And I'll Die Soon

And I'll Die Soon

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

There’s a penis… on the loose… and it’s infecting people with a new virulent strain of the AIDS virus. Tyler thinks he knows what his dead cousins’ penis is after: revenge. A modern and wicked take on Gogol’s notion of the surreal.

Summary

There’s a penis… on the loose… and it’s infecting people with a new virulent strain of the AIDS virus. Tyler thinks he knows what his dead cousins’ penis is after: revenge. A modern and wicked take on Gogol’s notion of the surreal.

Content

Submitted: June 20, 2012

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: June 20, 2012

A A A

A A A


And I’ll Die Soon

 

Having AIDS is shit. You really don’t want to get it. Trust me on this. All I can say is: bag up. Whether it’s a cunt or a shit-stained arsehole, bag the fuck-up. I cannot stress this enough. Better still, don’t fuck. And don’t get hurt in any traffic accidents. They require blood transfusions; that’s blood from another person. You’ve got absolutely no idea how this person has lived their life. Sure: ask the nurse. She’ll tell you all blood is tested. It will be fine. No risks. The statistics suggest otherwise.

Having AIDS is shit. That film? With Tom Hanks? That’s AIDS lite. AIDS causes the immune system to stop working. Your body can’t fight infection. Can you even conceive what that is like? You think you can. But you can’t. Trust me on this. You can’t. When the doctor explains what is going to happen, you take it all on board. He says: soon you’ll feel bad, real bad. Just about all the time. You’ll lose a lot of weight. You’re skin will be covered in Herpes.  You’ll have problems breathing, eating, pissing, shitting, thinking. He gives you leaflets. He gives you helpline numbers. He books you in to see a psychologist. And despite all this - despite all these words, all this help - you have absolutely no fucking idea of what is coming. You think you know pain; know suffering. You think you’ll be able to handle it; take it in your stride; laugh it off. You can’t. It’s fucking impossible. Drugs help. But there ain’t no stopping the inevitable.

Having AIDS is shit. I’m just fucking relieved I haven’t got it.

Derek’s got it; my lifelong buddy, my cousin. He’s dying, quickly now, like the disease has suddenly upped the tempo.

He’s lying in this posh room in this posh hospital, which I know my aunt and uncle can’t really afford. He looks fucking awful; wretched. I just want him to die asap.

I come here every day. The doctors say he’s only got days left. Most of the time we spend reminiscing about times that really weren’t all that good. If I have to be honest, he’s done absolutely fuck-all with his life. Too young to even imagine what was coming. We like to think we’ve got time on our side. Yet you never know.

He doesn’t know how he got it. Or should I say: who gave it to him. He ain’t even fucked that much. Three girls he reckons. That’s fucking unlucky. I’ve slept with at least fifty - plenty of them whores – and I’m 100%-AIDS free. You couldn’t get anymore AIDS-free than me.

I had the test right after Derek was diagnosed. Don’t know why. We didn’t fuck or anything. Guess I was worried. We’d shared a lot of our lives together. Same air and shit. Yeah I know: that’s not how you get it. But still.

When I told him, that I was clear, he cried. Called me every fucking name under the sun. I understood his rage. But boy, was I relieved.

If you had to ask me, I’d say it was Michelle Daniels who gave it to him. A black chick. This isn’t a race thing. I know some prick started the rumour that AIDS comes from Africa, natives eating monkey brains. Or fucking monkeys - can’t remember which. No. This is just a slut thing. She was sleeping about even when she was supposed to be with Derek. The cunt.

Derek opens his eyes. I hold up a hand as a hello. He smiles.

“How long have you been there?”

“An hour. Didn’t want to wake you.”

He looks at me.

I look at him.

“Can I show you something?”

I nod.

He pulls back the cover.

His naked body is disgusting. Auschwitz thin. Coated in Herpes. Then I notice his hard-on, an impressive one at that.

He starts giggling.

“Would ya look at that? I ain’t had one of those in months. Shit. It feels so good.”

He’s rigged up to a drip, a tube running through his right arm. He’s not ambidextrous. So a left-handed wank is out of the question. Anyway, the state he’s in? He’s too weak. So he asks me.

 “Could you… jerk me off?”

 I look at him. My stomach turns.

“I… Shit. Is that a good idea?”

“Fucking too right it is. Go on. Please.”

I get to thinking: there’s AIDS in that there cock.

