Midnight All Day (17 page)

It was cold now. Everything was freezing, the metal of the cars, the sap in the plants, the earth itself. He passed through familiar streets, made unfamiliar by the snow. Many houses were dark; people were starting to go away. As the snow thickened, a rare and unusual silence also fell on the city. He walked faster, swinging his arms inside his coat until he was warm. He thought of the dying man he had met at the door of the school, and of what a terrible thing it was that he hadn’t recognised him. He wanted to find the man and say to him, we all grow different and change, every day; it was that, only that. Certainly, no sooner did Alan think he’d understood something of himself than he was changed. That was hope.

From a certain point of view the world was ashes. You could also convert it to dust by burning away all hope, appetite, desire. But to live was, in some sense, to believe in the future. You couldn’t keep returning to the same dirty place.

He ran up the steps to the house. The light was on. He knew
things would be all right if she were wearing the dressing gown he had given her.

In the kitchen she was heating a quiche and making salad. She looked at him without hostility. Not that she spoke; he didn’t either. He watched her, but was determined not go to her. He believed that if he could cut his desire for her out of himself, he could survive. At the same time he knew that without desire there was nothing.

Sitting there, he thought that he had never before realised that life could be so painful. He understood, too, that no amount of drink, drugs or meditation could make things better for good. He recalled a phrase from Socrates he had learned at university: ‘A good man cannot suffer any evil, either in life or after death.’ Wittgenstein, commenting on this, talked of feeling ‘absolutely safe’. He would look it up. Maybe there was something in it for him, some final ‘inner safety’.

They changed into their night clothes and at last got into his favourite place, their bed. Opening her dressing gown he put his hand on her stomach and caressed her. For a short while she lay in his arms as he touched her. Then she touched him a little, before turning over and falling asleep.

He started to think of his sleeping son, as he always did at this time, wondering if Mikey had woken up and was talking to him ‘through the floor’. He wanted to go and kiss his son goodnight, as other fathers did. Perhaps he would have another son, and it would be different. He looked around the room. There wasn’t enough space for a wardrobe; their
clothes were piled at the end of the bed. On a chair next to him, illuminated by a tilting lamp, was a copy of
Great
Expec
tations,
a bottle of massage oil encrusted with greasy dust, his reading glasses, a glass with a splash of wine in it, and a notebook.

His life and mind had been so busy that the idea of sitting in bed to write in his journal, or even to read, seemed an outlandish luxury, the representation of an impossible peace. But also, that kind of solitude seemed too much like waiting for something to start. He had wanted to be disturbed; and he had been.

He knew their resentments went deep and continued to grow. But he and Melanie were afraid rather than wicked. In their own, clumsy way, they were each fighting to preserve themselves. Love could be torn down in a minute, like taking a stick to a spider’s web. But love was an admixture; it never came pure. He knew there was sufficient love and tenderness between them; and that no love should go wasted.

Alfie was having breakfast with his wife at the kitchen table.

He couldn’t have slept for more than three hours, having been out the previous night. He was a cutter – a hairdresser – and had to get to work. Once there, as well as having to endure the noise and queues of customers, he had to make conversation all day.

‘Did you have a good time last night?’ his wife asked.

They had got married a year ago in Las Vegas.

‘I think so,’ he said.

‘Where did you go?’ She was looking at him. ‘Don’t you know?’

‘I can remember the early part of the evening. We all met in the pub. Then there was a club and a lot of people. Later there was a porn film.’

‘Was it good?’

‘It wasn’t human. It was like a butcher’s shop. After that … it gets a little vague.’

His wife looked at him in surprise.

‘That’s never happened before. You always like to tell me what you’ve been doing. I hope it’s not the start of something.’

‘It’s not,’ said Alfie. ‘Wait a minute. I’ll tell you what I did.’

He pulled his jacket from where he had left it, over the back of a chair.

He would examine his wallet and see how much money he had spent, whether he had any cocaine left, or if he had collected phone numbers, business cards or taxi receipts that might jog his memory.

He was fumbling in his inside pocket when he found something strange.

He pulled it out.

‘What’s that?’ his wife said. She came closer. ‘It’s a penis,’ she said. ‘You’ve come home with a man’s penis – complete with balls and pubic hair – in your pocket. Where did you get it?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘You better tell me,’ she said.

He put it down on the table.

‘I don’t make a habit of picking up stray penises.’ He added, ‘It’s not erect.’

‘Suppose it does start to get hard? It’s big enough as it is.’ She looked more closely. ‘Bigger than yours. Bigger than most I’ve seen.’

‘That’s enough,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I don’t think we should keep looking at it. Let’s wrap it in something. Get some kitchen roll and a plastic bag.’

When it wriggled they were both staring at it.

‘Get that thing off my kitchen table!’ she said. She was
about to become hysterical. ‘My mother’s coming for lunch! Get it out of here!’

‘I think I will do that,’ he said.

A few minutes later, to his surprise, he was walking down the street with a penis in his pocket.

