Bad Dreams Page 10

  He grinned, tossing his hair back, and took another drag, slipping back into his room like a jack in the box.

  Nina looked at the door Daeve had closed behind him, then at Anne. She shrugged. Anders, who had frozen like a stone lion while Daeve was in the passage, came back to life and turned into the sinister butler from an old Boris Karloff movie.

  Anders led them down the sparsely furnished hallway, and ushered them into a large room. It was a windowless den, decorated with paper chains and Chinese lanterns. There was a fully dressed Christmas tree, with baubles, lights and presents, and an open fire in an alcove the size of an upright piano.

  Behind a glass-topped desk sat an elegant woman in her forties, with purple-streaked hair coiled in a psyche knot and Morticia Addams make-up. She was wearing surgeon's gloves and delicately shaping a Paramount mountain of white powder in front of her. It looked like flour, but a fistful would be worth what Anne had earned in the last year.

  There was a naked child squatting by the fire, looking like a tattooed savage in the echt-psychedelic light from the tree and the blaze. He was playing with a pile of expensive toys. He flew a foot-long, perfectly detailed model of Concorde in his hand, and gingerly crash-landed it among the burning logs. He pulled his hand out of the flames quickly and sucked his slightly singed fingers.

  The plane's wings melted first, dripping gobbets of molten plastic. Then the beaked body bent downwards and flopped onto the logs. The boy thumped the floor and crooned in ecstasy. He reached for the Starship Enterprise.

  Anne recognised him. It was Derek Douane, the twelve-year-old ex-choirboy of 'Christmas Caroline' fame. He had his face on the cover of every girls' magazine on the stands. Not since Little Jimmy Osmond had Anne been so personally sickened by a pop singer. Before 'Christmas Caroline', he had had a big hit with a vomitous reggae cover version of 'Puff the Magic Dragon'.

  'Ahh, Nina,' said the woman at the desk, Amelia, 'thank you for coming. And, as requested, you brought a friend.'

  She got up and shook Anne's hand. Her glove was talcum-powdered with cocaine. Foreign surname or not, she sounded as Anne had once imagined all English women sounded, like Jenny Agutter or Julie Andrews.

  'This is Anne.'

  'Anne. You'll find us amusing, I hope. And rewarding.' Wrinkles of pertubation appeared on her white forehead. 'Do I know you?'

  'I don't think so.'

  … Anne knew her now. Amelia Dorf. She had seen her before at a press conference. She was on a women's committee formed to oppose the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. The GPA. The Global Peace Something. Alliance? Agency? Activists? They wanted the West to stockpile as many atomic weapons as the East, and had, in the Gorbachev era, been darkly muttering about the increasing threat of Third World nations with a nuclear capability. Amelia would not remember her. She was just one of an audience of journalists. No, Anne knew that Amelia thought she was a familiar face (and voice?) because she had known Judi…

  'Ahh, you're American?'

  'Canadian,' she lied.

  'Canada, right. Where the Mounties come from. Do make yourself comfortable. We won't really be starting for a while, so we can get to know each other better before the others arrive. Nina, you know where the drinks are kept. Get us all something would you.'

  Amelia sat Anne down on a giant cloth marshmallow, and sunk cross-legged on the carpet next to Derek. She wore a leotard that showed off her concentration camp figure, and knee-length alligator-skin boots.

  'This is Derek. He's staying for Christmas because he can't be with his Mummy and Daddy.'

  The child star turned and looked at Anne with neanderthal hostility. His pupils were shrunk to pinpoints, and half his face was red from being too close to the fire. Amelia plucked a paper napkin from one of the several cardboard dispensers scattered around the room and wiped the spittle from his chin. She threw the napkin into the fire, where it flared like a meteor next to the softening spaceship.

  'You know, bitch,' said Derek in his not-quite broken voice, 'your tits aren't big enough.'

  Amelia slapped him with an open hand.

  'Don't be vulgar, Derek. Anne is our guest. We must make her feel at home.'

  Derek didn't mind being slapped at all. He hugged Amelia, and whispered in her ear. She giggled indulgently, and pushed him away.

  Embarrassed, Anne looked into the fire. The bridge of the Enterprise was distorting, pulled out of shape by weights inside the model.

