Alexander Trocchi - Thongs

"No, Painmaster," I said gently. "I didn't scream. I felt no agony of dying. You are not worthy to lick my cunt!" I stood back and kicked him in the face with my bare foot. He fell on the straw. "Tell your betters I have come," I said.

I put my clothes on, unlocked the double doors and left the big house.

Two nights later when I was alone in the flat, someone knocked at the door. I opened it. A man who looked like a tramp stood on the threshold.

"I am looking for Gertrude Gault," he said.

"I am Gertrude Gault," I replied.

"I was to recognize her by a mark on her thigh."

I pulled up my skirt and showed the mark.

"Are you alone?"

I nodded.

"Can I come in?"

I allowed him to enter. He looked around the room in disgust.

"You will not be allowed to live here much longer," he said.

"Who are you?"

"That's not important," he said. "I come on high authority. I have been instructed to mark you with the Holy Seal."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you have been appointed Painmistress for this part of the country."

I gasped. "What about Oakes?"

"The Painmaster is dead," the stranger said. "He committed suicide two nights ago. He nominated you as his successor. The Holy Seat cabled its confirmation today. It is my duty to put the seal on you." He became businesslike. "Are we likely to be disturbed?"

"How long will it take?"

"Fifteen minutes at the most."

I walked over and bolted the door.

"Your skirt," he said, "and whatever you wear under it. Then sit on the table."

I exposed myself for him.

He worked quickly.

First a needle with which he pierced the right lip of my sex. It was not at all painful. He had great dexterity, and with his little bottle of alcohol and cotton wool he was scrupulously clean. Next he passed a gold ring, about the thickness of a wedding ring, through it. This was more painful. I shut my eyes and absorbed the sensation, coveting it. The cross of polished black stone which he now hung from the ring was not heavy. It weighed perhaps an ounce or two. Then he sealed the two rings, the one which passed through the right lip and the one which passed through the top of the cross with a kind of gold metal compound which he sealed with a tiny stamp. I couldn't make out the detail at that distance. And then it was over. He stood back and replaced his instruments in his raincoat pocket.

"Your official inauguration will take place in two weeks' time," he said. "But Mr. Prentice, whom you have already met, will get in touch with you before that. He will explain to you exactly all the duties and privileges of your office. And now I had better go."

As he spoke the last words, there suddenly came a rattling at the door.

"Who locked this bliddy door? Open up this bliddy door!"

"Who's that?" the stranger whispered.

I was transfixed with fear.

"It's my father, Razor King!"

"Your skirt, quick!" the stranger hissed.

I stepped into it quickly. But what did that matter? With the locked door my father would think the worst anyway. He might even use his razors!

"Open up the bliddy door before ah break it down!"

I flashed a glance at the stranger. He nodded towards the door. I slipped across the room and opened it.

My father burst in like a gorilla. He reeked of drink and he had a plump black-haired tart with him.

He stared first at me and then at the stranger.

The woman with him had stopped giggling. She guessed that there was going to be violence.

"Who the bliddy hell are you!"

"I came to see you, Razor King," the stranger said.

"Aye! A likely story! And that's why ye locked the bliddy door on me!"

"I asked your daughter to lock the door because I didn't want to be seen by anybody but you. It would be dangerous if too many people saw us together."

"What the bliddly hell are you talkin about? Dangerous!"

The stranger took two five-pound notes from his pocket and laid them on the table which stood between him and my father.

"Do you want to talk business or don't you!" he snapped.

My father stared at the money, then at me, and then back at the stranger.

"We need a man to do a job," the stranger said. "A man who's not afraid of a fight."

"Who's we?"

"You'll meet the boss next week," the stranger said. "If you'll come to the corner of Jamaica Street and Clyde Street next Friday evening about seven, we'll tell you exactly what it's about." He pushed the two notes towards my father. "Meanwhile you can take that on account."

My father hesitated only momentarily. Then he took the notes and stuffed them into his trouser pocket.

Suddenly he looked sly.

"An whit if ah say ah don't believe ye? Whit if ah wis tae say ah know whit ye were doin here with ma daughter? Whit if ah wis tae bash yer heed in fer ye!"

"You'd be a fool," the stranger replied calmly. "People who pay our kind of money are dangerous. You'd lose money and you'd end up stiff in the river."

It was the wrong thing to say to Razor King when he was drunk.

"We'll see who's dangerous!" Razor King snarled and whipped one of his big razors out of his pocket.

Simultaneously the stranger produced an ugly black automatic.

"One wrong move from you, Gault, and I'll shoot you in the belly."

Razor King, the open razor in his hand, stared at the gun. A look of dawning comprehension passed over his heavy features. In that confined space, he wouldn't stand a dog's chance. The man would shoot him dead before he had moved a foot. He closed the razor and said in a wheedling tone: "This job you were talkin aboot? How much would there be in it fer me?"

"Twenty more next Friday, and forty when you've done the job."

"Ah'll be there," Razor King said. "Now get oot before ah change ma mind and mark ye!"

The stranger did so quietly and efficiently, covering Razor King with the gun until he was right outside the door. Razor King kicked the door shut with his foot. He stared at me for a moment, and then, remembering the money in his pocket, his ill-humor left him. He winked at the woman.

"Let's go on oot an get a wee drink first!" he said.

They left a minute after the stranger.

With a sigh of relief, I sat down on the cot.

With Johnnie, it had to happen.

I never knew whether Hazel had received instructions. But that doesn't matter.

During Razor King's periodic drunken bouts, Hazel was alone with Johnnie. He still sat watching her. She would be washing at the sink, or putting on her silk stockings, or brushing her hair. We all — Hazel, Johnnie and myself — saw it coming. Johnnie was waiting. For some time now he had bothered less to conceal his desire.

But still he waited.

And then, a few days after the visit of the stranger, he made his first overt move. Did Hazel force it?

Johnnie reached out with his hand and caught Hazel by the wrist. The choice was still Hazel's. If she had freed herself, Johnnie would probably have been content to wait. As she stared into his eyes, the knowledge came to her that he would do as she wished him to do. His eyes appraised her, posed a question. And Hazel smiled.

"You'll be awa' ott, Gertie."

I realized at once what it meant.

That night Hazel became Johnnie's mistress.

From then on it was a question of days.

Razor King, habitually drunk now, took Hazel as a bull takes a cow. And sometimes Ella was here too. That was the dark woman. The one who had giggled. The King took them both to bed, the one giggling, the other cool.

Johnnie watched.

And then, toward the end of the week, on the Saturday night before the fatal Sunday, he told Hazel that she would not sleep with his father again. Hazel, responding passionately, held him tightly in her arms, and I wondered as she did so what she was doing and why she did it, for I knew she loved neither man. I knew it was not her intention to remain for long in the squalor of the Gorbals, even as its queen. It occurred to me then and it must have occurred to Hazel a long time before that as strong as these men were — my father, the wolf of the slums, men like him — there were others in the city who could crush them by lifting a telephone. Neither Johnnie nor my father would ever have admitted that, and as long as they inhabited the narrow world of violence in the Gorbals, as long as they did not encroach on the wider, more profitable territory of the city at large, the truth would never be forced upon them. The situation in the Gorbals was tolerated because it did not threaten city interest. Thus, Hazel's reality was the reality of neither man. She had grown up among them, despising them, accepting for the present the love of the strongest, making plans for an entirely different future to begin at the moment she was free to choose. Perhaps it was because she knew that the moment was about to arrive that she accepted Johnnie as a lover. And the idea of certain conflict fascinated her.