Phone

  – the b’b’boom-boom, b’b’boom-boom of his trip-hopping

  heart as he mounts another flight of stairs, in another faraway land

  of which … we know fuck-all. Then knocking on the door in a still

  more stygian hallway, and pushed to the limit we dragged ourselves in.

  Where’ve I been, Squilly? the Butcher asks – but when Squilly

  begins sing-songing a full list of his postings since he joined the

  Firm (Londonderry, Geneva, Tehwan, Thawejevo – ) he screams,

  I meant RHETORICALLY! A cry which fills the motorway

  flyover’s chilly cavities – for by now they’ve stumbled back into

  town … just like a sacred cow. Christ, I’m high, Squilly (Too high

  to hit your quarry, Butch?) Oh, no – you know me better than that.

  (Was mir behagt …) Is the lively hunt! Always, Squilly, always!

  With this noble cry, the Butcher slips out of his reversible jacket,

  rereverses it, enters a spit-and-sawdust pub, strides to the bar, orders

  a large Scotch, knocks it back for a quick straightener – no shit-stabber,

  me … then leaves, making his way, via Charles Street and Princess

  Street, to the New Conti, where he loses himself in the goosebumps

  on the back of a plump girl’s thighs until it’s his turn to be

  inefficiently frisked, no professional, he: Knockier izzit, mate? the

  bouncer asks, hefting the Butcher’s mobile phone. Dunno why yer

  bother – I mean, oo yer gonna call, Ghostbusters? Then the Butcher’s

  in, watching from the wings, scenes he’s seen played, replayed and

  played yet again: Bodies are, he thinks, big hands – which makes of

  dancing … a frenzied gesticulation. The bass line shudders through

  panting flesh: They call me Mister Loverman, they call me Mister

  Loverman! and the Butcher thinks, You wish! Observation is the

  key to successful hunting – soon enough he spots Tizer, whose

  bull-head rises above the maelstrom, tossing in time. After that the

  other junior officers are easy to locate: Shabba, giving it his all …

  since it’s his theme tune, as he throws some shapes in the moon-face

  of a seriously fat girl – Potso limboing under the disdainful

  eyes of a black one. Even Anderson has a dance partner – a plug-ugly

  Pee-wee Herman of a thing, with whom he’s attempting to

  jive, swinging her so vigorously she slams into the other dancers.

  But there’s no sign of the Butcher’s quarry, as he edges along a wall

  papered with old flyers … Gerry prob’ly needs a pacemaker by now.

