Back Up

by Paul Colize

  BACK UP

  BACK UP

  Paul Colize

  Translated by Louise Rogers Lalaurie

  For my mother, who could really jive.

  We must always remember to thank the CIA and the Army for LSD. That’s what people forget. […] They invented LSD to control people and what they did was give us freedom. Sometimes it works in mysterious ways its wonders to perform. If you look in the Government reports on acid, the ones who jumped out the window or killed themselves because of it [did so] years later. So, let’s face it, [they] weren’t really on acid when [they] jumped out the window.

  John Lennon, 1980

  But I’m not here just to make records and money. I’m here to say something and to touch other people, sometimes in a cry of desperation: ‘Do you know this feeling?’

  Keith Richards, Life

  1: DON’T SAY A WORD

  Larry Speed stepped off the plane at Palma airport, mid-afternoon on Saturday, March the eighteenth, 1967.

  Emerging from the aircraft, he squinted, donned a pair of sunglasses and removed his leather jacket. When he’d left Tempelhof a few hours before, Berlin had been shrouded in fog, and the temperature barely 5°C.

  The day after the recording, he’d told the other three members of Pearl Harbor about his plan to take a few days’ holiday. With three grand in Deutschmarks and fifteen months’ work weighing heavy on his system, he reckoned it was more than well deserved. Besides, living at such close quarters had brought the inevitable tensions and shoot-outs. Some distance would be good for them all.

  The others agreed.

  That same afternoon, he called into a travel agency on the Kurfürstendamm. The manageress suggested Majorca, Greece or Istanbul. Speed rasped his reply, with a knowing wink.

  ‘Whichever has the, uh, friendliest natives, if you take my meaning…’

  The Balearic Islands, the lady informed him, smoothly. There were some seats left on the Saturday flight.

  When Saturday came, Speed piled a few things into a bag, placed his Fender in its case and called a taxi for the airport. He had made sure to take his portable Teppaz record-player and a few LPs, including Fresh Cream. The super-trio’s album had been the soundtrack to his room for the past three months.

  Larry Speed, real name Larry Finch, was the leader of Pearl Harbor, the rock group he had formed three years earlier in London, while living south of the river in Battersea. He was an only son, born out of wedlock, and never knew his father – an incorrigible womaniser who disappeared overnight shortly after Larry was born. Larry had spent his childhood and most of his teenage years in a second-floor flat in a modest house on the Queenstown Road, worshipped and protected by his omnipresent mother. For almost twenty years, the four huge chimneys of Battersea Power Station, on the banks of the Thames, had marked the horizon of his world.

  In rock’n’roll lore, bass players were pugnacious types, quick to lash out when crossed. But Larry was slight and delicate, with gaunt features, a pill-pale complexion and little taste for a fight. Encouraged by his mother, he had taken music lessons, learning piano from the age of eight. Four years later, he progressed to jazz guitar, and the bass soon after, like his hero and role model Charlie Mingus.

  Larry retained the discipline and precision of his classical music training, earnestly maintaining that the finest bass lines were composed two hundred years ago by Johann Sebastian Bach and never bettered, except by Jack Bruce. Quiet and introvert, Larry disliked company – and people in general – but hid his awkwardness behind a false smile and a killing line in sarcasm. Things were different on stage: there, he transformed into a flamboyant, frenzied bundle of energy.

  Shortly after four o’clock, Speed reached the Punta Negra, a brand-new hotel atop a small headland on the Costa d’en Blanes, about twelve miles from Palma de Mallorca. He checked into his room, opened his bag and spread its contents over the floor. Half an hour later, he appeared at the hotel pool, where his tired complexion, long, black hair and fringed shirt, open to his bony chest, contrasted starkly with the tanned, well-fed bodies of the holiday-makers relaxing on their sun loungers. The eye-opening motifs on his heavily tattooed arms completed the effect.