“I don’t know, Derek. In your state?”

“Do this last thing for me. I doubt I’ll ever have a hard-on again. There are some surgical gloves in the draw. Over there.”

I go to the cabinet. I take out a packet of surgical gloves. Remove one. I hold it up.

“Please. Quick. Before I lose my hard-on.”

I roll the glove on.

As I jerk him off, I try to think of something else: the last movie I saw, the last football match, the last girl. However hard I try, there is no escaping this moment.

“Harder. Jerk me harder.”

I put some elbow grease into it.

“Good. That’s it. Ah. Yes. You’re good. Real fucking good.”

“Don’t ever tell anyone about this, Derek? You hear me?”

He nods.

“Just keep going. Just keep wanking me off, Tyler. And I won’t tell a soul.”

I look at my hand, wrapped in the surgical glove. At his cock. Engorged. Purple. Bleeding.

“Derek?”

“Keep going. Not much longer.”

“Derek?”

“Please. It’s sooo fucking good!”

Blood is pouring from the base of his cock. Running down his pale, skinny thighs.

“Derek! You’re bleeding.”

And before I can stop - before I can fully understand what has happened - his cock is in my hand, detached from his body. I have pulled his cock off.

For a brief moment, we both just stare at his severed cock in my hand. Then he screams.

Blood pours from his groin. It squirts everywhere: over the bed, over Derek, over the ceiling. AIDS flows free. I run and hide in the corner, like a scared, little girl.

“Call the fucking nurse! Call the fucking nurse! What have you done?”

There is no need. Nurses pour into the room. They stand back when they see the blood. They are afraid. Afraid of the AIDS. No one does anything. We all just watch Derek in his death throes.

 When he stops moving; when they are sure he is dead, they approach.

 Derek is completely red, from head to toe, covered in his own diseased blood.

They look at me.

“What happened here?”

“I… I…"

 I shrug my shoulders.

 A nurse points:

 “What’s that in your hand?”

I look at Derek’s cock. Strange: it’s still erect.

“His cock.”

“His cock?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing holding his cock?”

“I don’t know.”

I think.

“He… He… gave it to me.”

“He gave it to you?”

“Yeah."

“Why?”

I think.

“As a memento. Of our friendship.”

They looked stunned.

I try smiling.

“He wanted me to have it. Guess he didn’t really realise what would happen.”

They say nothing. What could they say?

I get given a surgical bag to take the cock home in.

When I get home, I take the cock out of the bag. It’s hard. Still warm. Almost as if alive.

I go downstairs. I put the cock, in its bag, in the freezer. Goes in behind a bag of frozen Brussels sprouts. They won’t be moved until Christmas.

Couple of days later, Derek’s funeral takes place in a catholic church.

AIDS is talked about a lot at the reception. His parents don’t hide from the word. From the connotations. There’s even a collection for some gay AIDS charity. More money for Elton John then. He’ll get AIDS too. One day.

I don’t tell anyone that I know how Derek really died. That his cock is in a freezer in my house. That I ripped it off. Whilst jerking him off. Nobody needs to know that.

My aunt comes up to me.

“It’s so good to see you, Tyler. So long since we’ve seen each other.”

Then my uncle.

“How ya keepin, son? Huh? Please keep in touch, Tyler."

“I will.”

“Don’t be a stranger to us.”

“I won’t.”

“Derek loved you.”

“I know.”

“You meant a lot to him."

“I know.”

My aunt hugs me. I can feel her warm, fat tits against my chest.

My uncle pats me on the back.

“Say ‘Hi’ to your mother for us.”

 I nod.

That night, I wake in the middle of the night.

I get up and go downstairs. The light in the kitchen is on. Brussels sprouts are scattered on the floor, slowly defrosting. The freezer door is open. I look inside. Derek’s cock is gone.

A noise from upstairs. From my mother’s room.

I climb the stairs.

More noises. They’re groans… of pleasure.

I reach the top. Stand outside my Mum’s room. Listen.

“Mum? You okay?”

More moaning. Accompanied by creeking.

Is my mother… Is she wanking?

At this point, most people would have turned away. Gone downstairs. Not me.

I open the door.

My mother is on all fours. Her nightgown is hiked up over her waist. Derek’s cock is going in and out of her at astonishing speed. And she is loving it.

“Mum?!”

Derek’s cock stops moving.

“Mum?!”

Derek’s cock slides out of my mother’s vagina.

