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Chapter 12
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2021-07-12 11:07:47Related chapters
Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret Chapter 13
Teddy lay on the hospital bed with the poison coursing through his veins. It is how a person dies. A withering poison turning their insides to stone. Lala sat beside him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was heavily drugged. She thought about him and their life together, the long years of chaos and sometimes harmony, and never imagined, not even for a moment, that she would see him lying there like this. A nurse entered the private room on the fifth floor of the Institut Bergoniè, closing the door almost silently behind her, leaving just a little click hanging in the air. She offered a sympathetic smile, which, once she decided she liked the look of her, Lala returned. Even the monitors were on low in the room, which was full of clutter: flowers, fruit, coats, bags. A traveller’s court. The nurse checked the absepto case connections, and the dial on the pump which controlled the flow of drugs. Teddy grimaced, though still asleep, when she gently wrapped t
Last Updated : 2021-07-12Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret Chapter 14
The Other LetterThe writing on the front of the envelope was barely legible, and Baden presumed that it can have only arrived at his home because the staff at the post office in Big Cidering knew his name and could make out some of the postcode. Baden opened it impatiently. der Jermyi wont to let u no I am finking about you. i sor you on the telly i beleeve in wot you say on the telly and wont to suppot u i am fed up with the way are country is going can u send me sum money i wont tell anyone about what we did in france i promis yors Billy ‘What’s that?’ Jeremy dropped his hand guiltily, crumpling the letter at his side, unconsciously willing it to disappear.‘Oh, nothing. Just a letter from a constituent. Wants more done about beggars in the shopping precinct.’ Eloquentia lost interest and carried on fussing with a vase she had just filled with flowers. She turned it left and right on the marble surface of the French Empire console, searching for its bes
Last Updated : 2021-07-12Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret Chapter 15
Teddy came home in an ambulance. Lala, Sèdonoudè, Quentin, Arabella Cameron, and a private nurse, stood on the stone steps which led up to the front door of Chateau Nullepart. It was hardly Lord Marchmain’s return to die in his ancestral home (and Teddy, though gravely ill, was not yet in extremis), but he was nonetheless touched by the gesture. The ambulance driver and his mate, officious looking in navy-blue, almost paramilitary style attire, carefully slid the rolling stretcher through the ambulance’s back door. Teddy had lost weight. The ambulanciers had little difficulty lifting the stretcher up the steps and setting it back down in the hallway. The wheels rolled on the marble tiles in front of the double stairway, a feature of the house which had always been Teddy’s favourite, and into the wood panelled dining room which had always been his second favourite. Suddenly all those memories came back to him. The long wooden table dressed in 80s gold plate and cutle
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In the cyber-land he had created for himself, Billy O’Leary was becoming more and more unhinged. His life of transience, of crime, the abuse he had suffered as a child, were an easy reservoir to draw upon. He entered deeper and deeper into a world of the dark side of the web, visiting sites where death was uploaded in real time. Middle Eastern and Mexican head choppers, or imaginative amateurs, tortured and mutilated their victims without conscience. The videos they made travelled fast around the bands of communication, and were watched by young men and women, some of whom, like Billy, were not quite right in the head. They grew inured to suffering the way a tree slowly grows, incrementally, until what was once a seed easily lost upon barren ground, becomes fixed in the most fertile part of it. Solid, immovable, vast, all encompassing, until it covers in shadows the alternative shoots of opportunity. Having won their referendum, the engineering rats were scurrying for power.
