Too Weird for Ziggy Read Online Free

down his throat, waiting for it to come out the other end.”
    People walk by, recognize Spike, point him out. It embarrasses him suddenly, like he was caught showing off in front of a friend. The customs man watches them, eyebrows raised.
    â€œThey all love you, don’t they? They all want to touch you, prostrate themselves in front of you. Look at that woman. It’s running down her legs, she wants you so much. You can tell the English from the Americans. That lot are English. They know exactly who you are but they just walk by, pretending not to look, making out they’re not impressed. This one, she’s American.”
    A large woman detaches herself from her companion and comes over lopsidedly, weighed down on one side by a huge bag she keeps hitching back up onto her shoulder. She hooks her arm in his, her mouth two inches from his face. She says: “I know you.”
    He can smell in-flight champagne, slept-in clothes, a cocktail of trapped gas, and all the duty-free perfumes shetried on eleven hours ago. Spike looks straight into her eyes, not saying a word.
    The customs man summons up the power of the entire British Government. “Madam. If you have something to declare, declare it
somewhere else
.”
    â€œNo need to be rude.” She huffs back over to where her friend is waiting. “It
was
him, you know.”
    Spike feels a sinus headache kicking in. He always got them, flying. There was a curtain separating him from them but their bodies still intruded—the dust from their dead skin that circulated in the canned air for hours. The laundry smell of economy-section chicken mixed with the cheap burnt coffee kept the passages unblocked until he dis-embarked but then a swelling behind his eyes would try to force its way out of his nose and ears like balloons.
    The customs man is turning over a pile of neatly folded clothes. He peels off a silk shirt, floppy, soft as skin, while Spike stands, hands in pockets, watching.
    â€œNice shirt. Expensive. You get to know these things in my line of work. I can tell straight off if something’s fake. I can tell a phony Lacoste alligator at fifty yards. They think they’ve got it but they always make these little mistakes. I can tell you what fucking
street
in Hong Kong they bought the fake Rolex on. I know when I’m dealing with a big man or not. This shirt cost serious money. ‘The Real Thing’—how much did you make on that song? Half a million? A million? A mate of mine’s brother works for a record company. He says popstars make a fucking fortune on royalties, and they’re mean as hell, the lot of them. Only time they put theirhands in their pockets is to scratch their bollocks.” Spike tugs his hands out of his pocket automatically.
    â€œMy daughter—she picked up your first album at a boot fair the other day.
50p
. You had some good songs on that one, I’ll admit that. A lot more cheerful than the stuff you’re doing now. Getting a bit jazzy in your old age, aren’t you? Going for the cred market? Can’t whistle the new songs in the bath like the old ones. Do you ever stop and wonder what people are doing while they’re listening to your songs? Fixing the car? Taking a dump? Getting dressed for work? Shagging? Funny that, you in the background while complete strangers are getting their end off. My daughter says she ‘works out’ to your record. She’s sixteen now, Linda. Too old for you judging by that one in the papers last week.
She
seemed to think pretty highly of you though. ‘Hung like a horse’? Shetland pony, more like. Ha-ha! Seen it in the school showers often enough. Remember when I caught you and Jonesy at it in the showers? Went back to get my trunks and there you were, Jonesy on his knees, and he wasn’t playing the clarinet!
    â€œIt’s all right, Buttock, your secret’s safe with me. I was always good at catching people out,