“Fuckin’ hell!”

It wriggles onto the bedding. Seems to a look about. Then dashes for the open bedroom door. It moves at a hell of a rate. I try to stamp on it, but it gets away.

I run down the stairs after it. Try to grab it. Kick it. Kill it. I can’t: it’s a nimble little fucker.

As it reaches the last stair, Derek’s cock leaps for the cat flap. Hits the door instead. Yet before I can get there, it gets up, shakes it head and manages to find the cat flap at the second time of asking.

I open the front door, only to see Derek’s cock disappear into a bush.

My mother is lying on the bed breathing very slowly.

I cover her with the quilt.

“Mum? Mum? You okay.”

She seems to be elsewhere.

“Mum? Mum? Can you hear me?”

She doesn’t respond.

I look into her eyes. She is definitely elsewhere.

I bring her a cup of tea, which she takes.

“Mum? Can you hear me?”

She just sips the tea, eyes glazed over

“Mum? It’s Taylor. Taylor?”

Nothing.

I take the cup of tea from her.

“Get some rest. We can talk in the morning.”

She says something.

“Sorry?”

Repeats it. It’s intelligible. Sounds foreign.

“Mum. I’m listening. Say it again. Repeat what you just said.”

She doesn’t. Instead she lays down and goes to sleep.

 

I wake late. The sky is overcast.

My mother is dead. She looks as Derek did in those last hours. Covered in herpes. Wasting away. She has died of AIDS.

 The coroner disagrees.

 “She died of pulmonary failure,” he says.

 “A symptom of AIDS,” I say.

“You mother did not have AIDS.”

“She fucking did.”

“She did not.”

“She had a check up only two months ago. She has a benign tumour in her fallopian tubes. That’s it. No AIDS.”

“Derek? My cousin? He died of AIDS. He gave it to her.”

The coroner laughs.

“How did he give it to her?”

“His cock fucked her. I saw it.”

“Son. You’ve been through a lot recently. Go to the doctor and get some help.”

Instead I go to the police.

 

I’m interviewed by a couple of plain-clothes policemen.

They ask me to repeat what I have just said.

“My cousin Derek? Who just died of AIDS? His cock… it’s on the loose. And it’s spreading the disease. The AIDS that is. But judging by what it did to my mother, it, his cock, is carrying some new, far more virulent strain. My mother contracted AIDS in the middle of the night. By the morning she was dead.”

They both stare. They look at each other.

“We thought that was what you said,” they say.

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“Do you understand that wasting police time is a criminal offence?”

“Yes. I understand. I’m not wasting your time though.”

“So. There’s a… killer-cock on the loose. This is what you are definitely telling us?”

“Yes. That’s what I’m definitely telling you.”

“What does this… killer-cock look like?”

“What does it look like?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think it looks like? Like a fucking cock!”

“Any distinguishing features?”

“Like what?”

“Is it circumcised?”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“How about we get a picture drawn up of the suspect…”

The big one scribbles on a piece of paper. Holds it up.

“… something like this?”

It’s a childish picture of a cock with balls, and a couple of pubes.

“Fine. Don’t listen to me.”

I stand up to go.

“If your story wasn’t so fucking entertaining, we’d have nicked ya.”

 

I get a week’s compassionate leave. I turn my mobile off and head for Scotland.

I find a nice little hotel in the highlands with an owner I barely understand. From my window, I look out on rolling hills and mountains. Sheep pepper their slopes. There isn’t a human being in sight.

I walk, a lot, mostly in the pissing rain. It feels great, the lick of nature on my face.

The third evening, I go down to the hotel bar. There’s no TV. No newspapers; just really salty nuts. Oh, and whisky.

I get pissed. Chat to a girl who I know isn’t fit.

We end up in my room.

She tells me to fuck her.

“I don’t have any condoms,” I say.

“It’s okay. I’m on the pill.”

I slip my fist out of her.

“The pill? That won’t protect you. Won’t protect me.”

“I won’t get pregnant. Even if I do, I’ll just get an abortion. Did it before. It’s nay bother.”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m not talking about you getting fucking pregnant. I’m talking about getting fucking AIDS.”

She takes her finger out of my anus.

“Christ! Talk about killing the moment,” she says.

“Fuck the moment! Have you got any idea what AIDS can do? Have you?”

“No. should I?”

“Fuckin’ hell!”

“Look. Ihavnagot AIDS.”