  'Can you hear the screams?' asked Derek, baring his teeth like the fly-eating madman in the old Dracula movie. 'That's what I like the most. The screams. At my concerts, I make girls scream.'

  'I'll bet you do.'

  The model in the fire fell apart with a hiss and some plops. Parts of it sizzled, and the logs spat like burning sausages. The stench of burning plastic stung Anne's nostrils.

  'That scream there,' said Derek, reaching out to catch the unheard shriek. 'That's Captain Kirk. When the Enterprise caught fire, he knew he was going to die and wanted to do all the things they wouldn't let him do on television. He slashed up his captain seat, and whacked Mr Sulu in the belly and shat on Chekhov's face. He was going to fuck Lieutenant Uhura, but his cock caught fire and dropped off. It was plastic like the rest of him. He's melting down into a puddle with the rest of his crew. The blob there is Kirk's cock, and Spock's ears, and Uhura's twat, and Dr McCoy's left leg, and bits of ground-up dilithium crystal. All the crew are just a screaming glob of burning plastic now. Just the same as their starship…'

  During his rant, Derek had been getting more excited. He reached down and started fingering his stubby penis. Amelia slapped his hand away from his bald genitals and pinched his foreskin. He squeaked and shut up.

  'That's enough playing for today, Derek. You've run out of toys. I'll have to ask Santa for some more. Now, go and put some clothes on.'

  Derek padded over to a pile of colourful clothes, and obediently started to wrestle with them. Anne wondered what Amelia had the kid high on. His hand-eye coordination was way off, and getting dressed was too much of a struggle for him to accomplish alone. Amelia, treating him like a toddler, helped him with the difficult moves, fussing with buttons, and preventing him from strangling himself with rainbow-striped braces.

  Nina came back with a tray of liqueurs. Anne took a glass, but only sipped the thick orange liquid once or twice. The heat from the fire was already getting to her head, and she knew that she needed, above all else, to remain in control. Amelia developed a sudden craving for Christmas cookies, and told Nina where to find them. The girl left again. If she had curtseyed, she would have been just like one of the maidservants on Upstairs, Downstairs.

  Amelia got back to the cocaine, and went to work on it with a gold razor-blade. She cut it into white slug-trails that striped the reflective desktop.

  'Would you care to indulge?'

  'No thank you,' Anne said, 'Sinus trouble.'

  'Ahhh, yes. There's a lot of 'flu going around. It's best to save it for later, anyway. We don't want people to think we're piggish, do we?'

  Nevertheless, she took a tiny pinch and snuffed it, throwing her head back. She was like a cook, Anne thought, unable to resist a lick of the icing.

  'There,' said Amelia, seeming not at all dizzy, 'that's better.' She picked up the blade again, but gripped the wrong edge. 'Ouch, I'm opened…'

  She held up a gloved hand. It looked like a jewellery store replica for displaying rings. There was a seeping red line on the tip of her forefinger. Droplets fell on the desk, rolling like mercury on the glass, soaking into the cocaine like piss in snow.

  Amelia waved her hand. 'Derek, come here…'

  The child was at her side instantly. He took Amelia's hand and professionally peeled back the glove. It came off with a snap. He stroked her palm, as if playing 'round and round the garden', and bent his head over. He took the wounded finger into his mouth and sucked quietly. Amelia ran her free hand through his bleached blond hair.

  'Anne, isn
't he lovely?'

  'Oh yes, lovely.'

  'And he's so talented. He's a singer, you know.'

  'I know.'

  'And such a nice smile, don't you think. It's no wonder he has such a following.'

  'On the radio, they don't seem to play anyone else.'

  'No, that's right. But then again, why should they? He's so much better than all the others. What's his song called? "Christmas Caroline". Such a clever title. Once you've heard it, it goes round and round your mind forever. You keep thinking of it at the most unlikely moments. You never forget it…'

  'Oh no, never…'

  'Tell me, Christmas Caroline,

  When you say you'll be mine,

  You raise a round of loud applause

  From old Mr Santa Claus.

  We walk down the lane, dear,

  Just us and the reindeer, It's such a jaunt,

  And you're the only Christmas present I want.'

