A SATIRE OF EDINBURGH'S LGBT SCENE
CHAPTER 5: MI6
INVESTIGATES
When Malky went to sit down with his three women friends in Saturn’s,
he saw the wafer-thin pate-head Eric McVey stretching his limbs
around an oval, mahogany table with several of his shifty buddies.
Malky therefore encouraged his companions to settle themselves at a
square, white table to the right of the imitation medieval stone
fireplace, pointed the silver arrowhead in his elongated belly button
in the direction of the people he wished to put under surveillance,
and took a tug at the tiny titanium ZOOM lever that was craftily
embedded into the pit of his chest.
“The fireplace is as fake as the atmosphere,” said the
trans woman with the elegant set of silver teeth.
“It’s as fake as the smart Alecs and plastic gnomes who
dance into the shadows of the night,” agreed her equally delightful
companion, adjusting her beautifully encrusted dress.
Malky femto-fi devices enabled him to hear any nearby
conversations or mutterings which might be of interest, with extreme
precision, in his own left ear. He presumed there must be some
scientific reason for this. Maybe it’s something to do with my
new emerald earring, he deliberated, and the vicious
hole Hamish punched in my earlobe is still hurting!
“Winnie was so versatile,
such an important part of my life, like a husband and wife entwined
all together,” twittered
Eric McVey, with a deft twist
of his long, untrimmed moustache.
“She, or they, to
be politically correct,
helped me to devise
my neo-liberal strategies for
the weak-kneed Lib Dems, and
what a far cry from the Orange Order they were! She lined up our
reprobates
in the graveyard on
Calton Hill, and
they've helped us to hit on
the expendable while protecting the czars from the hoi
polloi. Now, that talkative
church secretary at
St Manion's on the Mound,
we laid him out cold with a
broom-handle
up his Nebuchadnezzar!”
“And they reported that
the pervo died from a massive stroke!”
whispered a pock-faced fellow with one arm and two artificial legs.
“It reminds me of the time that silly
trans nursery minder was
starved to
death in her gang's safehouse
somewhere
behind Rose
St.
The crown agent recorded it
as a gigantic adverse
reaction to the
bitch's insulin injections.”
“That was in October 2007,
as I remember,” murmured McVey, with a gentle smile, “and
the location was known as Fred's House.”
“I once worked there, as a
gimp in a cage,” mumbled
a proud,
middle aged man known as the
Spirit of Eromenus.
“That's where they should have kept you,” retorted McVey,
with a rude scowl.
“Maybe it's time for the
Knights and Dames of the Sacred Orb
to cultivate a better public image for itself,” muttered a
sprightly lady from Silverknowes. “A bit like the Wolf
Pack or the Prime
Resisters maybe. They
recently
received
favourable attention from the Evening News.”
“No chance,” growled
McVey, grimacing like a
Rottweiler. “St.
Aidan would turn in his slimy grave.”
“I don't approve of you,
one single iota,” protested
the Spirit,
heading for the door.
“Good riddance to bad
rubbish,” burbled McVey, preening
himself.
Dr. Ben Hopkins heard none of
that conversation when he arrived pushing his redoubtable walker
Audacious. But when he sat down with Malky, Eugenia and their trans
friends at the white table,
McVey stood up, rudely scratched
his protruding self, and glared.
At that, Malky did something
extremely silly. He leapt onto his seat, waved his arms like the
wings of an eagle,
and yelled “Down Schlosshund Meister!”
while knowing full well that he was calling McVey a 'master of
lapdogs'.
The neo-fascist,
socio-economic advisor for the local Lib Dems scowled angrily and
stalked over like an orang-utan on heat. And
it was Ben who
he eye-balled full in the
face.
“I'm surprised you've
finally returned to
the scene after all these years, Hoppy-creep,”
raged McVey.
“I remember a scar-faced
skinhead bartender called
Fergus kicking you out of
Chumps on your scrawny
posterior
after you bawled out Judge Antony during one of your all too frequent
psychopathic
psychoses. You even imagined that they'd disappeared that
nosey Czech law student, the one who thought he was Michael Jackson.