“Really? You sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You been checked out?”

“No. I just havnagotit. No way. It’s impossible.”

“It’s not fucking impossible you fucking idiot! You know what? Get the fuck out of my hotel room!”

 

I get home to find the police have been trying to get hold of me.

I go back to the police station.

This time there’s an inspector present. He’s the one who does the talking.

“Looks like we might need your help,” he says.

I smile.

“Did you know a Michelle Daniels?”

“Yeah.”

“Was she known to Derek Fabian?”

“She was an ex of his.”

“Her body was found in a stream near her home. She’d been raped.”

“Shit happens. How she die?” I ask.

“Liver failure.”

“Nah. You’re wrong. She died of AIDS, like my mother did.”

The inspector looks up from a file he has in front of him.

“And Stephen Perkins?”

“Perkins…?”

I think.

“… Rings a bell. Yeah. Yeah. We went to school with him.”

“You’re including Derek Fabian in that sentence.”

“Yeah. Derek knew him. They fought a lot. He’s dead too?”

“Yup. Was raped as well. Anus looked like someone had tried to park a forklift truck in it.”

Silence ensues.

“Looks like we’ve a serial killer on the loose. Given that Derek is dead…”

“Not all of him is dead. I tried to explain to your colleagues here.”

“I know. I heard the tape.”

“And?”

The inspector gives me a stern look.

“It’s beyond far-fetched.”

“Have you go a better explanation?”

“Somebody is working from a list he drew up.”

I laugh.

“Oh, yeah? Who’s that then?”

“We don’t know. Not yet.”

“Course you don’t.”

“You visited Derek on a regular basis?”

“Sure did.”

“He ever say he wanted to get even with anyone?”

“He divided the world into two: those who have AIDS and those who don’t.Anyone who fell into the latter was to be hated.”

“Including you?”

“I don’t have AIDS. But I think he managed to forgive me that.”

“But you could be on that list?”

“There is no list,” I say.

“Did you know he has bequeathed you everything?”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I didn’t know that,” I say.

“Every one of his possessions is now yours.”

“Right.”

“We would like to have a look through his things. Will you grant us that?”

 

We go to Derek’s parents’ house.

My aunt hugs me. My uncle shakes my hand for a long time.

“He has left you everything”, auntie says.

“I know.”

“He loved you very much,” unclie says.

“I know. Would you mind if I had some time alone, in his room?”

They smile. The policemen nod.

I go upstairs.

 

I open the door. Its hinges creek.

Death stares back.

I step into Derek’s room.

I realise: I haven’t been in here in years.

I open a desk draw. The draw is divided into compartments which neatly support a fountain pen, a stapler, a wallet, a Polaroid camera.

I take the camera out. Step back. Snap a picture of the room. Watch the picture come out. Then the room as it slowly appears, a bleached version of reality.

I take the picture in my hand. Stare. I see something.

I look at the bed. Something is protruding from the mattress.

I squat down. Pull it out. It’s a Polaroid. Of Derek’s gums. They are covered in ulcers. The picture is dated on the back. 20/01/19___.

I reach under the mattress. My hand touches more pictures.

I slide the mattress onto the floor: there are hundreds of Polaroid photos.

“Holy shit, Derek!”

I pick up the camera and snap the scene.

The pictures are a record of his disease. All are dated.  I rummage through them.

Derek.

His feet.

His withered legs.

Puss.

A phial of urine.

His balls.

His cock.

A sor?.

His tongue.

Scabs.

Blood.

His face.

His eyes full of tears. On the back the words: I am alone.

“Fucking hell, Derek! Why didn’t you tell me? Huh?”

Derek.

Derek.

Derek.

A shout from downstairs.

Screams.

I jump as a gun goes off.

A gun?

Derek’s father lies sprawled in the hallway. Blood runs from his anus.

A few feet away, Derek’s cock. Shot. Dead.

The inspector looks at me.

“We had to, son. We had to.”

 

That night, I pack my bags.

The last thing that I put into my suitcase is Derek’s cock. It’s wrapped in cling film. It’s packed into a lunch box. It will be safe.

I take a taxi to the airport. Watch this city, for the last time, roll by in haze of darkness.

I check in. Have to pay excess, but that’s okay.

I board the plane, find my seat. It’s next to an elderly Indian woman.

She says something to me.

I don’t understand.

She repeats it.

I still don’t understand.

She shakes her head.

I smile. Who cares?