  The hotel residents exchanged quiet words, casting suspicious, sidelong glances. Unfazed, Larry leaned an elbow on the bar and ordered a beer, drinking it down in one. Astonished by the cheap price, he decided to rev things up with a gin and Coke. By 6:00p.m., with the sun low on the horizon, he had swallowed enough drink and plied the barman with enough tips to enquire about the possibility of spicier entertainment. The bartender told him that in the fifteenth century, the ladies of Mallorca attracted mariners from twenty thousand leagues around. The tradition of hospitality was undimmed today, he added. Two establishments, the Mustang and the Bora-Bora, were singled out for particular praise.

  Back in his room, Larry ordered half a roast chicken with chips and peas, and an ice-cold bottle of rosé. Residents to either side later attested that he had eaten his meal with the television on, imitating the Spanish commentator at the top of his voice. After that, he had listened to a few LPs, apparently leaping around to the music. At 11:00p.m. a taxi took him from the hotel to the Mustang Ranch in Bajos, in central Palma.

  At the night club, Speed flirted with a number of girls before settling on a woman with jet-black hair, older and more curvaceous than the others. He bought her a glass of champagne, and the two danced a little. Discussions ensued, and at around 2:30a.m. Speed ordered a taxi, dived into the back seat and set off in the direction of Punta Negra. The night porter saw the pair enter the hotel at around 3:00a.m. He reported later that both appeared to be in a state of advanced inebriation.

  Around 5:00a.m., the woman appeared at reception and asked the porter to call her a taxi. She was swaying slightly, but did not seem distressed or anxious. Questioned later, she confirmed that Larry had been fast asleep when she left.

  The hotel groundsman began work at 6:30a.m. as he did every Sunday morning. At around 7:45a.m. he was about to clean the pool when he saw the body of a man on the bottom. He called for help immediately. Two kitchen staff and a waiter came to the rescue. The men heaved Larry Finch from the water, but saw straightaway that he was dead.

  The medical examiner diagnosed traumatic asphyxial death with pulmonary edema. The time of drowning was estimated at around 6:00a.m. Marta Rego, the woman from the night club, noted in her statement that Larry had drunk a great deal, and had shut himself in the bathroom for a few minutes. Despite some torrid language during their love-making, she had found him quite amable. To her surprise, he had demonstrated normal, even disquieting sexual prowess. In addition to over three grams of alcohol per 100 millilitres of blood, the test reports noted the presence of codeine, Diazepam, morphine and lysergic acid, a synthetic hallucinogen better known by the acronym LSD.

  The police concluded that Larry Finch had come down from his room to swim, and drowned from the shock of the cold water.

  When Larry’s mother was informed of his death by telephone a few hours later, she ran a warm bath, got into it with a photograph of her son, and cut her wrists. As her life ebbed away, she murmured the words of the lullaby she had sung when he was a little boy.

  ‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word…’

  2: IN THE MIST

  Will God forgive me for what I have done?

  He knows the truth. He knows I never wanted it that way. What happened was just fate. An unfortunate series of events.

  God will believe my story, the story no one would, the story whose pages have disappeared, the story I turn over and over in my head, so the details won’t vanish in the mist.

  3: X MIDI

  The call came through to the emergency room at 6.12p.m. A woman reported that a pedestrian had been
hit by a car on Avenue Fonsny, near the entrance to Brussels Midi station.

  The call handler asked the usual questions, assessing the urgency of the situation.

  ‘Are there any others wounded?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is he conscious?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is he moving? Any movement in the legs or arms?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  A call went out straightaway. An ambulance was despatched to the scene. Saint-Pierre Hospital was contacted to send an Emergency Medical Team.

  Information about the incident was relayed to police headquarters. A patrol set off for Midi station, siren wailing. The car weaved through the traffic, drove up onto the concourse and came to a halt close to the station entrance.

  The officers cut the siren but left the roof light spinning. They emerged from the car, adjusted their uniforms and walked unhurriedly towards a cluster of people. About twenty onlookers stood in a semi-circle around a taxi. The vehicle was blocking the access route to the station, provoking a chorus of horns. A man broke away from the group and hurried towards the two policemen, visibly shocked.