  Come Monday morning, the Butcher thinks, I’ll swipe my card

  against the sensor, punch my number into the keypad, go through

  the electronic gate, say good morning to Gardiner, cross the atrium,

  ride the lift to the lucky seventh, turn right at the Stubbs, then left

  at the Landseer, unlock the door to my office, lock it behind me, go

  to the cabinet, spin the Manifoil, get out the office laptop and begin

  writing up a version of the last few days’ events … for Cumming’s

  exclu–. (There he is!, Squilly interrupts) – he’s spotted Greeny over

  by some dusty drapes in the far corner of the throbbing room which

  must hide the doors to the bogs. ‘Scuse … ‘scuse … ‘scuse … the

  Butcher makes his way between the disco dancers. By the time he

  unzips, Gawain’s splatteration is already counterpointing the cistern’s

  gurgle. Their shoulders touch and he double-takes, Oh … it’s

  you. The Butcher reminds him, Mike, but let’s just shake todgers

  rather than hands on this occasion. How’re you getting on? Your

  mates must’ve got lucky … The junior officer gives a doggy shiver,

  tucks in, zips up, mumbles non-committally, goes to the slimy

  sink and begins … washing his hands! Oh, Squilly, I do so hope he

  doesn’t have to do that every time he touches a penis! Staring at the

  unexpected benison of a splodge of liquid soap, Gawain is nonetheless

  petulant: Thought you said you had to get home … Said you

  were married – wife’s a ball-breaker … that’s what you said. He

  soaps his hands methodically, and his pursuer purrs, What say

  we get the fuck outta here – go somewhere we can really let our

  hair down? Gawain’s breath smells of humbugs – confectionery the

  Butcher also uses to … hide my own hypocrisies. But since he’s in the

  cavalryman’s face, he takes his time examining it: a soft and sandy

  complexion … he’ll freckle in the sun – ahhh! standard-issue blue

  eyes … a little gweilo for my taste … an honest, dimpled manly jaw,

  surprisingly full kissable lips and a perfect nose! He’s the one, Squilly –

  the one! A one, moreover, who, although trapped in the malodorous

  corner of a bog by a man barely known to him, makes no attempt to

  break free! Dunno, he says, early start tomorrow – and I’ve a match

  in the afternoon … Football? the Butcher asks. – No, rugby …

  Rugger! the Butcher exults to Squilly (And you imagine he has

  whyming proclivities, do you, Butch?) Well … he adopts his most

  sincere tone … we wouldn’t want you underperforming on the

  pitch. How about this: I guarantee to get you back to the Britannia

  in one piece by oh-three-hundred? Fit bloke like you – shouldn’t be

  too much the worse for wear … ‘Sides, you know you’ll be kicking

  yourself tomorrow if you pass up the opportunity – I mean, when’re

  you gonna see some proper action again? In the street the Butcher

  considers his options: he could take Gawain to Manto’s for a few

  rounds – but the place will almost certainly be ram-packed with

  Nellie queens … Instead, he ducks into a Pakki shop, buys a can of

  Coke, snaps it open and, while Gawain’s distracted Superman steps

  into a phone booth, gets his stash out and deftly transforms the soft

  drink into a cocktail of hard drugs: two parts of emmdee-emmay to

  one of Rohypnol … don’t want him going under before he’s come up.

  Then they’re trolling on down the road, Gawain’s Adam’s apple

  rising and falling as he guzzles from the can. They pass by young

  women tottering on high heels – one’s collapsed altogether by some

  wheelie bins, her skirt having ridden right up, while her lucky pants

  haven’t proved to be fortunate at all – although she remains a very

  shapely lass. Gawain’s eyes take in bare, splayed legs, but reassuringly

  … don’t linger. It’s only a hop, skip and glug to the Paradise – the

  Butcher wonders whether to persist with his false flag operation,

  or if Gawain’s sufficiently out of it by now to risk making him conscious

  his companion is one of those … boys who like girls who like

  boys who like boys. It’s well past midnight yet the venerable Victorian

  buildings still heave and pulse – synthy skirls, over-revving car

  engines and frequent bestial howls rend the filmically bright darkness.

  Manchester, the Butcher speculates, has been camouflaged by

  itself: a vast sheet has been thrown over the city, one patterned with

  towers, domes and cupolas – all the superfluous ornamentation

  you’d expect to see if you were arriving by camel for Belshazzar’s

  feast. He relieves Gawain of the Coke, slakes �
�� my dreadful thirst,

  and, backing him into a doorway, breathes sweetly into his expectant

  face: You, um, require a little … adjustment, Lieutenant. Where

  we’re going the dress code is as strict as any mess, but … um,

  messier. The Butcher gets out his little tin of Vaseline, dabs his

  fingers, musses the adorable sandy-blond hair, exulting the while,

  because: He doesn’t flinch! Which gives the Butcher further licence

  to yank Gawain’s shirt-tail from the waist of his preppy chinos.

  There’s nothing he can do about the dreadful blazer – although it

  might count in their favour, since: All the nice girls love a soldier,

  All the nice girls love his Glock … the Butcher sings as they troll

  on … ’Cause there’s something about a nine-millimetre semi-automatic

  pistol that reminds them of a man’s –. This … this is …

  Gawain breaks in … a gay club. Which is, the Butcher, thinks, not

  terribly observant for a man trained in long-range reconnaissance.

