Four Nights With The Devil

by Peter Hockley

  I gave a statement about the incident twice over – first to the Park End doorman, who scribbled my words on an official-looking A4 sheet held on a clipboard. Secondly, I spoke to a paramedic who was there to take the wounded to hospital, including me. The police were also at the scene of the fight, though no one in uniform came to me until hours later at the hospital.

  Two other young men rode in the ambulance with me. Initially the paramedics were concerned that we were going to kick-off right there in the back of the emergency vehicle. Their fears were unwarranted: I didn’t know either of the men and they were strangers to one another, yet, somehow, we had all been pulled into a battle with the same group of louts. It was that kind of night.

  I found myself in the middle of a bloody trio. To my right was a man all the way from Manchester, who was down in Oxford staying with a friend. It was his first time in the city and for his trouble he had three of his teeth smashed out by some guy’s fist. Even as he talked his mouth continued filling with blood. On my left was the unfortunate male who had had the glass bottle broken over his head. His entire face was covered in blood; it looked like someone had emptied a tin of red paint over him. Gruesomely, there were three shards of glass still sticking out of the skin of his face.

  Despite drinking beer and spirits all night, I was both clear and sober by the time we arrived at the John Radcliffe Hospital. For the tired and overstretched medical staff it must have been an all-too-familiar sight as we rolled in; just another round of avoidable, alcohol-related injuries that no doubt darkened their doors every weekend. The doctors and nurses may well have been glad of my coherent state, compared to some – and they all treated me in a friendly manner – but a certain look on some of their drawn faces betrayed the frustration of having yet another case of drunken stupidity, which only wasted time and resources.

  During my initial assessment I lied about how much booze I had consumed. Promising I was sober enough to take any medication at all, I was given a very mild painkiller. They didn’t want to risk giving me anything too strong because of the alcohol in my system. The painkiller was so weak it didn’t help at all. I may as well have eaten a jellybean for all the good that it did. I was then told to sit in the waiting area until a doctor was free to see me. I didn’t know it then, but my turn to see another physician was a good four hours away.

  The poor kid with the glass in his face was taken to be treated immediately. The young visitor from Manchester was also taken to have his remaining teeth seen to. I was relieved not to be alone for long, as David’s brother, Pierce, soon appeared and sat with me. It was shortly after 1am.

  Pierce and I were still re-living the crazy events of the past hour, trying to make sense of the explosion on the dance floor, when a pair of young women came along to the seating area. They were clearly dressed up for a night out and we got talking with them, learning, to our astonishment, that they had arrived at the hospital from the Park End Club as well. Incredibly, they had been involved in a fight with some other girls in one of the upstairs rooms at exactly the same time that our mass brawl erupted on the lower floor. It explained why the bouncers took so long to come and intervene – they were busy breaking up a cat fight in another room.

  Swapping war stories, we all laughed together and one of the women turned to show us her battle scars. She wore a backless top and long, bloody scratches ran down the length of her bare back, where one of her opponents had raked long fingernails across the skin. It looked like she had been mauled by a tiger. We continued talking with the pair until a nurse came and called the young woman to have her wounded back seen to and both she and her friend followed the nurse to another room. By ourselves again, Pierce and I made small talk, before he eventually dozed off in his chair.

  I shut my eyes to do the same but for me sleep stubbornly refused to come. The booze had long worn off and the ineffectiveness of the painkiller meant that my broken hand was getting uncomfortable. It was the first time in my life that I had broken a bone and I decided pretty quickly I didn’t enjoy it one bit. My finger ached with a continuous, hard throbbing which was joined every few moments – and always without warning – by a sharp, stinging pain that shot through my hand and made me grit my teeth. My ear had stopped bleeding by that time, although I still felt the pain of the cut.

  I watched Pierce sleeping soundly and envied him.

  I would have given anything to escape the discomfort I felt – to disappear into unconsciousness – but I could not. Instead I was left alone with my thoughts and, as long minutes turned into agonising hours, my mind was troubled afresh with the reality of my desperately unhappy life. Every sore throb in my hand beat in my ears also, like a mocking voice, scorning me for the utter worthlessness I felt inside. I was a prisoner in my own life. The hundreds, maybe thousands, of pounds I had spent on clubbing had proved to be a waste. Every thrill soon faded; each adrenaline rush and alcohol high vanished away. All I had to show for it all was a busted hand and deeper misery than ever.

  Time moved maddeningly slow. As I watched night gradually transform into day, my heart was more broken than any bone could be. There wasn’t anything other than the merry-go-round of dejection I had been riding, it seemed, all of my life.

  It would take five weeks for the bones in my finger to fuse and heal. I spent my twenty-first birthday with my hand wrapped in plaster and hung in a sling. I celebrated the milestone by travelling to London with a small group of friends, visiting a nightclub where we had enjoyed several wild nights in the past. But on my birthday I could only play-act at having fun. I had officially come of age, yet, all I wanted to do was turn back the clock and start over again.