His instinct was to drop it in a dustbin and go straight to work, but after a few minutes’ consideration he thought he would take it to an artist whose hair he cut, a sculptor who usually worked in faeces and blood. The sculptor used to work in body parts, but had got into trouble with the authorities. Nevertheless, he might find the opportunity to work with a penis irresistible. The art dealers, who yearned for more and more horrible effects, would be fascinated. Alfie would get paid. His wife had told him that he should become more ‘business minded’. More than anything she wanted him to appear on television.

Alfie was heading in the direction of his friend’s house when he saw a policeman walking towards him. Quickly, he pulled the wrapped penis out of his pocket and let it fall to the ground. People threw litter down all the time. It wasn’t a serious crime.

He had scarcely gone a few more yards when a schoolgirl ran up behind him, waving the bag and telling him he had dropped his breakfast. Thanking her, he stuffed it back in his pocket.

His teeth were chattering. He didn’t want the ‘thing’ in his pocket one more second.

He turned a corner and found himself crossing the river. Making sure no one was watching, he tossed the penis over the side of the bridge and watched it fall.

Then he noticed that under the bridge a passing cruiser was taking tourists down the river. A voice was commenting through a megaphone: ‘On the left we can see … and on your right there is a particularly interesting historic monument.’

Meanwhile, the penis, coming loose from its covering, was hurtling towards the upper deck.

Alfie fled.

Less than a mile away, Doug, an actor, got out of bed and strolled into his new bathroom. He was in his early forties, but looked superb.

The next day he was about to start work on the biggest film of his life. It was a costume drama, a classy production, which meant he didn’t have to take his prick out of his breeches until the tenth minute. The director was excellent and Doug had chosen his female co-stars himself, for their talent as well as their size. Doug had intended to spend the day in the gym. After he would get his hair and nails done, before retiring early to bed with the script.

It wasn’t until he passed the mirror on the way to the shower, and looked at himself for the first time that day, that he realised his penis was missing. The whole thing had gone, penis, scrotum, even his pubic hair.

Doug thought he might faint. He sat on the edge of the bath

with his head between his legs, but the position only reminded him of his loss.

He had been ‘in’ pornography since he was a teenager, but recently the market had started to boom. Pornography had penetrated the middlebrow market and he, coupled with Long Dong – the professional moniker he had given his penis – was becoming a recognisable star.

Doug had appeared on TV chat shows and in mainstream magazines and newspapers. He believed he was entitled to the gratitude and respect that comedians, singers and political impersonators received. After all, distracting the fickle public was arduous and required talent and charm. Uniquely, Doug offered that which most people never saw: the opportunity to witness others copulating; fascination and intoxication through the eyes.

Many men envied Doug his work and some had even attempted it. How many of them could keep it up, under hot lights and with a film crew around them, for hours on end, year after year? Doug could sustain an erection all day and sing something from
Don
Giovanni
while checking his shares in the
Financial
Times.
Hadn’t hundreds of thousands of people witnessed his stick of rock and the jets of gushing, blossoming jissom that flew across his co-stars’ faces?

If he lost his manhood, his livelihood would go with it.

Thinking fast now, Doug conjectured whether, late at night, he had taken Long Dong out somewhere and slapped it down on a table. In bars and at parties, all over the world, the publie
loved asking questions about his work. Like most stars, he adored answering them. At some point someone, usually a woman, asked to see Long Dong. If the time and place was right – Doug had learned to be wary of making the men envious and causing friction between couples – he would let them peek. The ‘eighth wonder of the world’, he called it.

However, he had never mislaid his greatest asset before – his only asset, some people said.

Doug went to the bars and clubs he had visited the previous night. They were being cleaned; the chairs were upended on the tables and the light was bright. Someone had left behind a shoe, a shotgun, a pair of false eyelashes and a map of China. No penis had been handed in.

Bewildered, he was standing outside on the street when, across the road, he saw his penis coming out of a coffee shop accompanied by a couple of young women. The penis, tall, erect and wearing dark glasses and a fine black jacket, was smiling.

‘Hey!’ called Doug as his penis stepped into a cab, politely letting the women go first.

Doug hailed another taxi and told the driver to follow the first one. In front he could see the top of his penis. The girls were kissing him and he was laughing and talking excitedly.

The traffic was bad and they lost sight of the cab ahead.

After driving around, Doug decided to go into a bar and consider what to do. He was furious with his penis for flaunting itself round town like this.

He had ordered a drink when the barman said, ‘If it’s quiet in here it’s because that penis from all the films has gone into a bar along the road.’

Is that right?’ said Doug, jumping up. ‘Where?’

The barman gave him directions.

A few minutes later he was there. By now it was lunchtime and the place was so crowded Doug could hardly get through the door.

‘What’s going on here?’ he asked.

‘Long Dong’s arrived,’ said a man from a TV crew. ‘I’ve seen all his films – at a friend’s house, of course.
Dickhead
is my favourite. The big guy’s a star.’

‘Is that right?’ said Doug.

‘Are you a fan?’

‘Not at the moment.’

Doug tried to push through the crowd but the women wouldn’t let him through. At last he scrambled onto a chair and spotted his penis standing at the bar, accepting drinks, signing autographs and answering questions like a true professional.

‘You people have put me where I am today,’ he was saying, grandly. ‘I feel I should repay you all. What are you drinking?’

Everyone cheered and called out their orders.

‘What about me!’ shouted Doug. ‘Who made you?’

At this Long Dong looked up and caught the eye of his owner. Quickly he made his apologies – and bolted. By the time Doug had shoved his way through the crowd, the penis
had disappeared. Doug ran out into the street, but there was no sign of it.

All day, everywhere he went, he heard stories of the remarkable penis, not only of its size and strength, but of its warm way with strangers.

The one person Doug did run into was Alfie, drinking alone in the dark corner of an unpopular bar. Alfie was distraught, convinced the police were pursuing him not only for stealing a penis and trying to sell it, but for dropping it on the head of a Japanese tourist passing beneath Tower Bridge on a pleasure cruiser.

‘I recognise you from somewhere,’ said Doug.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Alfie. ‘Maybe. I have the feeling we were together last night’

‘What were we doing?’

‘Who knows? Listen –’

Alfie explained that he felt terrible about the whole business. If Doug ever wanted a free haircut, he’d be very welcome. He even offered to give him one immediately.

‘Another time,’ said Doug.

He didn’t have time now to consider such things. He had embarked on the search of his life.

‘Just let me know when you want a trim,’ said Alfie. ‘The offer will always be open.’

It wasn’t until the evening, wandering about the city at random, that Doug caught sight of his penis again, this time sitting in a workman’s caff. It was in disguise by now, with a hat
pulled down over its head and its collar up. Doug could see it was suffering from celebrity fatigue and wanted to be alone.

Doug slid into the seat beside it. ‘Got you,’ he said.

‘Took you long enough,’ said the penis. ‘What do you want?’

Doug said, ‘What do you think you’re playing at – making an exhibition of yourself in this way?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘We’ve got to take it slowly. If there’s one thing that makes everyone nervous, it’s a big fat happy thing like you.’

‘I’ve had enough of your nonsense,’ said the penis.

‘Without me, you’re nothing,’ said Doug.

‘Ha! It’s the other way round! I’ve realised the truth.’

‘What truth?’

‘You are a penis with a man attached. I want out.’

‘Out where?’

‘I’m going solo. I’ve been exploited for years. I want my own career. I’m going to make more serious films.’

Doug said, ‘Serious films! We’re starting the follow up to
Little
Women
tomorrow –
Huge
Big
Women,
it’s called.’

‘I want to play Hamlet,’ said the penis. ‘No one has quite understood the relationship with Ophelia. You could be my assistant. You could carry my script and keep the fans away.’

Doug said, ‘You mean, we won’t be physically attached ever again?’

The penis said, ‘I would be prepared to come back under your management, as I quite like you. But if I do, the arrangement
would have to be different. I would have to be attached to your face.’

Doug said, ‘Where on my face exactly would you like to be attached? Behind my ear?’

‘Where your nose is now. I want to be recognised, like other stars.’

‘You’ll get sick of it,’ warned Doug. ‘They all do, and go crazy.’

‘That’s up to me,’ said Long Dong. ‘There will be cures I can take.’

The penis took a sausage from the plate in front of him and held it in the middle of Doug’s face.

‘It would be like that, only bigger. Cosmetic surgery is developing. In the future there’ll be all kinds of novel arrangements. What do you say to being a trendsetter?’

‘What of my scrotum? It would … ahem … hang over my mouth.’

‘I’d do the talking. I’ll give you an hour to decide,’ said the penis, haughtily. ‘I’m expecting other offers from agents and producers.’

Doug could see that Long Dong was beginning to shrink back into himself. It had been a fatiguing day. When at last his eyes closed, Doug picked the penis up, popped it into his pocket and buttoned it down.

Doug rushed across town to see a cosmetic surgeon he knew, a greedy man with a face as smooth as a plastic ball. He had remade many of Doug’s colleagues, inserting extensions
into the men’s penises, and enlarging the breasts, lips and buttocks of his female colleagues. Few of these actors would even be recognised by their parents.

The surgeon was at dinner with several former clients. Doug interrupted him and they walked in the surgeon’s beautiful garden. Doug laid the sleeping penis in the surgeon’s hand.

He explained what had happened and said, ‘It’s got to be sewn on tonight.’

The surgeon passed it back.

He said, ‘I’ve extended dicks and clits. I’ve implanted diamonds in guys’ balls and put lights in people’s heads. I’ve never sewn a penis back on. You could die on the table. You might sue me. I’d have to be recompensed.’

As the objections continued, Doug begged the man to restore him. At last, the surgeon named a sum. That was almost the worst blow of the day. Doug had been well paid over the years, but sex money, like drug money, tended to melt like snow.