 

India is bright. Hot. Poor.

As I wade out into the Indian Ocean, I remember something Derek once said to me: It doesn’t matter where you end up: It’s how you got there that counts.

He would have liked this setting: the beach, the sea, the sun setting, its light breaking across the waves. It’s the right place. The right time.

I throw his cock into the sea.

 

And I’ll Die Soon

 

Having AIDS is shit. You really don’t want to get it. Trust me on this. All I can say is: bag up. Whether it’s a cunt or a shit-stained arsehole, bag the fuck-up. I cannot stress this enough. Better still, don’t fuck. And don’t get hurt in any traffic accidents. They require blood transfusions; that’s blood from another person. You’ve got absolutely no idea how this person has lived their life. Sure: ask the nurse. She’ll tell you all blood is tested. It will be fine. No risks. The statistics suggest otherwise.

Having AIDS is shit. That film? With Tom Hanks? That’s AIDS lite. AIDS causes the immune system to stop working. Your body can’t fight infection. Can you even conceive what that is like? You think you can. But you can’t. Trust me on this. You can’t. When the doctor explains what is going to happen, you take it all on board. He says: soon you’ll feel bad, real bad. Just about all the time. You’ll lose a lot of weight. You’re skin will be covered in Herpes.  You’ll have problems breathing, eating, pissing, shitting, thinking. He gives you leaflets. He gives you helpline numbers. He books you in to see a psychologist. And despite all this - despite all these words, all this help - you have absolutely no fucking idea of what is coming. You think you know pain; know suffering. You think you’ll be able to handle it; take it in your stride; laugh it off. You can’t. It’s fucking impossible. Drugs help. But there ain’t no stopping the inevitable.

Having AIDS is shit. I’m just fucking relieved I haven’t got it.

Derek’s got it; my lifelong buddy, my cousin. He’s dying, quickly now, like the disease has suddenly upped the tempo.

He’s lying in this posh room in this posh hospital, which I know my aunt and uncle can’t really afford. He looks fucking awful; wretched. I just want him to die asap.

I come here every day. The doctors say he’s only got days left. Most of the time we spend reminiscing about times that really weren’t all that good. If I have to be honest, he’s done absolutely fuck-all with his life. Too young to even imagine what was coming. We like to think we’ve got time on our side. Yet you never know.

He doesn’t know how he got it. Or should I say: who gave it to him. He ain’t even fucked that much. Three girls he reckons. That’s fucking unlucky. I’ve slept with at least fifty - plenty of them whores – and I’m 100%-AIDS free. You couldn’t get anymore AIDS-free than me.

I had the test right after Derek was diagnosed. Don’t know why. We didn’t fuck or anything. Guess I was worried. We’d shared a lot of our lives together. Same air and shit. Yeah I know: that’s not how you get it. But still.

When I told him, that I was clear, he cried. Called me every fucking name under the sun. I understood his rage. But boy, was I relieved.

If you had to ask me, I’d say it was Michelle Daniels who gave it to him. A black chick. This isn’t a race thing. I know some prick started the rumour that AIDS comes from Africa, natives eating monkey brains. Or fucking monkeys - can’t remember which. No. This is just a slut thing. She was sleeping about even when she was supposed to be with Derek. The cunt.

Derek opens his eyes. I hold up a hand as a hello. He smiles.

“How long have you been there?”

“An hour. Didn’t want to wake you.”

He looks at me.

I look at him.

“Can I show you something?”

I nod.

He pulls back the cover.

His naked body is disgusting. Auschwitz thin. Coated in Herpes. Then I notice his hard-on, an impressive one at that.

He starts giggling.

“Would ya look at that? I ain’t had one of those in months. Shit. It feels so good.”

He’s rigged up to a drip, a tube running through his right arm. He’s not ambidextrous. So a left-handed wank is out of the question. Anyway, the state he’s in? He’s too weak. So he asks me.

“Could you… jerk me off?”

I look at him. My stomach turns.

“I… Shit. Is that a good idea?”

“Fucking too right it is. Go on. Please.”

I get to thinking: there’s AIDS in that there cock.

“I don’t know, Derek. In your state?”

“Do this last thing for me. I doubt I’ll ever have a hard-on again. There are some surgical gloves in the draw. Over there.”

I go to the cabinet. I take out a packet of surgical gloves. Remove one. I hold it up.

“Please. Quick. Before I lose my hard-on.”

