The group turns towards Paul Daniels, who is now at their center, holding the object. He does not fill this role for long. Soon the Archbishop arrives, and plucks the metal hoop from the hands of the man they call Paul Daniels, and focus resolves instead on him.
“Bring water!”
The Archbishop snaps this instruction at nobody in particular, and one of his lackeys runs off and returns with a bucket of water that had been standing by the cement mixer.
The Archbishop dips the object into the bucket and cups water with his hand to douse it, as if baptizing an infant.
The crust of dirt slowly dissolves and when the Archbishop pulls the hoop from the water he reveals a golden crown, set with bright gems: blue, red, green, yellow.
“Oh,” they say. “Ah,” they say.
He raises it with both hands, holding it up to examine the stones. The harsh floodlights reflect and refract. The jewels dazzle; their colors true. The Archbishop lifts the crown higher still, then slowly, with liturgical solemnity, lowers it onto his head.
The Death of Debbie McGee
Robert gets up from his bar stool, falters, steadies himself, then pushes through the heavy wooden door and stumbles onto the pavement. He left the company of Precious several hours ago feeling worse rather than better. He hoped spending money on sex would stop him spending money on drink. Sex is better for his health if not his bank balance, and usually it improves his mood.
This evening, it didn’t make him feel better, and he still had enough spare change to continue drinking. He didn’t want to go back to the Behn and explain his absence to Lorenzo, so he went to a different pub and sat alone at the bar, hunched, and ordered a double measure of blended whiskey.
Robert Kerr has fucked for fifty years. He first fucked when he was fourteen. Back in Glasgow, Rangers lost to Celtic catastrophically. A die-hard fan, he got in with a group of supporters who took their love of the club to its murky extremities. Club and country. God Save Rangers; God Save the Queen.
After the game, Robert left the Ibrox with this crowd and found a pub off the Paisley Road. By rights, he was too young to drink and smoke with these hard men but he was big for his age and eager to keep up. They found some girls around the corner and brought them into the back rooms.
One of the girls marked out Robert for herself. She had wide hips, large, white breasts and hair the color of Irn-Bru. She sat on his lap and allowed him to caress the inside of her bare thigh with his fingertips then reach up beneath her dress. An older man saw the beginnings of the assignation. ‘You taking that hen upstairs?’
Robert did. The rooms above the pub were still drenched in wartime ruin. There were blackout blinds but no curtains; holes in the walls where cast-iron light fittings had been removed. The sheets on the bed hadn’t been changed between occupants.
It was in this setting that Robert Kerr first kissed a woman’s lips, first kissed a woman’s nipples, first felt a hand that was not his own grip his dick, first felt a mouth and tongue there. Though young, he knew instinctively what to do. He took the lead.
He fell in love as assuredly as any fourteen-year-old boy in his position would. For him, the red-headed woman who might have been more than twice his age, was the most beautiful thing to have ever walked the banks of the Clyde. At the end of their encounter, he paid the going rate.
That evening, Robert fucked Precious for fifty minutes. He worked up a sweat. Precious wriggled beneath him. She is good at her job but not so good that she could feign interest for almost an hour without letting up. She did her best, Robert could tell, not to look actively bored, but the manufactured excitement and engagement of the first twenty minutes dissipated. Robert felt a stab of guilt. Guilt for taking so long, guilt for being so old and ugly and for inflicting his body upon this beautiful woman, guilt for going out whoring at all.
After Robert left the walk-up, he was followed by the bouncer, Karl. Robert got to the end of the street and turned a corner, then felt a hand on his shoulder.
“What do you want?” Robert asked.
“To let you know that place is finished,” Karl replied.
“Finished how?”
“The landlords have been trying to chuck them out for months. They’re fighting it but they’ve got no chance of winning. They’ll be out soon enough. I’ve already got another job lined up. There’s a bunch of guys down in Surrey who’ve got a place going. All Russian or Eastern European or something and they need blokes like me. And, well, obviously they’re looking for customers.”
Karl reached into the inside pocket of his black leather jacket. He pulled out what looked like a business card, only it had nothing printed on it. He then took out a pencil and wrote a mobile phone number. “If you’re looking for a new place when this one packs up, give me a call.”
Robert took the card and watched Karl as he walked back to his sentry duty.
Surrey. Robert knows of those kinds of places: unlikely looking detached houses on the outskirts of insignificant towns. Boarded up windows. Girls drugged and thrown on beds. Johns handing their cash over to men like Karl. Idiots like Robert picked up by black cars with tinted windows, dropped off again when it was done. It isn’t for him. Maybe it is inevitable, as Karl said it was, but Robert can’t stand those places. He’s seen a few, to his shame, but only for work.
Bugger Karl for lining a job up with those Eastern Europeans while he’s still working for the girls.