  More and more I searched – both in books and in the heavens – for evidence of God. In a peculiar contradiction I found myself yearning to know Him and hesitating to believe at the same time. On occasion I tried praying, fumbling and stuttering over words and sentences, asking God to help me know Him and His truth. I always felt awkward and embarrassed afterwards. If God did exist, surely He wouldn’t bother Himself with such ridiculous attempts at prayer, would He?

  And what if there is no God? A voice in my mind said. Then you’re an idiot who talks to thin air.

  I wanted confirmation, a sign of any kind that would settle my fears and satisfy my curiosity. I felt drawn to God in some way – at the very least to the idea that He was out there somewhere. All I wanted – no, needed – was undeniable proof of some kind. I couldn’t commit my life to Him with anything less.

  Curiosity and wonder, hesitation and doubt – it all churned around inside me. It was as if there was a door in front of me and, perhaps, beyond it something wonderful and life-changing. I wanted to charge headlong through the door and discover all I had ever dreamed of, though I was reluctant to move – afraid of even greater letdown.

  Two months after the fight in Park End, I was out in Oxford again. Glad to be free of the plaster cast I was determined that, from now on, there would be no more miserable nights on the town. I was going to go out with my mates, get wasted and have some fun again – no matter what it took. Religion was the last thing on my mind that night.

  Overtime at St Anne’s had left me running very late. David, Pierce and other friends were already drinking somewhere in the city when I set out to join them. The only problem was I had no idea which bar they were in. I clambered off the bus and hurried along the high street, amid the throng of revellers marching to their chosen nightspots and tried calling Pierce on his mobile phone. Poor signal reception, combined with the background noise of partygoers at his end, left me struggling to hear my friend’s voice. Then, in mid-conversation, my phone battery died anyway. It was a rotten start to the night and things only went downhill from there.

  When I eventually caught up with the group in one of our regular haunts, I noticed that their evening – as far as alcohol consumption was concerned – was well under way. I was going to have to play catch-up. It wasn’t Park End where we ended up that night but,
instead, we made for a smaller venue called The Old Fire Station. A disagreement had arisen amongst the party over where we should go and we only settled on OFS because one friend told us about the great time he had enjoyed there a week before, not least because of the ultra-cheap booze promotions they were running.

  After paying to get inside it was immediately clear that this was definitely not the same night as the previous week. The Old Fire Station was half empty. I couldn’t remember seeing a venue as dead and suggested that we should try somewhere else. I was assured by all that before long the place would fill up and, with some reluctance, I agreed to stay.

  I saw only one way to enjoy myself in such a dull atmosphere: drink, drink and drink even more. My plan was to get more legless than ever before and in record time. My pals were going to have to carry me out of OFS and I smiled as my mind painted a picture of the scene. I began with pints of beer, drinking two in quick succession, followed by a couple of bottles of Smirnoff Ice. As soon as I drained those I switched to Jack Daniels and Coke, downing one and then, shortly after, another; I knew my old comrade, Jack wouldn’t let me down. I drank continuously, rinsing money down the drain, hoping to reach a point where inhibitions vanished away and where only the unrestrained release of alcohol intoxication remained. To both my annoyance and utter amazement, that moment failed to arrive. Remarkably, even though I drank the copious amounts of booze that I did, I remained completely sober.

  The alcohol had no effect on me whatsoever.

  I stood alone at the bar, glumly watching my friends on the dance floor – moving to the music and making the usual libidinous moves towards attractive young women. A sudden realisation struck me clearly for the first time: My love had turned sour. I actually loathed this world of nightclubbing. I had desired the warm embrace of Drunkenness: the way she wrapped her fingers around my brain and obliterated responsibility and order, instead granting energy, pleasure and a license to do anything. Despite my every effort to summon her though, Drunkenness would not come. My only companion that night was Gloom.

  Stone-cold sober, I took in the sight around me. Numbers in the Old Fire Station had improved slightly and, with a clear head, I observed from outside the same environment I was usually immersed in by now. I watched the well groomed guys, reeking of cologne and dripping with barely disguised lust, who sweet-talked the opposite sex with greasy charm and lyrical chat up lines. I saw the tipsy objects of their desire – women, all bulging cleavage and bare legs, who laughed too loud at the blatant foolishness of the men they fancied.

  The loudmouths were there too: cocky young men, clutching pints of beer and roaring with over-exaggerated laughter, as though they wanted the whole room to notice and appreciate them. They were all comedians, swapping coarse anecdotes and trying to outdo one another with explicit tales of their sexual prowess, or sharing some story from a previous night that either ended in a fight (which they had obviously won) or some kind of alcohol-related humiliation that made their pals bellow at the telling of it.

  Not to be outdone, the Sex and the City wannabes were present as well: Gangs of mouthy, drunken women, brassy and shameless, who had left their dignity at home, along with most of their clothes. Their speech was just as vulgar as any of the men in that place.

  My heart sank. The Old Fire Station was empty in more ways than just the obvious one. For all the noise in the building, the voices that rose above the blaring music and the bursts of wild, drunken laughter that filled the air, it was all a façade. The patrons of OFS were soulless; they were hollow men and empty women who – no matter what happened that night – were destined to wake the next morning with no souvenir from their experience other than a hangover; no memento other than the fuzzy memory of a moments pleasure, which they would never be able to recapture. With a great degree of disappointment I realised that I was one of them myself.

