The Sexually Transmitted Infections Outpatient Clinic is on the Weesperplein. I inform Muchteld, sitting opposite me, peering over her specs into her laptop, that I have tae nip out for a couple ay hours. There’s no reaction from her, as nothing is suspicious about this. She’s been with me long enough. When we worked together on my club night, Luxury, I was always sneaking away to pay people off in cash, or even meeting associates tae get fucked up.
We’re (appropriately) based in the heart of the red-light district, which retains a strange sleaze during the day. I stroll in the welcome brisk air towards Nieumarket, planning to jump on the Metro 54. I shuffle past two young holiday jakeballs fae the north ay England, preoccupied with ogling a hefty black lass in a window, as their mates urge them tae come doon the street. — This is where Jimmy Savile started out, I tell one. A salty retort comes my way, which I miss as a shivering junky asks ays for cash, and I slip him a two-euro coin. He tears off without recognition, sick wi need. I dinnae take offence, I’ve been there, and however his condition compels him tae act, he’ll be glad ay it. Weaving off tae the sounds ay a hurdy-gurdy, I head underground. The station is calm and sterile compared tae the chaos above it. As I board the chunky train to ride the two stops I’m thinking of Vicky and there’s an ominous tug in my chest.
When I get off, I emerge into bright sunlight. I’ve always liked this part of town, without realising that the clap clinic was based here. The Nieuwe Achtergracht is one ay ma favourite canals tae walk. It’s full ay quirky things to look at, and a real houseboat community; as it’s outside ay the four horseshoes in the centre ay toon, tourists rarely meander it. The clinic is housed in an ugly 1970s precast structure oan the corner. It’s joined to a block ay purple-bricked eighties-style apartments, which at least try tae nod tae Amsterdam’s nautical heritage with a few porthole windaes, aw looking oantae the bustling street. There’s a twisted dark canopy ay shame, which ironically looks like a vagina wi open piss flaps, urging ‘Come in, big boy!’ as ye walk through the doors below. I think ay aw the scabby cocks and putrid fannies of shaggers, innocent and prolific, who have walked underneath it, tae – often temporary – salvation.
The doctor’s a young woman, which is embarrassing, but the tests are nowt like the auld Ward 45 ay Edinburgh popular culture, where the wire test-tube brush soaked in Dettol is rammed down the cock hole. Nothing more than blood and pish samples, and a swab of the discharge. But she kens what it is straight away. — It looks likes chlamydia, which the tests will no doubt confirm in a couple of days. Do you wear condoms when you have intercourse?
Fuck sake…
I’ve picked up a fuckin Bonnyrigg Rose, for the second time in my life. At my fucking age, it feels beyond embarrassing, just totally ridiculous. — Generally, yes, I tell her. — Though there has been a recent exception, and I’m thinking ay Marianne.
— The risk, with chlamydia, as with all sexually transmitted diseases, is greatly decreased by use of a condom, but not eliminated. Condoms aren’t foolproof, for many reasons, and you can still get sexually transmitted infections despite using one. They sometimes break, she says.
Fuckin tellin me… I’m now thinking aboot bein wi Vicky and my cock bursting through the tip ay the rubber, and her scrambling in panic for the morning-after pill. For fuck sake.
They sometimes break.
It’s all I can hear as she goes on about how the chlamydia infection can spread if you have vaginal, anal or oral sex or share sex toys… Though the woman is detached and professional, I feel like a chastened adolescent who should know the fuck better.
Afterwards, I sit at the Café Noir on the corner ay Weesperplein and Valckenierstraat. I decide against a beer and have a koffie verkeerd, and contemplate the shambles ay a life oscillating between extreme social boldness and cowardice, neither ay them ever deployed at strategically optimum times.
I dinnae even need the test results tae confirm it, as the next day the email comes in:
From: VickyH23@googlemail.com
To: Mark@citadelproductions.nl
(No subject)
Mark,
I’ve had some bad and very embarrassing news. I’m assuming you know what it is, as it directly affects you too. Under the circumstances I think it’s best we don’t see each other again, as it clearly isn’t going to work out now. I’m so sorry.
Well, there it is. You fucking blew it again. A great woman, who was so into you, and you give her a fucking dose because you cannae keep it in your troosers and have tae bareback ride some slag just because fucking Sick Boy humped her for years and you were jealous. Ya stupid, pathetic, useless and irredeemably weak bag ay shite.
I look at the email again, and feel something inside ays fold in two. My body seems tae go intae shock, and ma eyes water. I slump in front ay the TV in my apartment, letting my emails and calls pile up before deleting them all. If it’s important they’ll get back to me.
A couple ay days later, Vicky’s grim correspondence is confirmed by the test scores. I go back tae the clinic and they put ays on antibiotics for seven days, no sexual contact tae be had within this time. I have tae return in three months tae confirm that I’m all clear. The doctor asks about sexual partners, who I’m likely to have goat it fae, and who I probably gave it tae. I tell her I travel a lot.
I’m sitting back in my flat, smoking dope, feeling sorry for myself. Getting even more depressed through knowing exactly what I’ll do tae handle this setback: get wrecked, then sober up and fling masel into my graft. Repeat till death. This is the trap. There isnae a later. There’s no fucking place in the sun. There is no cunting future. There is only now. And it’s shite and getting worse.
The following evening and Muchteld comes tae the door, wi her partner Gert. He’s also been wi ays since the early days of Luxury, and they carry big bags ay shopping. Muchteld starts cleaning up the apartment, while Gert skins up and starts cooking a meal. — I have tickets for the Arena tomorrow.
— I don’t want to watch football. It just makes me miserable.
Muchteld, throwing takeaway cartons into a black bin liner, looks up and says, — Fuck you, Mark, football will not make you worse. We go to Ajax, then we eat and we talk.
— Okay, I concede, as a capitalised text pops in from Conrad.
WHY ARE YOU NOT ANSWERING MY CALLS AND TEXTS? THERE IS AN ISSUE AT THE STUDIO WITH KENNET. HE IS AN ASSHOLE! I WANT HIM FIRED AND I NEED A PROPER SOUND ENGINEER LIKE GABRIEL!
— You guys, I smile at them, hudin up the phone, — and this spoiled fat cunt, who has never stopped for a second tae think about anyone other than himself, you might have just saved ma life.
— Yet again, klootzak! Muchteld laughs. — You must speak to him, Mark, he is bombarding the office with calls. He thinks you do not care about this track he is making.
— Yeah, okay… I say, without enthusiasm.
Gert gets me in a headlock, aggressively rubs my scalp. I can’t break free, he’s a bear of a man.
— Hey, honey, easy on my boy! Who manages the manager, right, Mark?
I love those cunts.
Part Two