Dorian by Will Self Read Free Book Online

chose to disregard the insult, preferring instead to ogle Dorian, who was hovering nearby ‘… he is most lovely. He reminds me of somebody… Can he talk?’
    ‘Who cares. Dorian, this is Fergus; Fergus, this is Dorian. That’s all that it’s necessary for either of you to know now. You’ll both know everything else so soon it’s sickening. Bye.’ And he strode out, obviously expecting Dorian to follow.
    Dorian – with a feeble ‘Excuse me’ to the Ferret – complied.
    In the street, feeling stoned and strange and oddly exalted among the office fodder, Dorian found himself loitering with Wotton in front of a tailor’s window. They contemplated a model gentleman, who was perfect in every way save for being headless. ‘Who is Fergus?’ Dorian asked, for want of any other thought to enunciate.
    ‘The Ferret is immensely rich,’ Wotton obliged, ‘from property deals. He’s also immensely queer; he has his own resident catamites. He’s fairly posh – his father was Lord Rokeby. He’s also nearly psychopathic – he killed a man once in an alleged skiing accident. Quite a feat, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
    And with this, Wotton took his now somnolent and opiated acolyte by the arm and guided him in the direction of the Jag. It was time to take Dorian Gray somewhere else for more intimate and mysterious instruction.

3
    A week later Henry Wotton called on the Ferret at his maisonette, which was high in one of those blocks on Chelsea Embankment that impart an almost Dutch feel to the view from across the river. It was another hot morning in the city. That summer Britain was in the process of burning most of its remaining illusions, which was why, perhaps, Henry Wotton felt more obliged than ever to drape his warped sensibility in the straightest of garbs. For this particular elevenses he opted for the green corduroy bags, the brown brogues, the powder-blue Pringle sweater, and the check Viyella shirt – what had been, still was and would remain the uniform of the seriously retarded country gent.
    It was difficult to secure an invitation from the Ferret, who had that foible of men who have inherited a fortune and managed to multiply it: he was staggeringly mean. He didn’t want to invite anyone round for a meal because he wanted it all. He wanted to gobble and be gobbled by a procession of Dilly boys. He wanted to snack on warm, free-range coddled eggs, lopped open and dusted with beluga caviar, while drinking the finest Champagne. And it was these victuals that he was obliged to share with Henry Wotton, along with the sanctuary of his equally opulent rooms. Rooms that were like a calm pool of urbanity tucked behind the waterfall of the city.
    The Ferret had serious taste. There were good Persian rugs on the parquet floors, fine modern paintings on the silken yellow walls. The place had an apian smell. Pollen, wax, royal jelly, honey. There were proper bookcases which appropriately sequestrated the Ferret’s serious collection of weighty tomes. Outside, the sweep of the river was unusually glittery in the sun. Inside, all was furtive, comforting gloom.
    The Ferret and his guest were being imperfectly served by the current catamite, yet another Dilly boy, Jon. He was a big, crop-headed bruiser who lent a tin ear to his silver service. Each time Jon offered the rack of toast, Wotton observed the word ‘FUCK’ tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand, and each time he charged Wotton’s glass, the word ‘CUNT’ was manifested on the knuckles of his left. ‘Thank you, Jon,’ said the Ferret; ‘now put it back in the cooler – the bucket , that’s right.’
    Wotton exhaled cigarette smoke over a small silver dish of truffles. ‘I’ve taken a shine to that boy Gray,’ he purred.
    ‘I know,’ his host slurred with fatigue.
    ‘It’s disgusting the way you know everything, Fergus – perhaps you’re God?’
    ‘That would be a turn-up.’ The Ferret appeared to be genuinely pondering the