Worst Person Ever Part 2

In the end it was simply easiest to huck it all out the back window onto the landlady's herb garden. f.u.c.king herbs are indestructible-it's how they got to be herbs in the first place-nature loves nothing more than throwing a species a challenge. Technically, by nature's standards, smothering Mrs. Radley's herb garden was doing it a favour by speeding up evolution. In any event, that bloated pension-sucking hag was away in Penzance at a family funeral. Recent contact with death would likely make her appreciate herbal trauma all the more.

Ding-dong.

f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, seven already? Christ.

I buzzed the street door, shouting into the speaker, "Tabs, luv, come in."

As I held the door open, I cast a glance behind me at the main room, which was actually looking okay without most of my defenestrated c.r.a.p. Those monks might be on to something with minimalism and all that meditating and s.h.i.t, but f.u.c.k monks, I was after p.u.s.s.y. "Fancy a drink, Tabs?" I said as soon as she was in the door.

"Do you have a white wine spritzer, maybe?"

White wine? Does she think I'm some bender who rises every morning in pursuit of winking boy cherry? "I'm out of white wine. Fancy a lager?"

"Lager? Oh, um ... sure. I really just need to drop these off and explain one or two things." She was looking at me funny-she was intrigued by me. I could tell. Hot dang! This might be the night!

Through the mercy of G.o.d I was able to find two actual Pilsner gla.s.ses that were clean-this could only add to my Jason Bournelike air of urban cool. "Here you go, Tabs. Skol!" (Toasting: manly.) "Oh, um ... skol!"

Again, she was eyeing me in a way that meant more than her counting my blackheads. We clinked gla.s.ses. Soon we shall be one.

"Raymond-"

"Ray."

"Ray ... a bit of info for you. You'll be flying through Los Angeles and pa.s.sing through immigration, but that should be no problem. From there, you hop to Honolulu and then some other island in order to get to Kiribati. It's a long slog-thirty-seven hours, all told."

"Lovely sunsets there, I bet."

"Huh? Oh, yes, I suppose so. In any event, I checked and you won't require any vaccinations or a visa. The other camerapersons who've worked there suggested that you bring as many topical antifungals with you as possible."

"Tabs, hang on a sec, luv. Exactly what show is it I'm working on?"

She gawped at me. "You don't even know what show you're working on?"

"It's American, so it's bound to be s.h.i.t. It didn't occur to me to ask."

"It's one of those reality shows where people stuck on a remote island s.h.a.g each other over the course of a few weeks and then, I don't know, turn into cannibals at the end when they get desperate for food." She sipped her lager. "And then the last person standing gets a big bag of money. Here's some information about the show, as well as your contracts. We'll need to sign them right now." Her forearms were twitching ... her forearms connected to her shoulders connected to her magnificent rack. She spread out some papers, and I edged closer to her on the sofa to sign them. She smelled so clean, and her perfume was heaven: f.u.c.k Factor Five or whatever overpriced gonk it is they're pushing at office tarts this season.

She smiled at me-the Look! The Look! She was giving me the Look! "And you'll be getting American union rates, which, after two months-"

Good G.o.d. "What? Two f.u.c.king months in the middle of nowhere?"

"But it'll be so beautiful, and if it works out, it could be a long-running gig. Fiona worked very hard to get you this slot."

"She did, did she?" Not a good sign.

"It's not my place to discuss this, Raymond, but I think she might still be sweet on you."

Dear G.o.d. Discussing an ex with a potential conquest? I was seeing my potential s.h.a.g putting on little wings and flying out the window-no, more like putting on a little noose and attaching it to the rafters.

"Ray?" She was gathering up her things.

Now or never. I edged closer to her on the sofa. "Tabs, stay a bit longer. Finish your lager."

"Umm. Well. Okay."

"I know Fi can be a handful, Tabs."

Her body language was neutral. "Fi's a pretty good boss. She knows what she wants."

That plus-sized Toby mug I once called my wife? "I'm sure she does." I edged in one breath closer.

"Raymond ..."

"Yes, Tabs?"

"We need to discuss your personal a.s.sistant. Billy told you that you get one, right?"

Ah, yes, my slave a.s.sistant. At this point, I, Raymond Gunt, mentally vacated the room, transported into the air by those magic words-my own personal a.s.sistant out in the middle of nowhere, free of any meaningful legal jurisdictions. I formed my own mental montage: clanking manacles, cracking whips and the sound of a key without mercy locking a cage.

"Ray? Ray? You there?"

"Sorry, luv. I was lost in thought. How do I choose my a.s.sistant?"

"It's your call. You have ..." she checked her cellphone, "... twenty-three hours to find one. The flight is at six o'clock tomorrow. All they need is a valid pa.s.sport, and as Kiribati has no union restrictions, it's easy-peasy. If you can't find someone, one will be appointed to you."

"Well, I don't want that." I scanned my mental Rolodex for potential a.s.sistants. A friend? None. Drinking buddies? Manifold but untrustworthy. Female anyone? Not f.u.c.king likely. Family members? Don't ask. Pa.s.sing acquaintances? Few.

"Ray, you'll be flying business cla.s.s to Honolulu via Los Angeles, and from there you'll be on a corporate jet."

"Would my personal a.s.sistant have to be in business cla.s.s, too?"

"I suppose if you asked for it."

