Lenny Siberia was the bastard offspring of Captain Africa (the lard mogul) and Tracy. The captain disappeared without Tracy who perished alone with her diamond collection, the victim of a mau-mau hit squad, leaving Lenny alone with the one thing money can't buy: poverty
He was discovered at one year old by a wayward nun; he had been living in the dumb waiter of the zambezi juice bar. Sister James (for it was she) lost no time in mailing the child, by first-class parcel post, to a friend in Brussels. Fortunately he was erroneously delivered to the Eros Luxury Club, a converted charabang in the bowels of Manchester's la quartiére latin
The proprietor, a swarthy ill-mannered character of Armenian origin, received the package with a bestial grunt. Taking a curved knife from a canteen of curved knives, he slashed it open. Lenny gazed into the face of this his first stranger and what he saw was pure malevolence
He ran down flattened streets patrolled by aimless amputees through a world of refugees, out of the cold war into the deep freeze, he ran out of money, he ran into trouble
He was adopted by Sheba and Rex, a pair of alsatian dogs who regarded the boy with an uneasy ambivalence. They lived in an Art Deco cocktail cabinet by the bicycle sheds of Salford Metropolitan Police Compound. They were devout Catholics
It was arranged for Lenny to attend the School of Our Lady of the Seven Robes of Gold by the Garden of Sorrows in the Vale of Tears which was run with teutonic efficiency by the little daughters of the sick under the iron rule of Mother Cyrene
Mother Cyrene was everything rancid to Lenny: her mouth a malignant slit in the murderous mask she called a face; her cheesy breath steaming up his spectacles; her eyes like mobile ball bearings - their colour left a mechanical taste in the mouth
Daily religious instruction furnished his vacant mind with tales of treachery, morbid betrayals, oceans pink with the blood of multitudes, saints looking to the sky their living bodies smashed by hammers before the alien idols of the heathen. Incense filled his nostrils with the fatal breath of ghosts, hermaphrodite choirs droned in his ears
Each student could elect to spend their free time in one of three ways: sporting activities, visiting the sick or in the service of the Knights of the Sacred Orchid. The latter seemed the least demanding, the most hygenic, and it also appealed to the lad's naive sense of chivalry
The Knights of the Sacred Orchid held their thrice-weekly routines in the spacious open-plan lounge of the sinister Raoul, who affected the manner of the proto-fascist with psychotic attention to detail. His navy blue hair sleeked with ancient grease, his meagre Don Amechie moustache waxed stiff like the legs of a dead fly. He went nowhere without the chums
The chums were namely Horace and Boris, the brothers Morris, a titanic duet each in possession of a powder-blue safari suit and arms of anthropoidal length. Their physical immensity fully emphasized the stiff angular grace of the nifty Raoul who now led the way into the lounge
The lounge was furnished by three rows of seven leatherette easy chairs faced by one formica table. The curtains were the colour of mustard embellished with the bleeding heart motif. The walls were hung with colourless daubs. The carpet was monotonous, its pattern gave the impression of small animal crapping at regular intervals. The whole scene was lit by a soundless colour TV and a row of six orange table lamps in which shifting globules of molten wax moved like specimens of rare snot
Enter Mother Cyrene, flanked by the chums and a hyper-reverent Raoul who wore the look of a man obsessed. She stood on the table and began
He was discovered at one year old by a wayward nun; he had been living in the dumb waiter of the zambezi juice bar. Sister James (for it was she) lost no time in mailing the child, by first-class parcel post, to a friend in Brussels. Fortunately he was erroneously delivered to the Eros Luxury Club, a converted charabang in the bowels of Manchester's la quartiére latin
The proprietor, a swarthy ill-mannered character of Armenian origin, received the package with a bestial grunt. Taking a curved knife from a canteen of curved knives, he slashed it open. Lenny gazed into the face of this his first stranger and what he saw was pure malevolence
He ran down flattened streets patrolled by aimless amputees through a world of refugees, out of the cold war into the deep freeze, he ran out of money, he ran into trouble
He was adopted by Sheba and Rex, a pair of alsatian dogs who regarded the boy with an uneasy ambivalence. They lived in an Art Deco cocktail cabinet by the bicycle sheds of Salford Metropolitan Police Compound. They were devout Catholics
It was arranged for Lenny to attend the School of Our Lady of the Seven Robes of Gold by the Garden of Sorrows in the Vale of Tears which was run with teutonic efficiency by the little daughters of the sick under the iron rule of Mother Cyrene
Mother Cyrene was everything rancid to Lenny: her mouth a malignant slit in the murderous mask she called a face; her cheesy breath steaming up his spectacles; her eyes like mobile ball bearings - their colour left a mechanical taste in the mouth
Daily religious instruction furnished his vacant mind with tales of treachery, morbid betrayals, oceans pink with the blood of multitudes, saints looking to the sky their living bodies smashed by hammers before the alien idols of the heathen. Incense filled his nostrils with the fatal breath of ghosts, hermaphrodite choirs droned in his ears
Each student could elect to spend their free time in one of three ways: sporting activities, visiting the sick or in the service of the Knights of the Sacred Orchid. The latter seemed the least demanding, the most hygenic, and it also appealed to the lad's naive sense of chivalry
The Knights of the Sacred Orchid held their thrice-weekly routines in the spacious open-plan lounge of the sinister Raoul, who affected the manner of the proto-fascist with psychotic attention to detail. His navy blue hair sleeked with ancient grease, his meagre Don Amechie moustache waxed stiff like the legs of a dead fly. He went nowhere without the chums
The chums were namely Horace and Boris, the brothers Morris, a titanic duet each in possession of a powder-blue safari suit and arms of anthropoidal length. Their physical immensity fully emphasized the stiff angular grace of the nifty Raoul who now led the way into the lounge
The lounge was furnished by three rows of seven leatherette easy chairs faced by one formica table. The curtains were the colour of mustard embellished with the bleeding heart motif. The walls were hung with colourless daubs. The carpet was monotonous, its pattern gave the impression of small animal crapping at regular intervals. The whole scene was lit by a soundless colour TV and a row of six orange table lamps in which shifting globules of molten wax moved like specimens of rare snot
Enter Mother Cyrene, flanked by the chums and a hyper-reverent Raoul who wore the look of a man obsessed. She stood on the table and began
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