  In Anne's opinion, Amelia's rendition of the song was superior musically to Derek's recorded version, but unfortunate in that it made audible the lyrics that were incomprehensible in the original. She wondered what Mr Thrash Metal would think of it. Or Cam, who was often said to be interested in the fine dividing line between music and pain. Maybe that was Derek's major achievement, uniting people of such different tastes in their single opinion of him.

  'Look at these eyes,' she tilted Derek's head upwards, 'so darling, so knowing. Such a warm little mouth he has.'

  At that point, Anne realised that her hostess was certifiably deranged. She was getting fed up with sick people.

  'Anne,' Amelia said seriously, almost dangerously, 'don't just agree with me all the time. If you think I'm a fruitcake, please do say so. I hate persons who don't speak speak their minds.'

  She smiled sweetly, and suddenly wasn't as out-of-touch and fuzzy-minded as Anne had thought. She had come down off her mental space shuttle and become disturbingly lucid. Anne realised she would have to work harder, conceal more about herself, if she were to get through this.

  'Have you ever read Lolita?' Amelia asked.

  Did Amelia suspect that Anne was not just another disposable tart like Judi and Nina? Was the question a clever trap to find out what kind of person she really was? If so, Amelia had misjudged her tarts. Anne had not read Nabokov, but knew her sister had. She hesitated, and told the truth.

  'No, but I saw the film. With James Mason.'

  Amelia seemed surprised at even that trace of a cultural background. Anne would have to watch herself, try to seem more like Nina. She tried to pout, and felt silly.

  'That's right.' Amelia was too inters on patronising her to notice the face-pulling. 'With James Mason. Humbert Humbert, the James Mason character, is wrong about little girls, I think. They're so boring, so unimaginative. Not sensual at all. Not like little boys.'

  Amelia pulled her finger out of Derek's mouth, and rubbed it dry. The bleeding had stopped. She put an arm around the boy. Derek looked at Anne, smiling innocently. With his eyes shut, he looked like a happy imbecile.

  Whatever Anne thought of Derek Douane, this was child abuse and an obscenity. Her crusading instincts were aroused.

  'No, not at all like Derek,' Amelia continued. 'He's so promising, you know. He'll be quite passionate, I think. A fatal man. They'll all want him. To use him and be used by him.'

  Anne was excluded. Amelia's words were directed at her, but she was talking to the boy.

  'Wouldn't you just luh-love…' Amelia caught her voice on the word and had to start again. 'Wouldn't you just love to slit his little throat, and watch the fuh-fucking little toad buh-bleed to death…'

  Derek snuggled against Amelia's flat breasts, Anne tried not to look as if she wanted to be sick.

  'That, I think would be quite an experience,' said Amelia. 'That, I think, would make me cuh-climax like an alley cat.'

  She took another pinch of cocaine, and snorted it with a rattle of phlegm. Derek began to hum 'Christmas Caroline', and Amelia joined in on the chorus.

  TWO

  ON THE WAY to the pantry to get the Christmas cookies, Nina got lost. The house was big and old, with a lot more corridors and rooms and unexpected turns than seemed necessary, but she had done enough of these 'entertainments' to be familiar with the lower storeys. The route from the den to the pantry was quite simple, she thought. She had to take a walk down a short corridor from the main hallway, go down a few steps to the kitchen. The pantry was just a walk-in alcove off the kitchen. Easy. But somehow, she found herself in a large, empty room. There were wall-sized French windows through which she would in daylight have been able to see the back garden. Now, it was in darkness. There was the vague suggestion of orange light beyond the high wall that marked the rear boundary of Amelia's property; the streetlamps were already on.

  Nina sat on the floor and cried. She was in a state. Why was Clive not here yet?

  The stomach cramps had been coming back, off and on, all day, but so far she had been able to keep them under control. In her flat with Anne, and in the taxi, she had been able to conceal her pain from the older woman. Now, the spasms were worse than ever.

  She was shaking with the cold, but the fire in the den had been irritating and overbearing. Under her heavy clothes, she felt filthy, as if there were a layer of vermin-ridden earth between her naked skin and the fabric.

  Things were moving all over her. She scratched and pulled, but could never find the leeches under her blouse or the spiders crawling inside her tights.