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Teddy, like most people who had access to it, had become sucked into an internet world. Again, for most, it was a welcome distraction from work, chores, duties, the general ennui of life. In Teddy’s case it was a distraction from death. He had accepted his fate as much as any can, notwithstanding the bouts of bitterness in knowing that no matter how well we have played it (not that Teddy had) it is life itself which cheats us in the end. His simple acts of resistance were each day, with the help of his nurse, to get out of bed and hobble across the wooden parquet of his dining room floor, now polished to a high shine, and sit in a wicker-work chair from the turn of the 18th Century, at a round, black marble topped Empire table from around the same time. His battered, old blue Lenovo laptop sat on top, the battery of which had long ceased to function, and now had to be plugged in to work. A heavy jar or glass or book had to be placed just so against the lead component,
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Billy rang the doorbell. The ring sounded loud inside the massive white house, even behind the heavy, pastel pink painted door. Billy had slipped in unobserved - the estate was named Gormwell, and it was surrounded by a low drystone wall - for the sleepy, bucolic fields and villages of Big Cidering were hardly ever troubled by interlopers of any kind. Clearly, Billy had not understood what was expected of him when Bumford had asked him to ‘case the joint’. When Baden opened the door and found a surly, straggly, unkempt rat of a man who he recognised but could not exactly place, he failed to hide his shock. Normally, Baden epitomised what it meant to be nonplussed, but his mouth popped open in an ‘O’ shape, his eyes widened so that the grey-blue irises, surrounded with watery, milky white sclera bulged as the spat word, ‘What!’ forced itself through lips not quite prepared to utter it. Composing himself he continued, outraged, ‘What the bloody devil do you think you a
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The Dinner Party The dinner party was being held in honour of Teddy’s dying. It seemed as good a way as any to say goodbye to one they’d drank and lived and loved alongside for so many years now, that the whole spectre of death seemed surreal and untrue, a distant happening that only happened to others. The Victorian dining table, which had been stashed away after Teddy’s medical bed had been installed, was put back together again, and now dominated the parquet and panels with its polished ebony veneer. It held places for sixteen, and fifteen Hepplewhite chairs upholstered in crunchy, nearly falling apart brown leather stood ready to receive the buttocks of imminent diners. In place of the sixteenth Hepplewhite chair, which had been left standing against the panelled wall, was Teddy’s favourite chair, the battered, comfy parker knoll, to allow him a less formal repose as they dined. True, it smelled unpleasant and was stained from years of spilled food and booze, bu
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DeathDying, is a serious business. There is no room for laughter. Only horrible panic, as all you have in the world finally slips away. There was no room for Lala. She hid herself. In the way an alcoholic, a sex addict, a person suffering from a mental illness, might hide behind the walls of denial until the illness refuses to let itself be ignored, she hid from Teddy’s dying, guiltily and ashamed, because she could not begin to accept the finiteness of mortality. It was far too late anyway for Teddy to fret and worry about who was what and where, or who would dare to care. It was time for fear, which, as it must, affects those devoid of meaning when facing the final outcome of a life’s adventure, to play its cruel, insidious part in the time Teddy had remaining. That, and those casting eyes of regret. Lala had asked him, in one of those beautiful, shared, inebriated moments, when their thoughts rode tandem, ‘Do you have regrets, Teddy, my old Teddy, my tuppen
Last Updated : 2021-07-12
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Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret About the Author
About the AuthorDanny Campbell began writing articles and undertaking editorial work for Sulak Sivaraksa in the late 1990s, while living in Thailand. Sulak encouraged Danny to write, and published his numerous articles, essays, novellas, and short stories about Thailand, and one (his personal favourite) set in Aceh, Sumatra, Indonesia.The themes for these books about Southeast Asia are the struggle to survive for people living on the edge of the diminishing wilderness, their political plight, and the plight of the incredible wildlife and nature which surrounds them. A Siamese Story is a brief biography of the Thai social critic and Danny's former mentor, Sulak Sivaraksa.One of Danny's first reading loves was in the horror genre, devouring Poe, King, Herbert and others as a child, and he has recently developed a side line in writing horror shorts for the author and compiler, Samie Sands, which he enjoys very much.Danny now lives in France, and his book, A Tale of Aquita
Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret Chapter 36
Lala watched the thirsty flowers wilt in the hot breeze which blew across the plum orchard plain. Sometimes she fiddled with herself when she could be bothered. Her carer now long kept her disapproving looks and gasps of shock to herself, having been told once too often that if she did not like it, she could either join in or fuck off. Nothing so much as a protracted show with a dildo, though again, if she could be bothered it would have been what she preferred, but just a mindless fiddling with her parts as she sat on the Parker Knoll and drank her vodka or gin and smoked her spliffs. Shaky Trevor had taken to coming around and joining in, largely for the free stream of drink and drugs on offer. He had even had, on one occasion, the temerity to suggest that he could provide her with his sexual services should she require them. Lala’s laughter soon disabused him of the notion, and her telling him that she would rather fuck a dead cat confirmed the futility of it. Sh
Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret Chapter 35
