The Naked Flame

Mick Donnellan is the author of four other novels. El Niño (2012) Fisherman’s Blues (2014) and Mokusatsu (2019) and The Dead Soup (2023). When not writing fiction he works as a successful Playwright and Screenwriter. Film credits include Tiger Raid (2016) adapted from Mick’s Play Radio Luxembourg.

You can read more on www.mickdonnellan.com

For lovers everywhere.

Loose Blue Dress

Behold the stirred machinery of the soul. Here she is, our first guest, a hooker on a Sunday afternoon. Her name is Marilyn. Wearing a loose blue dress and red high heels. Brown eyes and long washed black hair.

We were in Madrid, Spain. Casa de Campo. Sunshine, the hum of siestas, hangover. She smiled, asked: ‘Lost?’

Surprised at her English, I said: ‘I thought you’d speak Spanish.’

‘Do you want me to speak Spanish?’

I shrugged and she asked: ‘Do you have a car?’

‘No. I’m here on my stag night.’

‘I don’t care. Do you want something or not?’

After our crime, behind some trees and a billboard, she said: ‘You haven’t done this before.’

‘Does that bother you?’

‘Only thing that bothers me is money.’

‘How much?’

‘Let’s call it €40.’

I stepped back, stood on a bag of rubbish and fell over. Smell of rotten food. She put her hands to her mouth and giggled. I stood up, embarrassed. Searched my pockets. Found my wallet. Handed her the cash. She’s back to business, takes it and puts it somewhere.

I said: ‘So, that’s it?’

‘You’ll be here again. If not with me, with someone else.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You’re one of the guilty ones.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Are you going to tell your girl?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘That means no.’

‘Why do you care?’

‘Who said I cared? You’re scaring away business. Now piss off.’

I turned to walk, head spinning like a gyroscope. Then I turned and asked: ‘Where did you learn such good English?’

‘I was born in London.’

‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘No.’

‘Lunch?’

She looked me up and down. ‘Treating me well isn’t going to take back what you did.’

‘I don’t want to take it back.’

‘You need sleep.’

‘I want to know you.’

‘You’re delirious.’

‘Probably.’

She lit a cigarette, said: ‘I’m here til six.’

‘I’ll see you then. My name is John joe...’

‘Bye John joe.’

Somewhere, a car beeped. We both looked over. Black BMW. A man inside. Tattoos, earrings, muscles. Two years from now he’ll be dead. Gangland shooting. Ricochet bullet. Today, he’s very much alive. He tapped his wrist. She sighed and said: ‘You better go.’

Found Gran Via, the main boulevard of Madrid. Commercial applause, or shiny bright steel reality, haunted by majestic statues. Discovered a Starbucks. Drank fancy coffee. Six o’clock came. Crepuscular sundown, punctuated by loud traffic and city drenched possibility.

I went back. Plasma acupuncture. She walked over, said: ‘I’m surprised.’

I handed her a Mocha, went: ‘You’re probably tired.’

‘It’s been a busy day. I’m starting to think you have mental problems. Did you call your girl?’

‘No.’

‘I knew you were a coward.’

‘Let’s get a real drink.’

We found a bright pub with a steel counter and two empty stools. The evening comes, dark, cold; and full of possibility. I got drinks, vodkas, just to set things in motion. She drinks it like a milkshake, says: ‘So, where you from?’

‘Athlone.’

‘Is that a country?’

‘It’s a place in Ireland. Here for the weekend for the stag.’

‘You enjoy it?’

‘You’re kind of the highlight so far.’

‘Great. I’ve never done this for free before.’

‘Oh. Are we...?’

‘I’m not charging. It’s nice to be treated human for a while.’

‘I’m confused. You’re gorgeous, seem educated and...’

‘And I’m not even real.’

‘Not a real hooker?’

‘I’m just a fantasy.’

‘A fantasy?’

‘I’m a figment. Some childhood film clip you’re playing from your head. You find me sexy?’