  They’ve joined the back of a queue mostly consisting of pumped-up

  clones in tight white T-shirts, who jitter-jig to the chukka-chukka

  ah-ahh spilling from the doors … love’s gone mad again. An outrageous

  figure wearing a green lamé dress and leggings teeters

  between the clones on nine-inch heels. His/her face is plastered

  with white pancake and fissured by blood-red zigzags. Perspex

  fragments embedded in this car-crash maquillage glitter as he/she

  approaches, while the small battery-powered toy car he/she sports

  in lieu of a toque spins its wheels rrrrRRRRrrrrRRRR … ! in

  his/her bleached-blond/blonde bouffant hair-do. He/she waves a

  windscreen-wiper wand, bestowing a blessing on this clone: You’re

  in … and anathema on that one: Off you jolly well fuck … Cuddle

  up, soldier, the Butcher hisses, sliding an arm under Gawain’s

  blazer and round his gorgeous hips … He won’t let uss in if he

  thinkss we’re sstraight. Why? Gawain hisses back. Why do we want

  to get in? Because, the Butcher insistss, it’s only the besst place to

  pick up birdss – no competition! – Ooh! the walking car crash has

  reached them: Somebody can’t keep her hands on her ha’pennies,

  he/she says, shaving Gawain’s cheek with the rubber blade. The

  best a girl can get, eh … Okay – you’re … in! In! In! In! In to

  three storeys chock-full of … abandonment: the dance floor’s a

  heaving mass of bare and sweat-slicked torsos – and the Butcher

  dives in, dragging Gawain behind him. The house music’s satiny

  fabric, stitched together with repetitive beats, enfolds their bodies.

  Gawain’s gyrations – the Butcher coolly notes – are part parade

  ground, part assault course: his hands reaching for invisible holds –

  his feet marching … on the spot. The regimental ram embroidered

  on his blazer pocket is rampant, then couchant, then rampant

  again … annagain. The Butcher thinks of sheep he’s seen grazing

  aloft in scrubby trees … astonishingly agile. The packed dance floor,

  a single entity, throws its arms up … and out! We’re all Action

  Men, the Butcher thinks: drilled to perfection and capable of adopting

  … any pose. Look at the cavalry one, full of pharmaceutical

  fodder – see him canter amongst the clones, his eyes rolled back in

  their sockets … whitely sightless. See his muzzle, flecked with foam

  as he whinnies along with the rest of the prancers: In dance floor

  stag! In leatherman drag! Dressed to please! Stripped to tease!

  Strip for me ’cause I WANT YOUUUU TOOOO! The Butcher,

  conserving his energee, shuffling on the spot, watches as Gawain is

  flayed by the flailing arms – first his blazer, then his shirt – until

  he’s like all the rest. Still the sonic earthquake rumbles on … Still the

  beat doubles and … redoubles, whipping the dancers into yet more

  frenzied gyrations … round annaround, again annagain, until the

  lights start strobing and the hellish inferno of the Paradise Factory

  suddenly … stills. They’re stills, Squilly! the Butcher cries. Nobody’s

  really moving at all! Gawain hunched over, digging a flagstaff into a

  pile of corpses – Gawain bow-legged, riding an invisible horse along

  Whitehall – Gawain, arms outstretched, running down a Vietnamese

  road, his skin … hanging off his back. As the Butcher slots these

  stills into his viewfinder, he edges closer and closer to a revelation

  concerning … perception itself and what it is to truly see! (Who the

  devil d’you think you are … Squilly speaks from out of the burning

  bush – thome thort of philosophucker?) Then the house music begins

  to fade, the house lights come up, and the Butcher sees his quarry

  being led by the nose towards … a bottle of fucking amyl! Now then,

  now then – lads-who-love-lads and lasses who love other … lasses!

  The car-crash trannie is back, standing on the low stage in front of

  the speakers. Enough of yer bloody skrikin’, he/she cries, there’ll be

  time enough fer love when I’ve made the announcements … Thank

  you, Dave Kendrick, fer spinnin’ the discs that risk … Now then,

  now then … there’re representatives from the Lesbian and Gay

  Switchboard in da house handing out da rubbers – he/she tosses

  his/her car-crash head – C’mon, it’s not rocket science – jus’ roll one

  on your rocket, when yer get it outta yer … pocket! The Butcher,

  becalmed at the side of the dance floor, sees eyes-on from the

  balcony: Obvious plods, eh, Squilly … (Plain as the pwoverbial

  pikestaff, Butch) Prob’ly looking for dealers, eh … (Prob’ly – are

  you bothered?) I’m not bothered … (Well, you should be.) Why?

