Irvine Welsh - The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins

— Yes, I do know, because it was—

— Let’s not go there, he shouts, and raises his palms to the side of his head, as Mona looks on intently. He takes a long, deep breath and twists his features into a puppet smile. His voice is low and measured. — Anyway, it’s beside the point. It’s fiction, honey, and you’re being waaay too sensitive. Writers make shit up, that’s what we do.

I also take a deep breath and a slug of my martini. My hand is shaking, as I lower it to the table. I focus on that glass — anything other than his grave, sandpaper-skinned face, or that frozen Botoxed ornament.

— You do it so well, Tom, Mona purrs, and she drops her hand onto his wrist, as his teeth flash in a crocodile grin.

— I’ve been lucky, I guess.

— I don’t think luck comes into it, Tom. .

The hovering waiter returns to take our order as I get control of myself. I can’t be weak and allow a frightened little prick like Austin a seat at this table. I go for a nearly raw steak, with a mixed salad, and order a bottle of red wine. Mona preens and fusses, finally opting for linguine with scallops, shrimps, and clams. Dad, surprisingly, bypasses the steak; he goes instead for some sea bass. — Too much goddamn red meat on this tour, he says, in response to my arched brow. — You see, I do listen to you!

I decide to take the tendered peace offering. I tersely clear my throat. — So how is the Biltmore?

Dad hesitantly turns a weather-beaten smile my way. — The absolute last word in luxury, pickle. I got me one of them poolside cabana suites. It’s surrounded by palms, bougainvillea, and hibiscus. Don’t get me wrong, he swivels back to Mona with a deep grin, — the hotel’s rooms are unbeatable, but when I’m in the tropics I like to feel as if I’m in the tropics, if you catch my drift.

— Oh, totally, Mona almost pants. — Is there a spa?

— Not just a spa, the spa, he says, his eyes twinkling. — You should check it out. If you’re a spa aficionado, it’s pretty much essential.

I’ve had enough. It suddenly dawns on me how easily that bitch left her fucking wheels over at the Biltmore parking. Could she make any more of a play if she tried? I slam back my martini and pull myself to my feet. — This is waaay too gross for me, and it’s fucking well creeping me out. You, thanks for the drink, I say to Dad, pointing at the empty glass, — and you, I turn to Mona, — thanks for nothing! Fucking fake!

I spin on my heel and head to the exit, announcing to the other diners as I point back at her, — Bitch is fucking fake! Ain’t never seen a fuckin faker bitch!

As the waiter approaches with the wine, I can hear Mona pleading in a sorry little voice, — What did I do?

— Nothing whatsoever, the lying pig says. — She’s been under a little pressure. . let’s just let her go and blow off some steam. .

I stop and take a step back toward the table. — Bitch is fake, I again announce to the crowd, — fake ass, fake tits, fake lips, fake hair, fake eyes, fake teeth, fake nose, fake voice. . she’s a fuckin impostor! My Barbie dolls bled more than that bitch!

— Lucy! Please! Dad snaps, on his feet, as diners gasp in horror, and cluck in outrage.

A maître d’ surges forward: — Miss! You really have to leave!

— Don’t worry, I’m going! Bitch’s fake, and I again jab a finger at the crying Mona. — You fake, bitch. You fuckin fake!

Bitch had to take that to the back of her throat like it was a barbed-wire dildo.

And I’m walking out, pushing through the door, into the warm night air. Standing outside in the street, I shout at the faggot valet to get my car. I’m pacing up and down, waiting for the Caddy to appear, as I anxiously check my phone. No calls but five new emails and I realize I’m on Sorenson’s account. One that makes my fucking blood stew:

To: lenadiannesorenson@thebluegallery.com

From: toddpaulsorenson15@twincityhardware.org

Subject: (no subject)

I am your father!

Asshole! I write back:

To: toddpaulsorenson15@twincityhardware.org

From: lenadiannesorenson@thebluegallery.com

Subject: (no subject)

I AM YOUR FUCKING DAUGHTER!!!

As soon as I press send, a psychic rock immediately thuds down in my gut. Fuck. I had myself signed in as Sorenson on my fucking iPhone! I’ve gotten so used to corresponding with those assholes.

I’m waiting for what feels like hours until my Cadillac arrives, watching the dramas of street drunks as they stagger along the sidewalk to the beat of hip hop and EDM from cruising convertibles. I glance back inside through the restaurant window to see Mona spilling fake-bitch tears as Dad’s hairy, withered tree branch of an arm coils around her bony shoulders. I can’t think which one of the two is the more oily, manipulative scumbag.

I jump in the car, leaving the valet without a tip. — Thank you , he minces bitterly.

— Fuck you, I snarl, giving him the finger and speeding off, taking 14th toward Alton. Asshole should have shown some fucking urgency, then I’d have been spared the sight of that fake-assed bitch hitting on my dad. On Alton I’m passing the liquor store when I notice a sloping, shuffling figure emerge, carrying a bottle in a brown paper bag. Timothy Winter. He heads across the parking lot and I do a sharp right turn into it, eliciting a toot from some asshole behind me. I look back to make sure he hasn’t stopped, as I see Winter’s thin, Hawaiian-shirt-clad back appearing in my dipped headlights. I pull up close to him and stop the Caddy. Even though it’s dark, I put my shades on.

As I jump out the car, he turns to me, looking malevolently curious.

— Listen, buddy, I really need a drink. Gimme a slug of that and I’ll buy another when we’re done and then we can party!

His eyes squint in the mottled darkness. Looks to me, then to my beat-up wheels. Then he smiles, exposing those yellow teeth. — Best offer I had all day!

I’ll make you a fucking offer, pedophile trash . I take the proferred bottle from his extended greasy hand, then pivot, smashing it with force across the side of his head. It shatters, leaving me with the jagged base in my hand. I jab it at him, turning my wrist boxer-style, as the twisting spikes and shards of glass rip into his waxy puppet face.

Winter doesn’t make a sound, just rocks back on his heels. Things seem to freeze, then a deluge of blood falls from his face, splashing onto the asphalt. Then his head jerks up and he seems ready to scream, filling his chest with air, but I spring forward and punch the motherfucker hard with a larnyx-crushing blow to his throat, which produces a muffled, gargling noise. Winter’s blinded by the blood and disoriented by the choking as he staggers off, gasping, making for Alton and safety. No dice, short-eyes. I’m right into the car, starting it up, accelerating at his swaying figure, smashing into him, as he spills over the hood and crumples to the ground in a series of staccato thumps. I wind down my window and shout out at the broken mass on the deck, — JUST FOR OLD TIMES, YOU CHILD-BENDING FUCK!

Then I’m tearing out the lot and heading north up Alton.

After the charge of excitement has dissipated, I find myself shaking and sobbing outside Lena’s house on 46th Street. I was so fucking stupid. I could go to prison. For a fucking pedophile . I’m trying to get a grip of myself, to sort out my short, jagged breathing. Suddenly, there’s a tap on the window. Fear is searing my skin; I’m expecting a uniform to be on the end of the knuckles, but instead two sharp black eyes peer at me from in between a mop of dark hair, and an ironic hipster mustache.