Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,81
Philip was entertaining Jo with much lurid misinformation about primitive fertility rites performed at the changes of seasons. Jo was very happy to leave Leslie and Samantha to Philip while she bought a round. Philip was a dear old poofter, and at least he hadn’t begun to recite his poetry. Yet.
Later, as they were leaving The Munchkin, Jo caught Leslie by the arm. She said in a low voice, “Will you listen to me? Just mind yourself following about Samantha so much. She’s wild, and she’s, well, clueless.”
Jealousy? Leslie wondered. She left the pub with the trace of a blush. She had also had a bit more lager than she’d intended. Philip had recited three of his latest poems, and drink was required.
It was a warm night as they stood out on the pavement for a taxi. Taxis used St Giles High Street as a shortcut, so even this close to nine they had no difficulty. The sky was still bright, owing to the summer solstice, with shadows now dissolving into deeper shadow.
Leslie studied her face in her compact mirror, feeling anxious. “Do they know about me?”
Samantha shared some of her Valiums. She was in a giggly mood. “I just said that you were an American teenage runaway out for a spanking good time!”
That was the funniest line either of them had ever heard, and they hugged one another in a fit of snorting laughter. The driver wondered if they were likely to get sick in his cab. Probably sisters having a reunion, he decided, although the younger one had picked up a slight American accent while abroad.
They got off in Battersea at a pub called the Northcote, as Samantha wanted another half lager and both needed a slash. Also they were early, and the driver couldn’t find Auckland Road owing to the car dealership that had obliterated the street sign at this end of Battersea Rise. After, they clopped quickly down the pavement like giddy schoolgirls, clutching their handbags to their middles, laughing away as they talked, paying no mind to their surroundings. Leslie envied the bounce of Samantha’s implanted breasts. She’d have hers done at the same clinic.
“Shouldn’t we have dressed better for this?” Leslie asked. She had had three of Samantha’s Valiums together with the lagers, and she was no longer on Planet Earth.
“I don’t think our clothing will long be a factor,” said Samantha, starting another run of giggles.
Leslie felt wonderful. Colorado was only a bad dream.
Then Auckland Road began to oppress her. It was a tiny side-street of row houses, brown bricks showing urban decay. Some houses showed diffident potted plants upon the stoop, others appeared abandoned. Leslie could smell curries cooking somewhere. Reggae music thumped in the gathering darkness. The pub at the end of the street looked cheerless and silent.
“Here! They’ve said two hundred pounds? Look where we are.”
Samantha took her arm. “Obviously they’ve let a flat, love. Hardly discreet to plan their gatherings where their neighbors are all watching, is it?”
They rang a bell near the end of the street. Leslie was reassured when a young man in pinstripes welcomed them inside. The houses on either side were dark and appeared vacant; this house had an empty feel to it, and Leslie told herself that it was one of those places sublet by the hour or night for special needs. Once Samantha had taken her to a sinister flat in Clapham where Leslie had been dressed into a latex maid’s costume and required to give head to a similarly clad Japanese gentleman, while Samantha pranced about in a leather corset and whipped them both with a riding crop. Afterward the John had given both of them head. Whips and costumes left with the management. Most hotels did not offer this service.
Leslie sighed as she entered. Just do the trick, take their money, go home. Beats working the burger-doodles in Colorado.
Outside, it was finally dark.
Upstairs, there must have been a dozen people scattered about the large sitting room and kitchen: men and women, mostly well dressed with a few leather-clad punkers. A skinhead in knicker boots handed Leslie and Samantha cups of some hot mulled punch from a bowl in the kitchen.
“God, it’s an orgy!” Leslie whispered to Samantha, smiling graciously as she sipped her punch. “Why do they need us? Looks like we’re to put on a show for them.”
The punch was well laced with rum and probably much more. It hit Leslie between the eyes after the earlier imbibements. She swayed