‘I find you sexy.’

‘You meet a hooker in a park and bring her for a drink. What’re you trying to play out?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know. Behold the stirred machinery of the soul.’

‘That’s what I thought when I saw you.’

‘I see into you. I know men. You’re a dreamer, and a lover, and you’re running from something. Running into my arms like I have all the answers. Like a Greek warrior looking for the magical mist of a Goddess to show him the way back from the horrors of war.’

‘And can you?’

‘Can I save you?’

‘Can you save me?’

‘Everybody wants to be saved all the time. What’s the point? Is it such a terrible affliction to be alive? Just let go and be in Hell and get it over with. All this pining for purity and salvation and the cure for guilt. Why bother?’

‘You think you’re in Hell?’

‘I think I’m aware. I like what I do. I’m fucking good at it and I don’t apologise to the gestapo moralismo....and guess what? The Hell we’re all afraid of is fucking beautiful.’

‘Fuckin beautiful.’

‘Fuck-ing beautiful. Why now?’

‘Why what?’

‘The week before your wedding.’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Do you love her?’

‘Not really. And we’re not sleeping together.’

‘Why not?’

‘She wants to wait til we’re married.’

She laughed, said: ‘What are you? Some kind of repressed Irish virgins?’

‘No. We’ve been there. But she thinks we were punished because of it.’

‘Punished how?’

‘It’s a long painful story.’

‘Don’t bother then.’

‘I won’t. Do you want another drink?’

‘Of course I do. I want to get drunk and then I want you to fuck me properly.’

‘I didn’t do it right the first time?’

‘You were hopeless.’

More vodkas with coke. The shots were large and we split one mixer.

David Bowie comes through the speakers with Velvet Goldmine. It syncs well with the scene, brings her face into focus. Deep unblemished skin, smooth and brown, and flawless. Mercurial eyes and layered black hair. Thin arms, thin legs, impossibly thin. And a scent like a door to a place you’ve been looking for.

On goes the night, a trip in the excited dark, desire illuminated. I said: ‘We better be careful; we could fall in love.’

‘Or I could spike your drink and steal your kidneys.’

‘That’s not part of my fantasy at all.’

‘Then drink up and let’s go.’

In the hotel, she got naked and went to the shower.

I ordered room service, put the phone down and listened to the water run. I gave it a minute, then followed.

There. We transcended time and death and fear and stole a slice of peace from the cruel blizzard of ugly life. After, the food was here. Steel pots over the plates. Just like the films. I poured some Tiger beer and took in her sweet scent as she sat on the bed. Sleek wet hair. Them arms.

There was a load of missed calls on my phone. ‘The rest of the lads are lookin for me.’

‘Turn it off. You’re with a prostitute. Isn’t that what stag nights are all about?’

In the morning. We went again. It was different sober. More intimate, real, sensory. Biting, bruising, rough but tender. Generous greed, dominant erogeny and full exhaustion of everything we had. We both came, beautifully came, supernova lovemaking, like mutual fusion among the oceans of cum and pleasure. 

Calm aftermath, like two satisfied stars in the serene wilderness of space.

Warm sheets, somehow luscious. We felt the trapeze artist swing, suspended in the Spanish noise, holding back the future until he caught the next rope. Until then. We were. All things and nothing. We were. Immortal.

Then. She took a deep breath, caressed my face. I felt like I’d known her for years. She said: ‘I have to go to work.’

It sounded so normal, she might have been a waitress. I moved closer, said: ‘Stay.’

‘You have a flight home.’

‘I don’t want this to end.’

‘Everything has to end. It was just a fantasy, remember?’

‘I’ll stay.’

‘You won’t. This is as good as it’s ever going to be. Aren’t you worried I’ll do the same thing tonight? With somebody else?’

‘Will you?’

She didn’t answer. A flash of sadness over her face. Some memory, some intrusive pain. She got out of the bed, tied up her hair and went to the bathroom. I looked at the ceiling for a while, wondering. Then she came back and pulled on her dress and said: ‘You can walk me to the door. After that, we go our separate ways.’