Of what ignominy there was in Sèdonoudè’s funeral, Lala would never be aware, for she refused to attend. Neither did Linda, who was denied the right by her now more assertive husband. Thus, it was left to the Camerons to stand in as mourners, while the humanist (none of them really knew what Sèdonoude believed in) celebrant celebrated what he could out of the patchwork of information they were able to supply him. In ordinary times it would have been a profoundly strange affair, a disjointed, remote, reckoning with an afterlife, or the lack thereof, but the disease that had been steadily decimating the aged and the unfortunate had already led to televised funerals streamed through i-pads and similar gadgets becoming usual, rather than exceptional behaviour. The lockdown had been released on the 11th of May and, while many restrictions remained, there was at least a sense of freedom for people like the Camerons, who were able to return to their large, beautiful but ram
Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret Chapter 34
The next day, something had changed, and they both knew it. Whatever it was that they had - a kind of co-dependency perhaps - it was never going to be enough. Cooped up together like the proverbial birds, with no real outside distractions for comfort, even in so large a house as Chateau Nullepart, demonstrated it. Sèdonoudè felt it first. Lala second. In many ways, though she was the seat of power like a king on a chessboard, she was the more vulnerable, almost immobile, subject to the vagaries of other moves. It was like watching what remained of her life sliding out of sight. Things had never been bad for her as they had been for women like Quentin’s wife, Magali, who had escaped the torment at his hands, or for others living now with the tyranny of miserable men who knew no love but only control. Her suffering was relative, but she suffered. Sèdonoudè had drifted off into something else recently, a reluctant lover, a distant friend, a distracted man. Even if Lala
Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret Chapter 33
The recent past: the Brexit ravings, the murder of Jeremy Baden-Flogg MP, Teddy’s sad, mundane death, were now subsumed by a dull ache, a persistent paranoia, a reckoning with sad, individual failures, unhappiness’s, woeful longings, dreams never likely to be achieved. What matter were they, when one moment a person is happily chatting to others in a bar or a shop or peaceful social gathering, or sharing memories of themselves as little children or wonderful drunken nights on social media pages, when the next, those snapshots, are all that will ever be left of them as their bodies succumb to the evil magic of fate? What did they matter, the old girl and boyfriends they were delighted to find still thought kindly of them, a small flame perhaps still burning? Those loves for cigars, wine, music, art, dance, food, sex, violence, solidarity? ‘My glass is empty.’ Lala sat in Teddy’s chair which was now her permanent throne. Sèdonoudè brought her vodka and red bull. The habit
Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret Chapter 32
Outside, the land never rested, and there was always work that needed to be done. Serge sat on the chugging, red tractor as it drew the teeth of a giant plough through the stiff soil of a fallow field. He sat back in the tractor seat and pulled his tobacco pouch from a pocket of his overalls as he always did, then rolled himself a smoke. He looked at the silhouette of Chateau Nullepart in the sunlight of this glorious spring day and thought about his place in the world. Well, the old, dissolute, anglais was dead, and Madame was not long for this world by the looks of her. Better them than me. But what about my house? He saw Sèdonoudè skulking around in the garden, which was not usual. And as for you, petit nègre, once Madame is up so are you my dark little friend. Serge laughed to himself, a snort of contempt, then carried on ploughing the field in the same way that it ever was.*** After wandering around Chateau Nullepart like a forlorn ghost, Sèdonoudè p
Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret Chapter 31
There were no more hospital visits. From now on, those entering the sick world of hospital halls, or those trapped by infirmity in those halfway houses to the after world - old people’s homes - and, in some pathetic cases, little children, were to die alone, save for the remote compassion of those ordinarily dedicated to saving and nursing them. France, like the rest of Europe, was in a desperate fight against an exponential monster. Lala went home in an ambulance just as Teddy had done, but to a better prognosis. Sèdonoudè was there to greet her. ‘How are you doin’, Lala?’ he said, as two ambulance men unstrapped her wheelchair and rolled it down the ramp. They had tired, irritable eyes above the obligatory face masks. Eyes which had seen too much and were sick of seeing it all too often. They maintained a polite aloofness, which at least was better than that time in the hospital when a porter, clearly at the end of his wits, cursed under his breath as he banged the troll
Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret Chapter 30
Sèdonoudè stood in the grocer’s shop on the corner nearest the entrance to the Institut Bergoniè. Grapes, isn’t that what all sick people have? He had not been behaving himself in Lala’s absence, or in the confinement that was now supposed to apply to everyone. Except for the most important public service workers in those essential roles of health, food, transport, and public safety. He had printed off his ‘attestation de dèplacement dèrogatoire’, and gone out for cigarettes and booze, and trysts with Linda in the back of Teddy’s old fiat. A gendarme had caught them in flagrante, and, after watching his dark buttocks heaving in between Linda’s milky white thighs for longer than necessary, he proceeded to extract a 135 euro fine from each of them, and then angrily deliver a long moral lecture of the bit ‘the public’ can do to help the nation in its time of great need. It was idiots like them, he said, which prevented him from visiting his mother in the ephad, adding tha
Lala's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret Chapter 29
In the worrying days before her operation, Lala tried not to drink, but she could not stop. The doctors at a clinic in La Rèole ran test after test: blood, heart, lungs, but the results, astonishingly for one so cavalier with their health, all proved to be no cause for concern. Even the numbers for her liver, though the enzymes were high, were not catastrophically so. Lala was so afraid for what life she had, she locked herself in one of the rooms at Chateau Nullepart, the one with the Fantin paintings of flowers and the old wooden trunk, before persuaded by Sèdonoudè that staying at home in a room and allowing the cancer to grow and kill her, as it had Teddy, was not an option he would allow. He would break down the door and call the doctors if need be. Finally, she left, meekly accepting that whatever would be would be, and sat in silence on the journey back to the Institut Bergoniè. Once there, she donned the long, tight, white, elastic stockings to help prevent
