Irvine Welsh - The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins

Fucking patronizing creep; I just want to get close enough to do to his balls what that fish did to poor Jon’s. I open my palms in a conciliatory gesture. — Look, it doesn’t need to be like this. .

Then he suddenly lunges toward me, his hand reaching out and grabbing my chin. I didn’t react. I feel his alcohol breath in my face and I didn’t react. — Know what I reckon? I think you’re the one who’s been up to no good. I can smell it off you!

I have to stand strong. Thank God that the fury is rising, melting fear’s paralysis, and I break his half-grip with a sweep of my forearm, then smack him with a left jab, which rocks him back. It’s not a killer blow, but I’m relieved to be in the zone, reacting like I was trained to do. — I’m warning you, back the fuck off!

He touches some blood around his lip. Looks at it, then me. — Too late for that now, bitch!

Then he leaps at me and, once again, I’m found wanting in my response, trying to bring up my knee, but missing, as we crash to the floor, him on top of me, his weight squeezing my breath out. I’m struggling to get traction, as he’s punching at my face. I’m blocking, but I’m pinned, and if he connects properly and I see stars it’ll be ground-and-pound and it’s all over. My sacred numbers aren’t stacking up. The stats never lie. They predict the outcome of the tennis game before a single ball has crossed the net. The election result before a single vote is counted. And as he connects again, a hook around my guard, I can feel it, feel him , pressing against me, hard against me, and I shout, — STOP!. . and he halts for a second, and I tell him in an urgent, desperate gasp, — . . we should fuck. .

— What?! His fist is clenched above my face, ready to pound down again. — What did you say. .?

— Don’t pretend this isn’t where this is going, that you don’t want to either. . you get off on this as much as I do. .

He looks flabbergasted for a second, then an abhorrent smile rips his face. — Looks like I’ve finally found a bitch who fucking gets me. .

— And some, I pant, as he rocks onto his knees and starts to unbuckle his belt and unzip himself. I’m groping behind me with my left hand, and feel something solid in my grip, I’m thinking it’s a fireside implement, like the brass tongs or a poker. I see his expression change in recognition, but as I lift it and bring it down on him, with everything I’ve got left, I realize it’s the ax, and it’s swinging toward his head: wedging into his skull, almost perfectly splitting his parting.

I immediately feel not just the strength, but the life flooding out of his body, as he collapses, his dead-weight on top of me, half rolling off as I crawl out from underneath him, the ax still embedded in his head. There’s no blood at first. Then it starts to gush out, like a gurgling Miami Beach drain, almost fountainous, soaking into the antique rug. I sit back on the couch, my arms wrapped around myself, unable to move.

I’m there for a very long time, cold in the air conditioning, immobilized as the lifeless body’s blood seeps through the rug, pooling on the wooden floor and flowing slowly toward my feet. Luck, skill, deceit: you can upset the odds. You can force the hand of chance. Fuck the numbers; life is about exceptions. The exceptional make the exceptions, Dad used to say to me.

But to what end?

I don’t care about him. Some people can do nothing except exploit others. They see themselves as lions or tigers, high-end predators, but in reality they’re more like rats or cockroaches, just dirty fucking time-wasting pests. They are there to teach us to be guarded, cautious, and circumspect in our dealings with others. But they are vermin and they need to be crushed. There can certainly be no remorse at their passing.

I look through to Lena’s small office where the big Apple Mac sits on the desk. I’ve really messed things up, and it strikes me that there’s only one thing I can do to try and make it all a little better. And as I get into the computer and Lena’s email account, I can see my perfect opening.

To: lenadiannesorenson@thebluegallery.com

From: mollyrennesorenson@gmail.com

Subject: Please Can We Just Talk?

Lena,

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what you said. I just wish you would try and be less hurtful in your tone and more like the daughter I know. And whom I love more than anything, whatever you might think.

Yes, we do fear for you. Maybe it’s stupid. We’re small-town, God-fearing people, and perhaps we’re wrong to feel that way, but the world sometimes seems such a horrible and dangerous place, and perhaps when you become a mom, you’ll realize the overwhelming need to protect your children.

But I do realize that I have made mistakes, and I want to put it right. I want this because I really love you so much.

I’ve actually lost some weight myself, as I’ve been following a Weight Watchers’ program.

I noticed you have a new iPhone. Can you please answer it when I call?

Love,

Mom xxx

To: mollyrennesorenson@gmail.com

From: lenadiannesorenson@thebluegallery.com

Subject: Yes We Can

Mom,

I’m sorry if I’ve seemed hurtful. I had to get things off my chest. I hope we can now have a more measured correspondence without recourse to manipulative behavior (you) or nasty, coldhearted abuse (me).

First things first: I want to express how proud you’ve made me, taking the first steps with this Weight Watchers’ program. We can argue the effectiveness of different programs, but mine is working very well (I’m at 132 lbs) and we should be encouraging each other. I’m enclosing an exercise plan and a diet sheet, which my trainer, Lucy, feels is appropriate for someone of your weight and age and general health. Follow this and you will see rapid and sustainable improvement.

The iPhone number isn’t mine, but belongs to Lucy. I only borrowed it to check some texts. My own phone isn’t up and running yet, as, to be quite frank, I’m enjoying the freedom from interruptions as I’m working flat out on my new art project and have a deadline of two months from now. After this I’ll get a new phone number sorted out.

I’ve been renting a space in a high-rise in downtown Miami, and working from there rather than the dark old studio. It has great views over the bay, the light floods in, and it’s working wonders with my mood.

Love,

L xxxx

PS Lose the weight for YOU. Dad’s affection/attention shouldn’t be related to how much you come in at on the scale, but if you respect yourself and realize that YOU are worth the effort, then other people will respect you more too.

WHEN YOU SUFFER from depression, you just have to hang in there. I read every darn self-help book on the subject. Unbelievably, following the advice of one, I even wrote stupid letters to and from my ten-year-old self. “Lena, you are such a brave and beautiful person. .” All silly, hollow, useless stuff from snake-oil salesmen, profiteering from the misery of the weak, desperate, and insecure. There are plenty of miserable people in America. I know, because I was one.

It took me a while to realize that Jerry was having an affair with Melanie Clement from the GoToIt gallery in New York. Or not so much to realize it, but to admit to myself that I realized it. I sat and ate and painted and sculpted. Or tried to paint and sculpt. The more I ate, the less I worked. I usually watched movies or shows on cable, pretending, as many artists do, that it was all research, all about the images. How many episodes of CSI Miami do you need to watch?