  Watching the scene from the bar – for once not a drunken participant but a sober spectator – I admitted to myself that I didn’t want that world anymore. I had given my all to nightclubbing and, for a time, I believed I held in my hands the ingredients that could satisfy my soul: the alcohol rush, the intensity of lust and unrestrained abandon to pleasure. Now I knew for sure that my palms were in fact empty – I held nothing of any lasting value at all. Whatever the mystery was that I searched for in life, I would never find it in any nightclub and not in any glass of Jack Daniel’s and Coke either.

  We left OFS at one o’ clock in the morning and for us that was early. My friends concluded that it had been a soundly disappointing night, though not quite for the same reason as I did. The rest of the guys opted to board the late-night bus, while David, Pierce and I chose to walk up the high street in the hope of hailing a taxi. A trivial disagreement between the brothers, fuelled by booze, quickly turned into an argument and then a fight. The violent scene played out right in the middle of the road and as I jumped in to act as peacemaker, a group of around five young men – all drunk – walked past and laughed out loud at us. Wild with rage, David whirled on them and challenged the whole pack to a fight. The five strangers laughed even louder at this and yelled obscenities at David, goading and taunting him, though showing no real interest in making things physical. David was furious and wouldn’t give in, storming after them and throwing all of their curses right back. It took all the strength I had to hold him back and his shirt nearly tore in my hands as he fought to get free of me. David’s enemy just seconds earlier, now Pierce tried to calm his brother down as well. By some miracle we were able to wave down a passing taxi and bundled David into it, leaving the gang of five laughing in the street.

  David instantly resumed his quarrel with Pierce, shouting at his younger brother in the back of the cab. It was as though my friend had lost his mind, no longer a human being but an animal. Strong drink had made him a monster and nothing would stop him. David cursed and swore revenge on the men who had mocked him. If he ever saw them again he would destroy the lot of them. We pulled up at the first set of traffic lights, barely thirty seconds after getting into the taxi and David couldn't help himself. No sooner had the vehicle come to a stop, my friend opened the door and leaped out. He promised us he was going to find the five men and kill them. David the Beast ran off into the darkness, back the way we came.

  I thought about chasing after him, but tiredness and exasperation weighed me down in my seat. Pierce on the other hand seemed completely indifferent about his brother’s welfare and simply reached over and closed the door. The traffic lights changed and we were off.

  The brothers lived together in the street next to mine and after leaving the taxi, Pierce and I said very little, quietly going our separate ways. When I reached my front door and searched my pockets for a key, something held me back and I ended up sitting on the bench in the front garden. The night had been a disaster.

  It was a year since I had sat on the same bench and first prayed to God. Now, tired physically and drained mentally, I looked up at the stars once more. “Was all of this down to you?” I said. “Is this some kind of sign? Because if it is, then I see it; I get the message!” My eyes were wet with tears and I broke down into a sob. My life had gone nowhere, I had accomplished nothing of worth at all and I felt trapped inside a maze of discontent with no way out.

  I hated my whole existence. I was filled with the frustration of years spent trying to find happiness – in games, in material things, in alcohol, lust and carnal pleasures – and I had come away with nothing, not even a shred of lasting satisfaction. I was a spent force. I had hit the proverbial wall and hit it with shuddering impact. I had no more avenues to search and no idea where to turn or what to do next. Fatigue pulled at every muscle in my body in aching exhaustion. Depression pressed down heavily upon me, while confused, despondent thoughts clouded my mind and waves of hot anger rose in my chest. I wanted to curse God for my wretched life and, at the same time, fall at His feet and beg for mercy. In the end I did neither, but buried my face in my hands and cried.


  Sometime later, as the tears flowed freely, a picture entered my mind of David running into the night. I should have gone after him, done more to stop him; I knew he could handle himself well in a fight, but he was outnumbered five-to-one and with no one to restrain him there was a good chance my friend would end up being really hurt.

  Wiping my eyes, I gazed up at the night sky and said, “God, I need to change; I can’t live like this anymore. There has to be more than this for me.” In my mind, drunken David was being beaten to the ground by five savage men. I prayed, “God, if You keep my friend safe, I’ll stop drinking like this. I promise! I’ll never, ever get drunk again if You bring him home safe.”

  I sat for a moment in silence and gathered my composure. A clear thought suddenly buzzed in my head.

  Go and wait for David.

  I pulled my worn out body off of the bench and walked the short distance up the street, turning the corner onto the main road. It was around 2am now, perhaps later, and the road that hummed with traffic during the day was empty and quiet. At the precise moment I arrived, one lone set of headlights poured into view. A black taxi cab drove up from the direction of the city centre and pulled over at the kerb right opposite me. The door swung open and out jumped my best friend – without a scratch on him. David looked surprised to see me standing there, but not nearly as surprised as I was to see him – I was astonished. Overcome with glee, I don’t know if David noticed me looking up at the sky, as if I expected to actually see God looking down on me. David looked as tired as I felt, but the wild, drunken animal in him seemed to have vanished. There was even a trace of a smile on his lips.