You actually accused
them of drowning him in the Union Canal. What
a laugh! While you were ranting away
like an imbecilic moron, the
supposed victim was getting himself royally laid
in Gran Canaria! The
shrink-heads
should have sent you back to the
Professorial Ward, where you
truly belong.”
McVey must be that weird pixie who hid in the corner of
Chumps all those years ago.
deliberated Ben. Only the fag hags liked him.
“If you are referring to
handsome Kvido from Ostrava,”
Ben calmly replied, “he disappeared after bravely
confronting Fergus and Judge
Antony about all the 'bad bad things' they were doing, and I haven't
set eyes on
the poor little blighter since. Judge Antony death-threated me when I
questioned him on the issue and, while
Fergus O'Flagerty admitted
that they'd disappeared Kvido, he became quite unruly when I tried to
press the issue. I wasn't surprised when Fergus's much battered body
was discovered on a level crossing a couple of years later.”
“Balderdash!” howled McVey. “If you don't put in a
disappearance act yourself, I'll send my vigilantes after you. That I
will!”
“Hey guys!”
retorted Eugenia Slotsky-Pereira, rising to her feet. “Let's get
the Hell out of this flipping
dive.”
And so they did.
The
two trans women scarpered, and Eugenia
very craftily decided to take Ben and Malky to Chumps,
only a few yards up Leith Walk. She
also texted Hamish inviting him to join them, and
he replied that he'd come by back of eight.
Chumps was confined to a
long, rectangular room, the mahogany long faded, the high, decorative
plaster ceiling given to streaks of mildew. The Victorian-esque
bar ran the entire length of the wall to the left, and five nubile
barmen, and
a butch, ill-mannered
barmaid who was also the resident
DJ, stood there, like
fallen angels, in
tightly-fitting, black
Hellbat suits, wagging
their white bobtails, as ever eager to serve. The
pot-bellied,
giraffe-necked bar manager
was patrolling them with his usual saucy
diligence, while reserving his sternest finger waggings for zero-hour
contract employees pouring more than the standard measures for extra
tips. “So what if you can't pay your rent?” he would yell. “The
world doesn't owe you a living. You
can always haul yourself
down to my office.”
I'd love to stretch his neck,
thought Malky, while he was
carrying
three gin and tonics, without
the benefit of a tray, to an
oak table by the crystal
glass window, with its
daunting view from below of the £300 a night Glasshouse
hotel next door.
“I never could ascertain the precise nature of the 'bad bad
things' that Judge Antony and Fergus O'Flaherty were said to be doing
in 2008,” Ben was saying, when a ghost-like personage stirred in
the far corner, and rose to his feet.
“Hi there, Malky,” said the
once distinctively
handsome gentleman,
wandering up. “I saw you a
few minutes ago in Saturn's,
and you made my heart soar like
an albatross.”
Malky frowned and stuck out his tongue. “How do you know my
name?”
“You must have put your hi
tech devices into reverse. I am the
Spirit of
Eromenus, and I've heard
your entire gabfest
for over ten wearying
minutes. May I sit down?”
Ben beckoned politely, towards the comfy seat. “Do tell us
the story of your life, kind Sir. I'm sure that it will be all
revealing.”
The Spirit
took a sip of his sparkling
mineral water, sat
down like a mechanical robot, and
rolled his fading green
eyes. “I am now fifty
years old, my friends and stricken with the death virus. I
came out in Edinburgh at the age of nine, and during the mid
80s I was a gimp in a cage in
Fred's House on Rose
Street South Lane.
I recall locking myself in my cage wearing nought but a pair of
rubber shorts with two holes
in it. The going rate in those days was ten quid
a time
and I typically made a
hundred smackers in a single
night
even after I'd paid Fred his 20%. The élite
of Edinburgh would come to my cage: clergy, lawyers, politicians, the
whole ball of was.
But I never was able to distinguish an iota of tendresse from
a single one of them.”
“That must have damaged
your entire
life,” murmured Eugenia.
“How on earth did you manage to escape to reality?”