Not f.u.c.king likely. Any a.s.sistant of mine would have to be the rearmost seat, right beside the lav and the puking Australians.

My mind was caught in a rare but wonderful joy loop. f.u.c.king brilliant! Someone to legally beat with a stick! And then, in a burst of dazzling white light, I realized I had just the candidate.

Suddenly Tabs stood up and headed for the door.

"Tabs, wait!"

"I have spin cla.s.s, Raymond. I have to go. Enjoy your trip."

"Tabs ..."

She stopped in her tracks and turned back to me, expectantly.

"I-I can't help but think there's maybe something special between us ..."

"You noticed?" Tabs breathed.

"Well, yes-a man can't avoid being aware of the needs of a beautiful young girl like yourself." I came closer.

"Raymond, it's ... It's ..."

"Yes?" Zooming in for the kill.

"Well ... you look so much like my father."

"Oh?" Okay, not a total setback. Some birds have major father issues.

"It's been so long since I've seen him."

"Really, luv? How long?"

"Eleven years now."

"I'm sorry. How did he ... pa.s.s1?"

"Oh. He didn't die. He's in prison."

That was a plot twist. "I'm sorry to hear that. What ... what was his, um, situation?"

"He was a serial molester. The Tinsdale Fondler. Made the cover of the Daily Mail."

"Right."

"I'd best be going now, Raymond."

"Yes, Tabs. Thank you for everything. Good night."

f.u.c.king h.e.l.l.

Deprived of coitus, I daydreamed of slave ownership and got as s.h.i.tfaced as I possibly could on a bottle of single malt I'd stolen from the bar at a Stella McCartney fragrance launch.

Survival is a popular reality TV game show produced in many countries throughout the world. On the show, contestants are isolated in the wilderness and compete for cash and other prizes. The format uses a progressive elimination, allowing the contestants to vote one another off one at a time, until only one final contestant remains and wins the t.i.tle of "The Survivalist."

You're either into this show or you're not. It's binary.

1. A dreadful, hideous modern euphemism for dying.

04.

Tracking down Neal the next morning wasn't hard. I walked into the off-license, held up a banknote and said, "Twenty quid to whoever can help me find my long-lost brother. He's got one good eye, dresses like Duran Duran and stinks of the worst kind of dog s.h.i.t."

"Oh, that'd be Neal," squeaked a trainer-clad gran buying a stack of (what else) lotto tickets. "Lovely boy and a great singing voice. This week I think he's in a box behind the stationer's on Old Oak Common Lane."

"Thank you very much."

"What about my twenty quid?"

"Only once I find my prey, Sea Hag," I said over my shoulder as I headed out into the brisk fall air. I could practically hear that mummified old soak composing an indignant letter to the Daily Mail, beginning I'm a pensioner and ..., at which point a lifelong diet of greasy fish, scotch mints and whimsically flavoured crisps catches up to her and she falls dead at her kitchen table, not to be discovered for weeks.

Neal was indeed inside a Samsung cardboard box, eating a Subway sandwich, when I found him. He squinted up at me. "Right, it's c.u.n.ty, it is."

"It's Gunt to you, Neal. These your digs, then?"

"I'll not have you knocking this box. Samsung has emerged as one of the strongest compet.i.tors in the Darwinian world of home electronics."

"For f.u.c.k's sake, Neal, it's a cardboard box." I kicked the side for emphasis. It emitted a deep ba.s.s thump and didn't rupture, which gave me pause. "I have to admit, if you're going to live in a f.u.c.king box, this isn't a bad one."

"My point exactly."

"In any event, no boxes for you anymore, mate, I've found you a job."

"For Christ's sake, Ray, why would I want a job? I'm living the life, aren't I?"

"Look, you ungrateful p.r.i.c.k, I'm not talking about picking up litter along some wretched motorway or latrine duty at Rikers. I'm talking about a South Pacific lagoon populated with gorgeous, needy s.l.u.ts, fuelled by an endless supply of rum drinks."

Neal's lone good eye stared into mine. "If you're one of those people who collects hobos so you can take them home and eat their brains or something like that, good on you, but I'd rather keep my brains."

"It's not that at all."

"s.e.x with you and the missus, then? Afterwards smother me with a dry cleaning bag and toss me into some brambles off the M5?"

"Why are you being so f.u.c.king paranoid, you ungrateful walking toilet? I'm on the level."

"Really? So tell me more."

One thought crossed my mind-f.u.c.k: "Do you have a pa.s.sport, Neal?"

"Pa.s.sport? f.u.c.king right, mate. Have a look." From within his maggoty jacket he produced a valid British pa.s.sport. "What's the matter? You look surprised."

He handed it to me and I opened it to the photo page, and there he was, milky-eyed, hair all dagged up with s.h.i.t and mucus, wearing a shirt like he was an extra from Oliver! His expression was crazed.

"I always thought one day I'd like to go and see Dollywood, USA. You know, the singer and that. It's a world-cla.s.s resort destination. An uddersome songbird she is."

f.u.c.k me ragged with a concrete d.i.l.d.o-this was going to work. "Neal, here is what we're going to do. You are going to gather your few wretched shreds of possessions and we are going to throw them into a trash bin and you will never see them again. After that we are going to walk to my flat, where I will give you a Stanley knife and you will cut as much of your hair off as possible ..."

"Hold on. I told you, no s.e.xy s.h.i.t."