I roll the glove on.

As I jerk him off, I try to think of something else: the last movie I saw, the last football match, the last girl. However hard I try, there is no escaping this moment.

“Harder. Jerk me harder.”

I put some elbow grease into it.

“Good. That’s it. Ah. Yes. You’re good. Real fucking good.”

“Don’t ever tell anyone about this, Derek? You hear me?”

He nods.

“Just keep going. Just keep wanking me off, Tyler. And I won’t tell a soul.”

I look at my hand, wrapped in the surgical glove. At his cock. Engorged. Purple. Bleeding.

“Derek?”

“Keep going. Not much longer.”

“Derek?”

“Please. It’s sooo fucking good!”

Blood is pouring from the base of his cock. Running down his pale, skinny thighs.

“Derek! You’re bleeding.”

And before I can stop - before I can fully understand what has happened - his cock is in my hand, detached from his body. I have pulled his cock off.

For a brief moment, we both just stare at his severed cock in my hand. Then he screams.

Blood pours from his groin. It squirts everywhere: over the bed, over Derek, over the ceiling. AIDS flows free. I run and hide in the corner, like a scared, little girl.

“Call the fucking nurse! Call the fucking nurse! What have you done?”

There is no need. Nurses pour into the room. They stand back when they see the blood. They are afraid. Afraid of the AIDS. No one does anything. We all just watch Derek in his death throes.

When he stops moving; when they are sure he is dead, they approach.

Derek is completely red, from head to toe, covered in his own diseased blood.

They look at me.

“What happened here?”

“I… I…

I shrug my shoulders.

A nurse points:

“What’s that in your hand?”

I look at Derek’s cock. Strange: it’s still erect.

“His cock.”

“His cock?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing holding his cock?”

“I don’t know.”

I think.

“He… He… gave it to me.”

“He gave it to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

I think.

“As a memento. Of our friendship.”

They looked stunned.

I try smiling.

“He wanted me to have it. Guess he didn’t really realise what would happen.”

They say nothing. What could they say?

I get given a surgical bag to take the cock home in.

When I get home, I take the cock out of the bag. It’s hard. Still warm. Almost as if alive.

I go downstairs. I put the cock, in its bag, in the freezer. Goes in behind a bag of frozen Brussels sprouts. They won’t be moved until Christmas.

Couple of days later, Derek’s funeral takes place in a catholic church.

AIDS is talked about a lot at the reception. His parents don’t hide from the word. From the connotations. There’s even a collection for some gay AIDS charity. More money for Elton John then. He’ll get AIDS too. One day.

I don’t tell anyone that I know how Derek really died. That his cock is in a freezer in my house. That I ripped it off. Whilst jerking him off. Nobody needs to know that.

My aunt comes up to me.

“It’s so good to see you, Tyler. So long since we’ve seen each other.”

Then my uncle.

“How ya keepin, son? Huh? Please keep in touch, Tyler.”

“I will.”

“Don’t be a stranger to us.”

“I won’t.”

“Derek loved you.”

“I know.”

“You meant a lot to him.”

“I know.”

My aunt hugs me. I can feel her warm, fat tits against my chest.

My uncle pats me on the back.

“Say ‘Hi’ to your mother for us.”

I nod.

That night, I wake in the middle of the night.

I get up and go downstairs. The light in the kitchen is on. Brussels sprouts are scattered on the floor, slowly defrosting. The freezer door is open. I look inside. Derek’s cock is gone.

A noise from upstairs. From my mother’s room.

I climb the stairs.

More noises. They’re groans… of pleasure.

I reach the top. Stand outside my Mum’s room. Listen.

“Mum? You okay?”

More moaning. Accompanied by creeking.

Is my mother… Is she wanking?

At this point, most people would have turned away. Gone downstairs. Not me.

I open the door.

My mother is on all fours. Her nightgown is hiked up over her waist. Derek’s cock is going in and out of her at astonishing speed. And she is loving it.

“Mum?!”

Derek’s cock stops moving.

“Mum?!”

Derek’s cock slides out of my mother’s vagina.

“Fuckin’ hell!”

It wriggles onto the bedding. Seems to a look about. Then dashes for the open bedroom door. It moves at a hell of a rate. I try to stamp on it, but it gets away.

I run down the stairs after it. Try to grab it. Kick it. Kill it. I can’t: it’s a nimble little fucker.