‘Do you not feel anythin at all?’

‘What do you think?’

We walked down the stairs, toward the front door, suffered disapproving looks from the staff. She didn’t seem to care. Outside, the day was busy and the light hurt our eyes. The streets were crowded, the traffic jammed, our time together held under a guillotine. I said: ‘So this it?’

‘Aren’t you relieved?’

‘No, just scared.’

She gave it a second, then kissed me and walked away.

AFTER SHE LEFT, I WAS sick with drink and loneliness. Felt dizzy and volatile. Clammy and anxious. I went back through the cool floor and upstairs to pack. In the room, her scent was still in the air, like a plane I’d missed to a better place. Her shape in the covers of the bed, on the pillow, her towel on the ground. Her brown legs haunted me. How light she was. The shimmer of her blue dress, an oceanic glimmer, a sea of something more, cut short by time and circumstance.

I brushed my teeth and thought about Ireland. Something burned and growled in my stomach, like a car in the wrong gear. I turned off the tap and everything went quiet. My reflection looked different, like a stranger. Bloodshot eyes and age torn skin. The cleaners hovered around outside, muttering Spanish questions.

Later, in a nearby pub, I drowned a fast wine. It tasted good, like twenty more. I’d already missed the flight. Not sure if I was relieved or worried. Time to chance reality. Turned on the phone.

27 missed calls.

17 voicemails.

37 SMS.

I turned it off and ordered another drink. Wedding in a week and me here in Madrid riding hookers. Great job, John joe.

I got nicely pissed. Hoping for sedation. Numbness. Answers.

Ate some Tapas. The omelettes were alright but I wouldn’t chance the olives. I took a look around. Fat Spaniards mostly. Small stools. Soccer on the telly. A smell like vinegar. Life was good here, laid back, calm. Same as everywhere when you’re on holidays. I thought about going back to find Marilyn. Then said I better not. I had the fear, the horrors, I wasn’t right. So I had five or six more wines and left to face the guilty music.

Rang Karen on the way to the airport. That was her. The one I was marrying.

She went mental. Where the fuck was I? Did I not know there was uncles flying in from America on Tuesday? A problem with the flowers. One of the band had had a heart attack and the limo driver’s car was after failing the NCT and what the fuck now?

I hung up and took the next flight going. It cost a bomb and took four hours.

Then I was in Dublin. Came through the arrivals. Nothing to declare.

A smell like exhaust and tar when I left the terminal.

Found the car. Opel Vectra. Metallic blue.

Fifteen years old and she still drove like new.

Fucked the bags in the back and sat in. The steering wheel was firm and ready for action. I turned the ignition, let the glow plugs warm, then fired her up.

It started with a purr. The radio blasted in with Lyric FM. Tchaikovsky. It always opened on that station somehow. Every time you started the car you got a blast of classical. I switched it to Tom Dunne’s Pet Sounds. He was banging out some Bowie - Under Pressure. Figure that.

Was I alright to drive? Highly unlikely. Had the guts of a barrel of wine drank in Madrid and a few whiskys on the plane. But I had to get home.

It was this or the Citylink.

And fuck the Citylink.

Sweet Jehovah

Out we went. On to the M50. Took the M4 at Liffey Valley and merged on to the M6 at Kinnegad. Kept her steady. Wasn’t too bad when I had one eye closed and the music going loud and the window open. Was wondering how I’d feel when I’d see Karen. You know that first second? The guilt. Was it the only time I’d cheated? Not really. But still. You know yourself? She didn’t deserve it. She had that Irish devotion thing going on. Wouldn’t dream of cheating herself. And sure that only made it worse. Then again, there was fuck all fireworks in the bedroom lately. Fuck all for the last year. And by fuck all I mean fuckin nothing . How’s that work, your honour? Mind the wall there, John joe. Fuck sake.

Had