The Spirit
sighed heavily. “I didn't,
largely
because of the cocaine, though nowadays I endeavour to survive on my
benefits.”
“But how did you manage to circulate the key to your
cage?”asked Ben, realising that the gimp would have kept the key
following each visit.
The Spirit grinned
merrily.
“I often handed it out myself in Fire Island
on Princes Street, before
retreating along the ancient slave passage from Cicero's Cellar Bar
to Fred's zany
basement.”
Fire Island was one of the leading gay clubs in
Europe, mused Ben, until
it went bottoms up and Waterstone's moved in. It dazzled with
colourful lights, and resounded with the music
of the day and the morrow. I once drank with
Freddie Mercury there. He was such a sweetie.
Ben coughed politely. “Were
the pimps of any assistance?”
“Spot on, Daffy
Duck!” replied
the Spirit.
“Sometimes
the man we call Judge Antony sold
my key for me. That bastard
was the biggest phoney I have ever met. He would insist on turning
me himself
each evening, for free. I am
saying this simply to give you an indication of the sorts of 'bad bad
things' which he and Fergus might have been doing in 2008, though I
don't know this for a fact.”
Eugenia nodded in
appreciation. “And
what happened to Fred's House after you stopped working there?”
The Spirit of Eromenus
flicked his eyebrows, nervously. “It is said that it became a
'nursery' where young children were groomed for their later work in
the sex trade,” he stuttered. “Some had been sold by their
parents, others kidnapped from deprived areas, and others imported
from the East. Some say that the nursery was run by the trans woman
who was to die
there so mysteriously late in
2007. From natural or
unnatural causes, who knows?”
As a highly perceptive MI6
agent, clumsy Malky recalled the recent conversation between Eric
McVey and his buddies in Saturn's, in particular the discussion by
the pock-faced man with three artificial limbs concerning the mode of
death of a similarly described, trans nursery minder and
McVey's assertion that this was in October 2007.
“Whoopee!” blurted Malky. “I do believe that McVey's
vigilantes murdered the poor trannie.”
When the MI6 Saltire Cell agent Hamish McLeod came into Chumps,
he was accompanied by the ageing rent boy Clucky the Chicken (who'd
agreed to observe the confidentiality of any top secret discussions
that might ensue). While Clucky was wearing most of his chicken
costume, his face revealed him for what he was, an ugly,
well-seasoned slob in his late forties.
Eugenia decided that the conversation previously underway was
well worth continuing. “We were debating the nature of the 'bad bad
things' that Judge Antony and Fergus O'Flagerty might have been doing
in 2008,” she explained, as Hamish and Clucky sat down. “Did they
'disappear' the Czech law student Kvido because of his piercing
criticisms? Was Ben correct in challenging the the villains, or was
his behaviour when howling at Judge Antony utterly crazy and
completely out of line?”
Hamish burped, before tilting his head, as if to exude wisdom.
“We shouldn't be too quick to draw conclusions regarding these very
grave matters,” he whispered, as if in complete confidence. “The
'bad bad things' could've referred to the trading of 'barely legals'
to the élite Magic
Circle, or they could've related to the still ongoing bullying and
child abuse in our institutional churches. However, my top brass are
currently considering a totally different scenario. Judge Antony says
that he was employed by the King Baudouin Diamond Mining Company in
the Congo during the 1990s during which time he worked a bit
extracting teeth for his nasty buddy Insect, who was responsible for
removing diamonds from the stomachs of miners who tried to leave with
their spoils. We suspect that the pair of them were getting up to
something similarly sadistic as late as 2008, in cahoots with Fergus
O'Flagerty maybe.”
Clucky the Chicken flapped his wings in excitement. “That
rings a bell! I was once involved in a fascinating perversion in the
Garden of Eden Club at the bottom of Leith Walk, where male
prostitutes were encouraged to swallow fake rubies and emeralds. The
paying customers were provided with all sorts of fearsome enemas and
strange pieces of medical equipment, and invited to discover ways of
best extracting the jewels from the ugly rent boys' interiors without
putting them under anaesthetic.”