  They’re not Branchers, are they – ‘sides, I’ve never been declared oop

  North … Gawain appears at his side, balled-up shirt and blazer

  clutched to his bare and heaving chest … rubimdownallfoamyin-thestableyard,

  and the Butcher says, You look like you could use a

  little rest and recuperation. They mount through dry-ice clouds,

  past Fred Perries feeding on each other’s faces, into a World of

  Leather: a chill-out room full of the sort of queens the Butcher

  hasn’t seen since the glory days of … the Motor Sport Club. He

  pilots Gawain to a banquette and they slump down – opposite are

  a matching pair, peaked caps, complete with Totenkopf insignia,

  shading rouged cheeks and eyelids caked with mascara. Gawain,

  his eyes bugging out, struggles gamely back into his red shirt.

  BEYOND THIS SIGN, the Butcher thinks, YOU WILL BE

  DOWN RANGE. Slumping down into the stinking vinyl,

  Gawain struggles to articulate: I … I … I’m … and, despite a

  finger pressed against his lips, he won’t be silenced: I’m … I’m

  engaged to be marri–. Until his gob is stopped … with mine.

  Tongues are ropes with which we bind our lovers, the Butcher

  thinks, as he skips around in Gawain’s salty-sweet mouth. Focused

  intently on all the data streaming into him through his nervous

  system, the Butcher is nonetheless assailed by odd images: a dropsical

  fake-gold watch time-swollen, and hanging by
its wristband

  from a mechanical claw … An open telephone junction box – its

  multicoloured tangle of conversation being invisibly combed … He

  hears the icy chimes of the chill-out music shining somewhere in the

  clubbable hubbub – hears also the harsh Alllouaahhh Akhbaaaarrrr!

  of an amplified call to submission – all of which seems perfectly

  appropriate for a first kiss. At first tentatively, but then with greater

  authority … it’s the habit of command! Gawain leans into him,

  forcing the turncoat to … swap sides! I was gagging for it, Squilly

  (So you were, Butch – now you’re gagging on it.) Next, Gawain’s

  hand is probing the Butcher’s crotch – Whoa, Soldier, didn’t you

  hear mein poofy host – keep yer hands on yer ha’pennies, not mine:

  this isn’t some glory hole … and for long moments the Butcher

  recalls the haul through crotch-stinking darkness … his only handholds

  … greasy poles. Gawain’s eyes are shut, his expression is utterly

  guileless – compellingly vulnerable. Right now, Squilly, I could get

  this man to do anything – anything at all. And betray anyone –

  anyone at all. (It’s been a thuccethful appwoach, Butch – no one

  would deny that. But have you given any thought as to how you’re

  going to wun him?) Oh, it’s deep penetration for this one, Squills –

  he’s a keeper, a sleeper, a midnight creeper – (Wooh-wooh, Butch,

  wooh-wooh!) Despite the drugs, the heat and the animal frenzy,

  these are militarily trained men who crave routine … So for the next

  couple of hours they alternate between marching up and down on

  the dance floor and feeling each other up in the chill-out room.

  At about four ayem the car-crash emsee returns to the stage, the

  music stops, and, taking the mic, he/she delivers a little homily:

  Ooh, yer all a little overexcited, children, aren’tcha … No … well,

  seriously now, lissen up! There’s stuff going on out there in the real

  world you lot should pay attention to … But the strung-out ravers

  aren’t paying attention to anything much – just standing around

  snapping each other’s bovver-boy braces. The Butcher, looking

  at Gawain’s top pocket, thinks of the Green Slime’s regimental

  crest … a rampant pansy resting on its laurels. – Lissen up! I’m

  dead-blüddy-serious … He/she holds the mic against his/her