As it reaches the last stair, Derek’s cock leaps for the cat flap. Hits the door instead. Yet before I can get there, it gets up, shakes it head and manages to find the cat flap at the second time of asking.

I open the front door, only to see Derek’s cock disappear into a bush.

My mother is lying on the bed breathing very slowly.

I cover her with the quilt.

“Mum? Mum? You okay.”

She seems to be elsewhere.

“Mum? Mum? Can you hear me?”

She doesn’t respond.

I look into her eyes. She is definitely elsewhere.

I bring her a cup of tea, which she takes.

“Mum? Can you hear me?”

She just sips the tea, eyes glazed over.

“Mum? It’s Taylor. Taylor?”

Nothing.

I take the cup of tea from her.

“Get some rest. We can talk in the morning.”

She says something.

“Sorry?”

Repeats it. It’s intelligible. Sounds foreign.

“Mum. I’m listening. Say it again. Repeat what you just said.”

She doesn’t. Instead she lays down and goes to sleep.

 

I wake late. The sky is overcast.

My mother is dead. She looks as Derek did in those last hours. Covered in herpes. Wasting away. She has died of AIDS.

The coroner disagrees.

“She died of pulmonary failure,” he says.

“A symptom of AIDS,” I say.

“You mother did not have AIDS.”

“She fucking did.”

“She did not.”

“She had a check up only two months ago. She has a benign tumour in her fallopian tubes. That’s it. No AIDS.”

“Derek? My cousin? He died of AIDS. He gave it to her.”

The coroner laughs.

“How did he give it to her?”

“His cock fucked her. I saw it.”

“Son. You’ve been through a lot recently. Go to the doctor and get some help.”

Instead I go to the police.

 

I’m interviewed by a couple of plain-clothes policemen.

They ask me to repeat what I have just said.

“My cousin Derek? Who just died of AIDS? His cock… it’s on the loose. And it’s spreading the disease. The AIDS that is. But judging by what it did to my mother, it, his cock, is carrying some new, far more virulent strain. My mother contracted AIDS in the middle of the night. By the morning she was dead.”

They both stare. They look at each other.

“We thought that was what you said,” they say.

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“Do you understand that wasting police time is a criminal offence?”

“Yes. I understand. I’m not wasting your time though.”

“So. There’s a… killer-cock on the loose. This is what you are definitely telling us?”

“Yes. That’s what I’m definitely telling you.”

“What does this… killer-cock look like?”

“What does it look like?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think it looks like? Like a fucking cock!”

“Any distinguishing features?”

“Like what?”

“Is it circumcised?”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“How about we get a picture drawn up of the suspect…”

The big one scribbles on a piece of paper. Holds it up.

“… something like this?”

It’s a childish picture of a cock with balls, and a couple of pubes.

“Fine. Don’t listen to me.”

I stand up to go.

“If your story wasn’t so fucking entertaining, we’d have nicked ya.”

 

I get a week’s compassionate leave. I turn my mobile off and head for Scotland.

I find a nice little hotel in the highlands with an owner I barely understand. From my window, I look out on rolling hills and mountains. Sheep pepper their slopes. There isn’t a human being in sight.

I walk, a lot, mostly in the pissing rain. It feels great, the lick of nature on my face.

The third evening, I go down to the hotel bar. There’s no TV. No newspapers; just really salty nuts. Oh, and whisky.

I get pissed. Chat to a girl who I know isn’t fit.

We end up in my room.

She tells me to fuck her.

“I don’t have any condoms,” I say.

“It’s okay. I’m on the pill.”

I slip my fist out of her.

“The pill? That won’t protect you. Won’t protect me.”

“I won’t get pregnant. Even if I do, I’ll just get an abortion. Did it before. It’s nay bother.”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m not talking about you getting fucking pregnant. I’m talking about getting fucking AIDS.”

She takes her finger out of my anus.

“Christ! Talk about killing the moment,” she says.

“Fuck the moment! Have you got any idea what AIDS can do? Have you?”

“No. should I?”

“Fuckin’ hell!”

“Look. Ihavnagot AIDS.”

“Really? You sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You been checked out?”

“No. I just havnagotit. No way. It’s impossible.”

“It’s not fucking impossible you fucking idiot! You know what? Get the fuck out of my hotel room!”

 

I get home to find the police have been trying to get hold of me.

I go back to the police station.

This time there’s an inspector present. He’s the one who does the talking.