“Thank you, Clucky, but no cigar for you this time I'm
afraid,” Hamish grimly replied. “We already know all about the
Garden of Eden. The proprietors were a pair of auburn-haired
twin sisters from Dumbarton and they were sent to Cornton Vale in
2006 to serve lengthy sentences for their heinous crimes, and which
time the wretched club was closed down for good.”
“This does raise some intriguing possibilities though,”
remarked Ben. “Maybe I shouldn't have accused Judge Antony of
anything in particular. Indeed, I don't rightly remember what I
yelled at him. Something to do with what the psychotic clarinet
player from Tranent had told me about voyeurism and human sacrifices
in a Highland castle north of Inverness, perhaps or maybe only maybe.
I was so wired on the modafinil I was taking for my sleep
apnoea that I completely lost the plot as soon as the Judge
death-threated me for being too nosey about Kvido's strange
disappearance.”
“We in fact suspect,” explained Hamish, giving Ben a
quizzical look, “that Insect and Judge Antony sold the internal
organs they removed from Filipino and Romanian slaves and the like,
to the owners of the Meusdenhead Hall Private Hospital down by Soutra
Hill. We are furthermore investigating the possibility that they are
currently luring gullible people from our LGBT scene to a luxurious
hotel in a sleepy hollow near Humbie, with the sole intent of
surgically removing their kidneys, and preserving their brains for
medical research at the Western General, before disposing of their
carcases in the Whalplaw burn.”
“Great jumping jabberwockies!” exclaimed Ben, in a tizz.
“It seems that I was totally off the mark in 2008.”
Eugenia gave Ben a strange look. “The question of the hour
is whether your dire experiences of 2008 can be related to our
current triple murder scenario. Are Insect and the Judge prime
suspects? What, if any, were the roles of McVey's vigilantes? Or are
you, dearest one, a key suspect yourself?”
“Poppycock! That's prepostorous!”
“But
it's an extremely unlikely coincidence that all of this would have
happened
immediately upon
your long awaited return to this
part of the
LGBT scene. Maybe you silenced Davie Pickles and Winnie the Mince
because of secrets they were threatening to reveal about your very
own past.”
“How dare you!” raved Ben Hopkins, frothing at the mouth.
“I'm not crazy. They never sectioned me to the Royal Ed, and I'm no
paranoid schizophrenic!”
“I will discover everything!” raged Malky, rising to his
feet. “Just let me wave my cute self at the spiteful inebriates for
a week and all will be revealed.”
The conversation had degenerated even further before the
retired Bayesian Statistician, Tom 'Sasquatch' Leonard tottered into
Chumps. The bear-like septuagenarian had walked extremely
unsteadily ever since 1994, when a wild stag pierced him in the groin
with a broken antler during a deer hunt for the elite in North
Wisconsin, causing outrageously painful injuries which had plagued
him ever since. Following his acrobatic fall during November 2017
outside the Mosque on Annandale Street, he now heavily favoured his
right leg.
Sasquatch made a tediously wobbly bee-line towards the folk
arguing by the crystal glass window. “Why hi there, my dear
friends!” he exclaimed, with a myopic grin. “I am currently
writing a novel set in Edinburgh's all-too-plastic gay scene. The
title is Kisses in Saturn's. Would any of you kind souls like
to contribute your own reminiscences?”
“Take a hike, you blethering old troll!” snarled Ben
Hopkins, the saliva streaming all over his chops.
CHAPTER 6:
SANCTUM
For the next few days, Malky and Eugenia mixed their research and
teaching duties in academic Statistics with further investigations on
behalf of the MI6 Saltire Cell and the Forensic Scientists.
Malky was sitting in his office in the James Clerk Maxwell
building studying the mathematical intricacies of Edgeworth's 'skewed
normal distribution' when he received a text message from his fellow
MI6 agent Hamish McLeod. This read 'Proceed to the Sanctum
sauna near Dublin Street entrance to Broughton Market. Several
suspicious characters hanging out there. I will arrive at four. Ham
666666.”
2 comments: