Free The Hunger by Lincoln Townley Page A

saucers. I need a drink. I want to punch someone. I crave a confrontation. Two security guards standing at the entrance to Selfridges move towards me as I run towards them, then, as I get close
enough for them to see the creature they are dealing with, they let me pass. I’m disappointed. I need a drink. My face hurts. I’m struggling for breath. I stop at the Gucci concession
on the ground floor and lean against the wall. No one comes near me. I go to the toilets, throw up and wash my face. I put a toilet seat down and sit on it, my head in my hands. I want to rest. To
be able to rest. I say:
    —Five minutes. All I ask is for five minutes.
    A voice from the next cubicle replies. I know it’s Esurio:
    —Now, you don’t really want to rest, do you? It’s a dangerous thing to rest. It’s easy to get accustomed to a slower pace of life and we don’t want that, do we,
Lincoln?
    —I just want five minutes then I’ll be fine.
    The tone of Esurio’s voice becomes more insistent and I can hear his cane banging on the wall of the cubicle.
    —No! I will not give you five minutes! Get out of here now and keep moving, Lincoln. Keep moving!
    In seconds I’m at one of the cosmetics concessions. The woman serving me is the right side of fifty. She may even have turned sixty. Esurio is shouting across the shop floor:
    —Don’t ever think of slowing down again. So much opportunity and so little time. I will be your timekeeper, Lincoln, and my watch is a machine of perpetual motion. Perpetual, do you
hear me? Perpetual!
    I haven’t a fucking clue what he is saying to me because my attention is locked like a missile on the woman trying various concealers on my skin.
    —There. Perfect.
    She pushes a mirror in front of my face. I can’t see the cuts and the swelling seems less.
    I’ve read about stalkers. I’ve even known people who have been followed by them, but I never really understand them. What do they want? Why don’t they give up? Why
can’t
they give up?
    After she finishes for the day, the woman on the cosmetics counter whose name is Sharon and who is, in fact, sixty-one, meets me at The Office
.
We fuck in three places. The toilets. Then
my flat. Then the toilets again. When we’re done she asks:
    —When can we meet again?
    I don’t understand the depths behind the question. I say:
    —Whenever you want.
    —So, you’re usually here, then, in The Office or at your flat?
    —Sure. Or anywhere in Soho.
    —Look, I need to know. I need you to be specific.
    I’m sober enough to sense that what she’s saying is odd. Esurio chips in before I get too suspicious:
    —She wants you so much, Lincoln, she wants to know where you are
all
the time. That’s your power over women. They just can’t get enough of you. You are the Master!
    I think:
    —You’re so fucking right! You know me better than I know myself.
    So I give her my mobile number and I say:
    —If you can’t find me just call me and we can meet up whenever you want.
    She smiles. I walk out onto the street knowing with absolute certainty that I am the King of Soho. I do not yet know that she is crazy. I get my first hint the next day. I’m going into a
meeting with The Boss when I see a text from Sharon. It says:
    —Where are you?
    I think:
    —I’ll reply when I get out of the meeting. Always good to keep them waiting. Let them know who’s Boss.
    When I get out of the meeting I have over a hundred texts. All from her. Here’s a small selection:
    —Where are you?
    —Where are you?
    —I need to know. Where are you?
    —Please don’t ignore me. Just tell me where you are and we can meet up later.
    —Are you trying to hurt me?
    —Please, please, please, please, tell me where you are.
    —I am not your toy. I deserve respect.
    —I gave you everything.
    —How can you do this to me?
    —Do NOT NOT NOT NOT ignore me.
    —I love you.
    —I hate you.
    —I want to hurt you.
    —Sorry about the last text. I don’t really want to hurt you. I