hear him or even see him. I thought they were winding me up, so I would point at him and shout:
—He’s there! Look at him! He’s real!
Then I realised they couldn’t see him. He laughed at me:
—I am your dirty little secret, Lincoln, your dirtiest little secret!
I look across at him and he takes off his bowler hat, flicks his mop of ruffled black hair and lies on the floor next to the girls. He runs his finger along Tina’s back before stretching
his pointed tongue around Katie’s neck. The girls shudder and look around. They sense the presence of the Man but they can’t see him, so they carry on snorting. The Man angles his head
towards me in a gesture of triumph as his face breaks into a rakish laugh. He says:
—Let’s have some fun, Lincoln. I’m ravenous!
The Paid-For is staring at my cock. Her eyes are a little too wide and she’s too clean, so I pick her first. I lay her on the floor and pound her for about an hour. She may be a hooker but
she’s never been fucked like this before. Her eyes are bulging and I worry in case they pop out of her head and hit me in the face.
When I’m finished with her she can’t move. She is delirious. I line up the other girls, arses out, and fuck them one at a time. Tina is in hysterics and can’t stop laughing. I
tell her to shut up because she’s putting me off. She winks at me and begins ramming a butt plug in Sandra, who is trying to keep her head steady above a line of coke. We’re at it for
about five hours. I come twice then I fall asleep. An hour later I wake up and my bedroom is in chaos. I am shaking and my throat is dry. I look around. The Man is nowhere to be seen. I get dressed
and go out for an eight-mile run through the city.
10 p.m. Three hours earlier
I’m at The Office in Soho. It’s not an office like the ones where people waste their lives getting things done. It’s actually a bar where I work at creating
Chaos. The boys are all upstairs getting hammered, as the smell of food wafts from the kitchen into the disabled toilet where I’m working. Before I took her to the toilet, the girl, whose
name I can’t remember, said:
—My boyfriend is meeting me here.
—He’s not here now, is he?
—Well . . .
I place my hand on her wrist and she looks deep into my coked-out eyes.
—I really want to fuck you.
And now I’m hammering her so hard in the toilet that the pan cracks. I think I must remember to tell Mario, the manager. It’s the decent thing to do. Then I focus on the pounding and
forget what it was I had to remember. My memory isn’t jogged even when a big chunk of china breaks off and hits the floor.
When we walk back upstairs into the restaurant the boys are looking worried. I notice a tall guy towering above them. As soon as he sees me and the girl he walks over to us. He is not happy.
—Where have you been?
The girl is silent. He tries to take a swipe at her. I block his arm. She is crying and shaking, her dress torn at the seam. I may be a twat but I’m a considerate one and I don’t
like bullies.
—Try that again and I’ll deck you.
He looks at me and takes another swipe. This time at me. I warned him. I hit him with two punches – one to the solar plexus and another to the side of the neck. He drops unconscious to the
floor. The girl screams.
—You’ve killed him! You’ve killed him!
I think perhaps I have. Mario rushes towards me.
—Fucking hell, Lincoln. Take it easy. My God, I think you’ve killed him.
I wonder if Mario is a mind reader, then I look at the lifeless body on the floor and I realise he’s stating the fucking obvious.
Maynard and Terry get up off the table and throw two glasses of wine over the man’s face.
—That was a fucking waste!
—Sorry, Linc, we’re only trying to help.
I lean over him and press my ear to his chest. He’s still breathing. I look at the girl and think she looks so sexy in that torn dress. I want to fuck her again. NOW. The man rolls his
head to one side and groans. I want to knock him out again. I NEED him unconscious. Just another twenty minutes. That’s all I crave. Mario props him up and soon he is standing. He sees me and
tries to lift his arm but it falls limp against the bar. I walk up to him.
—Don’t even think about it, and if you lay one finger on your girl, I’ll fucking kill you.
He doesn’t respond. I grab him by the collar. No one tries to stop me.
—Do you hear me?
He nods.
—I didn’t fucking hear you.
—Yes . . . yes . . .
I walk over to the girl and give her my card. Lincoln Townley, Sales and Marketing Director, The Club.
—If he gives you any trouble call me and I’ll deal with him. She has mascara all over her face.
—Thanks.
Outside on the street, the Man with the crimson cravat, whose name is Esurio, is leaning against a wall, smoking a cigar.
—That was splendid, Lincoln, splendid. Where shall we go next?
—Fuck off!
—Now that is an absurd idea. I couldn’t possibly fuck off when we’re having such fun!
3 p.m. Seven hours earlier
