excerpt
“She got big tittaroonis, she like sausage? Can she beat this? ” Driving with
one finger he spreads one of his magazines—The Best of Nubile News—and
drapes it across his lap. It opens at a picture of two plump nude blondes in nazi
helmets wrestling in a mudbath. “Nice, nice! You like? See, it’s called ‘Frolicking
Frauleins’, they have good fun!”
Mr. K closes the glossy centrespread with that leery wink. They’re still in
this infinite tunnel. “At the Seaside they have even more fun, new kinds of fun I
never seen, I, Kraskolkyn!” Mr. K bulges with glee at the absurdity of all this.
He’s shouting over the roar of acceleration. “ Leisure centres, pleasure centres,
whatever, you oughta check it out. Little girl can wait, huh? Or maybe
you bring her back here, meet old Uncle Joe, have a few drinks, fun boy time
for three, why not? ”
“Well, I’m not sure—”
“ Maybe you hide her in your head, yes?” The laughter is slowing to a
growl. Or is it the car? The tissue on Mr. K’s scarred forehead is taut and
empurpled. “Maybe is better if you stay here.”
“I do need to—”
“You don’t wanna stop now . . . And you might meet old Butty on the road.
In the dark, mm! That’s right, he wave his flag for you, he likes you so
much . . .” Kraskolkyn is relaxing again, he’s found a joke. Take it easy. Fumes
swirl in from the darkness. They seem to be speeding through some vast
underground car park.
“Are we near the coast?” Lucas feels this must all be part of the local conurbation
of hotels, guest-houses, holiday homes, ‘running for moonlight miles
along a golden crescent,’—he can’t get the strap-line of those local radio commercials
out of his head. He’ll give Mr Monster the slip. He’ll be beside the
sea-side, scanning for a she-nymph on the sea shore.. he’s beginning to see the
funny side. On the road with a funky tycoon. He could even call his mother,
sort her out, sort something out.
Kraskolkyn swings the huge limo into a parking space, between tight ranks
of trucks and coaches. They have a military look, old, drab, draped in canvas.
Yellow light glares on the tarmac. As Lucas scans the empty spaces between
the squat pillars, Mr K grabs his shoulder. “Come on, boy, you stick with me. I
show you where the nice times are, exclusive!” He’s packed away his executive
kit, his mobile, his nubiles, he’s shifting his bulk on the naughahyde –
“Thanks, Mr. Kraskolkyn,” Lucas swings across and hurls himself out.
“Come back, stupid little prick! ”
He’s twisted his ankle on impact, bruised his fingers but he’s rolled onto
smooth concrete. He picks himself up and runs towards a broken exit sign,
rusty swing doors.
Libros Libertad 