height was still thick enough to effectively obscure the print of Hockney’s Mulholland Drive on the far wall. Someone had crashed through a glass coffee table, the remains of which had been pushed into a corner. Empty champagne and Absolut vodka bottles littered the floor. A half-eaten pizza was left peeking out from under the sofa.
Their quarry was three years in the grooming. The networking, the lobbying, the oiling, it had all led up to this night. Now, he would be three hours, three minutes, in the destroying. Their pretty boy Icarus, flying too close to the sun. Now he had to fall to earth, to reclaim his place among the peasants. To realise that he had been flying too high.
The day is short, but life is long.
A mini-roar went up as he stepped forward, feeling like a gladiator entering the arena, confident of victory, assured of respect. Preliminaries over, he pushed the prostrate Icarus’ legs apart, lent forward and eased his way inside. Gently at first, a little tentatively, and then with more confidence and some swagger, he began thrusting. His breathing soon synchronised with that of the other man as he found his rhythm. Feeling a response beneath him, he let his speed increase. This was going to be good. Better than good. This was going to be… perfection.
Sine metu. Without fear.
Reaching down for Icarus’ penis, which was warm, velvety and pleasingly firm, he made a half-hearted attempt to bring him to climax, which did not survive the first jeers of the audience. Ignoring the catcalls, he tossed back his majestic black mane and felt the sweat beading on his forehead. His mouth was dry. His heart felt as if it could jump out of his chest. He sensed every beat of it as if it could be his last. He had to remember to breathe in and breathe out. The combination of Krug, Lebanese Gold and amyl nitrite coursing through his system helped relax him and further heightened the sense of satisfaction. He knew he was grinning madly, and he couldn’t stop. This was what he had always wanted. This was where he was supposed to be. At the centre of things. In charge. On top. Going deeper, where he no longer had to contemplate his actions.
This was being, not doing.
Now it was just about the two of them. Everything else had dissolved into nothingness. Duran Duran, blaring out ‘The Reflex’ from the tape machine on the stereo, sounded as if they had retreated far into the upper atmosphere, along with the laughter and cheers of the others watching. The shining semi-darkness of the room was left far behind as he floated out of his body and looked down on the indistinguishable mass he had become.
A pained whimper from below brought him back to something approaching consciousness. Trapped wind escaped from the boy’s anus like a spectacular fart, prompting more laughter from the surrounding gloom. The smell of shit rising from his conquest disgusted and excited him. It smelt of fear. Of corruption. Of defeat. He lent forward and breathed in deeply.
He tickled the boy’s balls, pushing down on the back of his neck with his forearm at the same time. He had never felt this hard, or this strong, or this much in control. This was it, his John Travolta moment.
He was Tony Manero.
He had read somewhere that filming Saturday Night Fever had been such a buzz for Travolta that when he finished he wanted to head right out and fuck Jane Fonda, at that time the biggest sex symbol in the world. He knew the feeling. But she was getting on a bit now, so bring on Helen Mirren. For that matter, bring on Kathleen Turner. Bring them both on. And all the rest. Bring them all on. Line them up into the night and lay them down in front of him. At that moment, there was not a single person in the world that he did not want to fuck; to fuck them right apart.
He could go on forever. He wanted to go on for ever.
‘Get on with it!’ shouted a drunken voice.
Someone else giggled. ‘Others are waiting, you know!’
‘Hurry up!’
Something bounced off his back. A bottle of beer was poured over his head.
‘He’s fucking for England!’
‘It’s the rape of Lucretia… part two.’
‘I think he’s enjoying it too much.’
‘Fucking pervert.’
‘Come on you… you poofter!’
More giggles. ‘Use it or lose it!’
It was time to concentrate. To cross the finish line, get it done. Holding on for dear life, he had to force himself still further inside his new-found soul mate, in search of that twitch in the groin that told you there was no way back. The moment when you were ready to shoot your load, and would have happily fucked a rabid pit bull to make it happen. A few more thrusts and he found it. He grunted and let go. Stars exploded before his eyes and behind his brain. The cheering reached a crescendo. He collapsed into one final caress, before various hands dragged him away.
Crawling on to a couch in a corner of the room, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the next man taking his turn. His dick, smeared with shit, was still throbbing. He lovingly squeezed it with his right hand and felt the blood pumping through it. Gently caressing it, he felt it begin to harden again before letting it go. Reaching down to the floor, he picked up a crumpled tailcoat, pulling it over his nakedness.
He lay there feeling at one with the universe. The signals going to his pituitary gland prompted the release of a flood of endorphins, the body’s own form of morphine, into his bloodstream, sending a flood of exhilaration and well-being through his body. This truly was bliss. Even if he lived for another sixty… or seventy… or eighty years, he knew that this could never be bettered. However, wherever, whenever he lay on his deathbed, he would remember this moment with a smile on his face, while his wife – some pretty young thing, wife number two, or maybe number three – and his gaggle of children and grandchildren looked on, distraught as their world crumbled around them.
A cheer went up as the next man dismounted, still in a state of considerable excitement, his right arm pumping furiously. He looked up and saw an arc of semen heading towards the door. ‘The cleaner’s not going to like that!’ someone squeaked, as it splashed across the wooden floor.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the amused expression on his brother’s face. The place was wrecked. Food, booze, glass and god knows what else everywhere. It looked like a bunch of coked-up, incontinent chimpanzees had run amok with Uzis. Not that it mattered. Like it or not, his cleaning lady could sort it out tomorrow. That’s what he paid her a more than generous?1.50 an hour to do. Tonight he cared not a jot. Oblivious to tomorrow, he lay there, panting like a dog, basking in the glow of the best sex that he had ever had. The best sex that he would ever have.
The day had gone; life is short.
NINE
With money to burn, the average world traveller of The Garden Hotel’s itinerant tribe of global travellers would probably not expect to swing even a small cat for somewhere north of three hundred pounds a night, and in room 329 they would not have been disappointed. The room was small, but perfectly formed. ‘Simple, serene, practical and pure – but full of wit, style and surprise’, had been the description of the decor, in the hotel’s brochure. Someone had certainly got a surprise here, thought Carlyle, as he pulled out his mobile phone and called for reinforcements.
Ending the call, Carlyle shivered. The air-conditioning had been left fully on, so the room temperature was now easily below sixty degrees. The man in front of him was naked, lying face down on a queen-sized bed that was almost too big for the room. It was hard to tell, but the victim looked about Carlyle’s age, maybe just shy of six feet tall and in reasonable shape. Apart from the fact that he was dead, of course. He had a bit of a mullet, Carlyle noted, and was thinning on top. His clothes had been draped over the back of the chair (an ‘Ecole Nissim de Camondo designed Lucite chair’ no less) in one corner. A pair of expensive-looking loafers, Charles Church or a similar brand, had been placed neatly beside the chair, in front of drawn curtains which were now splattered with blood.
Scanning the room, Carlyle decided that he had seen much worse. The most arresting touch was the knife gleaming, as if self-satisfied, in the room’s twilight. It looked like a standard kitchen item. It was, however, sticking
