Little Blasphemies (Excerpt)

Little Blasphemies is the winner of the Book Edit Writers’ Prize 2021, and the following excerpt was presented during a reading at the prizewinners’ Writers Showcase.

August 2018

Eli

Eli Baker was depressed, and his solution was to have sex with as many strange men as he could find. Following this line of logic, he found himself in a large bedroom in Leith, playing someone else’s guitar, wearing nothing but his black boxer briefs, and taking huffs from a pipe filled with crystal meth. It was an otherwise uneventful Tuesday.

He strummed inexpertly, trying to match Joni Mitchell playing from a small Bluetooth speaker in the corner. Three knocks on the door, and a man entered. In his hands, a small tray. On the tray, cartons of fruit juice and two glasses. His name was something like Max, or Mark, or Matt.

Through the window, Eli could see the Firth. Its surface, a mirror of weathered silver, was disturbed by the wind. Its foggy horizon was obscured by the spectres of faraway vessels. He heard the tell-tale squawks of gulls coming to feast on leftover chips. Their calls rang through him like a hammer-struck anvil until he was numb and pliant, ready to be bent out of shape. He did not, at any point, look at the notes he was playing, nor at his companion.

The man said something to him, and Eli did not pay attention, though his thoughts were diverted by nothing in particular. The indulgent glug of pouring liquids briefly accompanied his absent-minded chords. The ticking of a clock, the dampened sound of foot on carpet, and then nothing.

The man with some M-name was also in his underwear, a jockstrap brightly emblazoned with bananas on the waistband that hugged a little too tightly against his chubby frame. He was covered in greying hairs everywhere except his head. He set their glasses down on the bedside table, and moved in front of Eli to shut the curtains. The birds fell silent. He picked up a remote on the sill. Joni fell silent too. Eli felt his ears begin to buzz, and took one final, deep, huff.

‘Now that the sun’s setting, it’s probably for the best to stop people looking in,’ the man said, by way of unsolicited explanation. ‘Let me just go and get the syringe.’

Eli shrugged, and resumed strumming. He didn’t care if anyone looked in. He stretched out his fingers towards the furthest fret he could reach, increasing the pressure of the metal strings against his fingertips until they smarted in pain. He didn’t feel anything else.

The man wandered over to sit next to him on the bed, nudging him to the side. Eli moved, but did not stop playing. The man continued.

‘So, how much do you want? One? One and a half?’

Eli said nothing, but looked over his shoulder at the tray of drinks on the dresser. From the bedside table, the man pulled out a small vial of clear liquid and a syringe. Eli examined it closely, his hands continuing to pass across the strings and sound discordant notes.

‘However much you’re having,’ he finally said. He set the guitar down gently on the side of the bed. It slipped slightly, and its hollow body rang with the echo of confirmation.

The man nodded, measured in the syringe one and a half millilitres of the liquid, and brought it in front of Eli’s face for inspection. Then, he squirted it into a glass and topped it up with juice.

‘Cheers,’ he said, his eyes brimming with anticipation. Eli smiled and nodded, before downing the concoction in one gulp. It tasted acrid against his throat, and burned slightly. He grimaced, and got up out of bed, pouring himself another glass of the juice.

Before he could turn back towards the bed, the man was behind him, the jockstrap pushing into the small of Eli’s back. Fingers slowly found their way down his body, and peeled Eli’s own underwear away.

The two didn’t put their underwear back on until thirteen hours had passed, and the man whose name Eli couldn’t remember had opened the curtains again. Then, Eli stepped outside into the fragile morning sun, hailed a cab, and went straight to his first-year English Literature summer resit.

***

‘We cannot,’ she said firmly, ‘call them our Sugar Daddy Vibe Checks.’

Bailey Grant was an American who had been Eli’s friend at secondary school. She had a pointy face dotted with freckles, only ever sat with her left leg crossed over right, and wore precisely four pieces of jewellery at all times. Today it was two earrings, a necklace and a broach, each inlaid with pearls.

As far as Eli was concerned, she was the principal spoilsport in his life, if only because she had high standards and Eli was mostly just high, as standard. Therefore, they were best friends and had a fantastic time whenever they were together.

‘Why not?’ Eli furrowed his brows and pulled his lips into a pout, before tapping on his phone until, with a familiar swoosh, there was a recurring diary item in both of their calendars. Bailey pulled her own phone from the pocket of her double-breasted blazer, tapped it once with a manicured finger, and then shook her head.

‘See,’ he concluded, ‘it’s official now.’

Bailey had flown straight in from Boston before returning to Cambridge for the new year, and Eli had promised to show her around Edinburgh. August was waning, and so the Festival was growing louder and more urgent: the final gasp of fire running out of fuel.

‘My point is, I neither have, and nor do I want, a sugar daddy. This is dumb.’

Eli yawned and dragged lazily from his cigarette, before leaning back on his chair and resting his feet up on the seat beside him. A few tourists cast him suspicious glances from the next table, and Eli blew a smoke ring in their direction. They quickly looked away, and with his mischief completed, he returned his attention to Bailey. He lowered his shades so his eyes could probe hers, and she calmly put her sunglasses on in response.

***