“Looks like we might need your help,” he says.

I smile.

“Did you know a Michelle Daniels?”

“Yeah.”

“Was she known to Derek Fabian?”

“She was an ex of his.”

“Her body was found in a stream near her home. She’d been raped.”

“Shit happens. How she die?” I ask.

“Liver failure.”

“Nah. You’re wrong. She died of AIDS, like my mother did.”

The inspector looks up from a file he has in front of him.

“And Stephen Perkins?”

“Perkins…?”

I think.

“… Rings a bell. Yeah. Yeah. We went to school with him.”

“You’re including Derek Fabian in that sentence.”

“Yeah. Derek knew him. They fought a lot. He’s dead too?”

“Yup. Was raped as well. Anus looked like someone had tried to park a forklift truck in it.”

Silence ensues.

“Looks like we’ve a serial killer on the loose. Given that Derek is dead…”

“Not all of him is dead. I tried to explain to your colleagues here.”

“I know. I heard the tape.”

“And?”

The inspector gives me a stern look.

“It’s beyond far-fetched.”

“Have you go a better explanation?”

“Somebody is working from a list he drew up.”

I laugh.

“Oh, yeah? Who’s that then?”

“We don’t know. Not yet.”

“Course you don’t.”

“You visited Derek on a regular basis?”

“Sure did.”

“He ever say he wanted to get even with anyone?”

“He divided the world into two: those who have AIDS and those who don’t.Anyone who fell into the latter was to be hated.”

“Including you?”

“I don’t have AIDS. But I think he managed to forgive me that.”

“But you could be on that list?”

“There is no list,” I say.

“Did you know he has bequeathed you everything?”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I didn’t know that,” I say.

“Every one of his possessions is now yours.”

“Right.”

“We would like to have a look through his things. Will you grant us that?”

 

We go to Derek’s parents’ house.

My aunt hugs me. My uncle shakes my hand for a long time.

“He has left you everything”, auntie says.

“I know.”

“He loved you very much,” unclie says.

“I know. Would you mind if I had some time alone, in his room?”

They smile. The policemen nod.

I go upstairs.

 

I open the door. Its hinges creek.

Death stares back.

I step into Derek’s room.

I realise: I haven’t been in here in years.

I open a desk draw. The draw is divided into compartments which neatly support a fountain pen, a stapler, a wallet, a Polaroid camera.

I take the camera out. Step back. Snap a picture of the room. Watch the picture come out. Then the room as it slowly appears, a bleached version of reality.

I take the picture in my hand. Stare. I see something.

I look at the bed. Something is protruding from the mattress.

I squat down. Pull it out. It’s a Polaroid. Of Derek’s gums. They are covered in ulcers. The picture is dated on the back. 20/01/19___.

I reach under the mattress. My hand touches more pictures.

I slide the mattress onto the floor: there are hundreds of Polaroid photos.

“Holy shit, Derek!”

I pick up the camera and snap the scene.

The pictures are a record of his disease. All are dated.  I rummage through them.

Derek.

His feet.

His withered legs.

Puss.

A phial of urine.

His balls.

His cock.

A sor?.

His tongue.

Scabs.

Blood.

His face.

His eyes full of tears. On the back the words: I am alone.

“Fucking hell, Derek! Why didn’t you tell me? Huh?”

Derek.

Derek.

Derek.

A shout from downstairs.

Screams.

I jump as a gun goes off.

A gun?

Derek’s father lies sprawled in the hallway. Blood runs from his anus.

A few feet away, Derek’s cock. Shot. Dead.

The inspector looks at me.

“We had to, son. We had to.”

 

That night, I pack my bags.

The last thing that I put into my suitcase is Derek’s cock. It’s wrapped in cling film. It’s packed into a lunch box. It will be safe.

I take a taxi to the airport. Watch this city, for the last time, roll by in haze of darkness.

I check in. Have to pay excess, but that’s okay.

I board the plane, find my seat. It’s next to an elderly Indian woman.

She says something to me.

I don’t understand.

She repeats it.

I still don’t understand.

She shakes her head.

I smile. Who cares?

 

India is bright. Hot. Poor.

As I wade out into the Indian Ocean, I remember something Derek once said to me: It doesn’t matter where you end up: It’s how you got there that counts.

He would have liked this setting: the beach, the sea, the sun setting, its light breaking across the waves. It’s the right place. The right time.

I throw his cock into the sea.

 


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