  She doubled up in pain, and rested her forehead on the carpeted floor. She willed the pains to recede, and gradually they did.

  She needed to eat, to shower, to rest, to sleep. Most of all, she needed some smack. She needed Clive. She needed help.

  When Amelia had had her serve the drinks, Nina realised just how far gone she was. She had found it difficult to read the labels on the bottles. The delicate glasses had felt thick and awkward in her hands, soft as putty but covered in cutting edges. When pouring, it had been impossible to line up the bottles with the glasses, no matter how close she held the neck of a bottle to the rim of a glass. She had soaked her hand and cuff with creme de menthe, and the sticky liquid seemed to have crept up her arm. Her fingers felt as if they were encased in cool wax.

  Where was Clive? Good old Clive? Clive the dealer. Clive the healer. Where was Clive?

  She scratched her arm, but could not find the stickiness. Her needle tracks were not that bad. Yet. Really, she could wear sleeveless dresses if she wanted to. But not in winter.

  Of course, she would have to get off smack in the long run. Or else she would look like that girl in the adverts. But she could handle that later. Right now, she needed a fix. Just one more fix, perhaps, then she would stay away forever.

  Maybe she would have to do it gradually, taking less each time, taking more time between each time. Perhaps she could get something on the N.H.S.? 'Lady, how about two packs of your old heroin for one of your new improved biological methodone?'

  But right now, she needed Clive.

  Her stomach clenched like a fist, but there was nothing in there to come up. Her bowels opened like a tulip, but there was nothing there to come out. Her head throbbed like a burst boil, but there was nothing there…

  Nothing.

  She was empty, and only Clive could fill her up. Where was Clive?

  Eventually - after how long? - the pains passed, and she was able to stand up. She could feel nothing, as if her entire body were mummified in thick wads of flavourless chewing gum. Moving was difficult, but at least it did not hurt.

  Like one of the shambling dead, she left the room and returned to the main hall. Then, without thinking, she found the right corridor. She floated down the step's and opened the door into the kitchen.

  Anders was there, supposedly supervising the preparation of an assortment of mixed salads for the buffet. A lumpish Belgian girl called Lise who did menial tasks about the house but hardly ever spoke was g
rating cheese over a rice dish.

  Anders was playing with Daeve.

  He had the writer laid out, face down with his baggy trousers around his knees, on a marble-topped kitchen table, and was anally violating him with a large, unwashed carrot.

  Anders held Daeve down with a clever grip on the back of his neck. Nina now knew what the expression 'squealing like a stuck pig' really meant.

  Anders looked up at Nina and laughed. He was stripped to the waist, and she could see the lunar map of dead skin and fresh scars that was stretched tautly over his Schwarzenegger musculature.

  The squealing stopped as Anders plucked out the carrot. Nina knew, as her stomach hit her again, that he was going to take a bite out of it.

  'Nyaaah,' he said, chewing, 'what's up, doc?'

  THREE

  IT WAS ALL rather pathetic really, not at all the orgy of degradation she had half-imagined. Amelia had left off quoting from the wit and wisdom of her favourite mass murderers, done a few lines of cocaine, and started to whizz around the room. She was demonstrating aerobic movements and hostessing for her guests as they arrived.

  Anne was sort of expecting blubbery cabinet ministers and worn clergymen, slavering and ready to practise their secret vices, but the guests turned out to be unidentifiable nobodies. For a while, she thought she could have been at any moderately boring Christmas party.

  The women wore Laura Ashley or Ghost dresses, the men wore expensive jeans. Anne realised that the younger, prettier members of both sexes had been bought and paid for. She was supposed to blend in with that group. There were no obvious freaks, transvestites, monsters or exotic creatures. Well, not any more than usual.

  The guests greedily snuffed cocaine, ate platefuls of designer salad, listened to Amelia's Jean-Michel Jarre CDs, smoked ordinary cigarettes and weedy joints, and talked about cars and mortgage rates and money and dry rot and Eastern Europe and computers and their weight and Christmas and sex. It was all very '80s, the young, rich and shallow turning middle-aged, tax-assessed and empty. None of this had anything to do with Judi.