  ‘I don’t know what came over him, he crossed all of a sudden, just threw himself under the cab. I braked the second I saw him, but it was too late.’

  One officer moved everyone back, while his colleague ventured into the traffic, trying get the jam moving.

  Crowds of passengers poured out of the station at regular intervals, dispersing along the street. Some joined the onlookers, others hurried past, indifferent to the drama unfolding before their eyes, eager for home, or a chance to unwind in one of the nearby cafés. A handful of students observed the scene with a detached air, plugged into their smartphones, each in a private musical bubble.

  The ambulance arrived seconds later, followed by the emergency team’s fluorescent yellow 4x4.

  A doctor hurried to kneel beside the man lying half under the taxi. He bent over, gauged the victim’s breathing, checked his eyes, spoke a few words in his ear, waited for a reaction. He examined the arms and legs, lifted a wrist. His assistant joined him.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Pulse is weak, but his GCS is a 4.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Work on him in the van. Too many people here and it’s almost dark. About to pour with rain, too.’

  The nurse looked up at the sky. Fat drops of rain splattered his face.

  ‘Okay, I’ll get the scoop.’

  Carefully, the doctor raised the man’s head and positioned a neck brace. He discovered a gash along the top of the scalp.

  His colleague returned, armed with a metal stretcher.

  The doctor took the man’s arms and crossed them over his stomach. Next, he slid one hand under his shoulders and the other under his buttocks, lifted slightly and pulled the man towards him. The nurse slipped the stretcher under the body. He puffed his cheeks and breathed out heavily.

  ‘Jeez! He hasn’t seen a shower in a while! Second street sleeper I’ve dealt with this week.’

  The victim wore an overgrown beard and long, filthy hair matted with water and blood. He was dressed in a thick, shapeless coat pocked with holes.

  The crowd of onlookers had swelled. Witnesses to the accident were giving their versions of events to the new-comers. Rain was falling steadily now. A few umbrellas had popped open. A gang of skinheads in jeans and leather jackets elbowed their way to the front. One overstepped the police cordon, inspected the scene and eyed the police officer.

  ‘Fucking hobos. Stupid bastard deserves to snuff it.’

  The officer eyed him back, but gave no reaction. The standoff lasted a moment or two. The ringleader rolled a mouthful of spit, expelled it and headed back the way he had come, shadowed by his clique.

  The emergency team carried the victim to the ambulance. With the stretcher safely inside, the police officer approached the doctor.

  ‘Life in danger?’

  The doctor nodded. ‘I’ll give you his papers in a minute.’

  He climbed into the ambulance, took a pair of scissors, cut away the man’s clothes and searched his pockets. Two cigarette butts, a throwaway lighter, a couple of bank notes and some coins. He called to the police officer.

  ‘That’s it. No ID.’

  The doctor examined the man’s chest and lungs, reporting his findings to the nurse.

  ‘Abdomen soft, pelvis stable…’

  ‘Legs?’

  ‘No immediate sign of fracture, but his head hit the ground, or another vehicle. He’s bleeding slightly. I’ll check the neuro status.’ He pinched the man’s shoulder muscles.

  ‘No reaction. He hasn’t opened his eyes.’

  ‘No reaction in the arms or legs, either.’

  ‘Hook him up to the drip, we’ll put him out.’

  The nurse prepared the anaesthetic while the doctor applied electrodes to the shoulders and stomach. He adjusted the saturometer on one finger, and fastened the blood-pressure monitor around the top of the man’s arm. With careful confidence, the doctor opened the patient’s mouth and inserted the endotracheal tube, glancing at the instruments.

  ‘You’re right, he smells pretty high. And the fumes, like a barrel of brandy. He must have been blind drunk.’

  The doctor called the hospital resuscitation unit.

  ‘Jacques? It’s Guy – on my way with a cranial trauma. Patient intubated and ventilated.’

  ‘Okay, standing by.’

  The vehicles shuddered to life and made their way in a tight convoy down Avenue Fonsny, threading through the early evening traffic towards Rue Haute and Saint-Pierre Hospital, less than two kilometres away. They passed through the hospital gates and beneath the portico leading to the emergency department. Two junior doctors lent a hand, placing the victim on a trolley and wheeling him to a cubicle. One of the nurses removed his remaining clothes. He pulled a face.

  ‘Where’d you find this one, in landfill?’ He hooked up the monitor, replaced the saturometer, checked the man’s blood pressure one more time.

  The doctor frowned.

  ‘Couldn’t find any papers. Have you got anything?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The team injected a contrast agent and set about examining the stomach and chest. They made a scan of the spinal column and brain.

  The doctor gave his diagnosis.

  ‘Cerebral contusions, two broken ribs, a head wound. There’s a bit of blood in the tube. He’s stable. See if there’s any space in intensive care.’

  At 6:57p.m., the man was transferred to intensive care. The duty team made another complete examination. Two auxiliaries washed him from head to foot, but the sickening smell persisted.

  The neurosurgeon visited the patient mid-evening, noted his observations and went to the duty doctor’s office.

  ‘Withdraw medication, let’s see if he wakes up.’

  Around midnight, a police officer called by for an update. No papers had been found, but one of the auxiliaries had discovered a clue: letters and numbers scrawled in marker pen on the man’s left hand: A20P7.

  The officer shrugged.

  ‘Won’t get far with that. We’ll wait a few more days. See if anyone files a Missing Person report fitting his description. Apart from that, there’s not much we can do.’

  The following morning, the admissions clerk completed the man’s paperwork. He had been admitted to hospital on Thursday, February the eleventh, 2010 at 6:45p.m.

  Under ‘Family Name’ she wrote X Midi.

  4: PICK UP THE THREAD

  Grand Funk. It seems they were part of it, too. The chaos, the sirens. ‘Paranoid’. A monolithic intro, fuzz pedal max’d out on the bass guitar, growling over the drums.

  Grand Funk. They make a great noise.

  Now, I must be ready. Retrace the course of events. I’ll account for the deaths to God. He’ll understand it was fate that took me to that Berlin basement, on that apocalyptic night.

  Hiroshim
a.

  That’s where it all began. That’s where I must pick up the thread.

  5: A STREET SLEEPER

  One week after his admission to intensive care, the man still hadn’t regained consciousness.

  The medical team had stopped administering anaesthetic and begun close monitoring. No response was observed, and electrophysiological exploration revealed little hope of any change for the better in the short term.

  The CT brain-scan report mentioned subarachnoid bleeding confined to the right sylvian fissure, with no cerebral contusion and no deviation of the ventricular system.

  The MRI detected diffuse axonal injury in the midbrain, and a strategic lesion affecting both cerebral peduncles.

  Lastly, blood tests indicated the man had been in a satisfactory state of health. Indicators of diabetes, but that was all. He had a tendency to high blood pressure, and scarring from an old wound to the left shoulder.

  Curiously, he showed no signs of vitamin deficiency, as street sleepers often did.

  Before the night team handed over their shift, the chief physician fetched X Midi’s notes, called the nurses and stood with them at the man’s bedside.

  He consulted the file and spoke to the night nurse.

  ‘Have you noticed any response over the last few hours?’

  She confirmed not.

  ‘No reaction at all. No sweating, no signs of agitation.’

  The doctor leaned over and examined the man’s pupils.

  ‘He’s stable. I’m going to take out his tube.’

  It took less than a minute. Once the tube was out and the oxygen mask in place, he spoke to the second nurse.

  ‘Contact the neuro team and ask them to prepare a room. We’ll keep him here for now and if there are no complications, we’ll send him up at the end of the morning.’

  ‘Okay, Sir.’

  ‘Keep a close eye on him for the next hour. Check his GCS again before he’s transferred. And keep on with the intravenous nadroparin and paracetamol meanwhile.’