by Ian Williams
‘Come onnnnnn….come on for Gods sake, just a few drops….please!!!!’ It was no good; Nick Donovan was simply unable to piss.
It was Saturday night, Sunday morning, 4:11 a.m. in The End nightclub, London. Nick had been on it all weekend, yet again. The traditional wind down on Friday afternoon had begun with a long boozy pub lunch which set him up nicely to surf the internet at work, sorting out his fantasy football team selections to try and beat Johnny Soccer who was leading for the fourth year in a row, and email his mates to arrange the weekends mayhem. He had promised to go home on Friday and have dinner with his parents, however as his lunchtime fish and chips was digesting and that third pint of Stella Artois, which he definitely should not have downed in one to the rapturous applause of his equally juvenile work colleagues, began to kick in, he thought ‘fuck it lets go out’. So breezing through the next thirty six hours on a diet of alcohol, amphetamines, pizza, cocaine, more alcohol, a few pills ( not the legal kind ) and very little sleep, here he was, sweating from every inch of his body, apart from the inch (or six inches as he liked to boast sarcastically) he actually wanted to.
In the toilets he was shielded from the cacophony of sound and thumping baselines that were emanating from outside this cooler, sweatier, brighter hideaway where men walked around like zombies, carrying bottles of water, looking slightly dishevelled with that wasted far away look in their eyes, chewing gum like a New York cop out of the movies. Nick lent his head against the toilet wall; it was cold and wet and felt good on his forehead. He took a deep breath and tried to focus. ‘Never mind ‘Nick mumbled and tucked his ‘nudger’ back into his trousers and did up the zip on his jeans.
Turning around he was greeted by that familiar London sight of the toilet attendant, who are mostly Africans who spend their evenings talking nonsense to very drunk, wasted people, turning on the cold or hot water, squeezing soap into their hands and handing them paper towels before offering a fine selection of lollipops, chewing gum and assorted men’s fragrances, before looking at you and hoping those guilt pangs kick in and you give him yet another £1 coin…..no wonder they are always smiling thought Nick, ‘they must be loaded. Note to self, become a toilet attendant.
Having washed his hands, sprayed himself with at least his fifth different aftershave of the night (CK 1 this time) and taking another lollipop, so as to get some sugar in his system and to try and stop his jaws from grinding away due to the amount of drugs he had taken, he looked at himself closely in the mirror. As he got near the mirror he realised his eyes were like saucers, he almost looked like an alien as he stirred forward, the overhead strip lighting bathing him in a crisp white ethereal haze, the faint buzz of the lighting overhead just about audible above the vibrating walls and dull thud thud thud from the party of darkness and flashing lights just a few metres away. A bead of sweat was clinging to his hair, his cheeks were shining and his face flushed. There were damp patches all over his T shirt, but Nick simply brushed some imaginary fluff off the front of his t shirt, wiped his brow, popped the lollipop in his mouth, exhaled and then exited the toilets ready for round whatever the hell he was up to.
The first thing that hits you is the heat. With seven hundred sweaty clubbers, twenty bar staff, four DJ’s, and about four thousand thumping watts of music power and lighting, the small solitary air conditioning unit in the corner is never going to keep up. Nicks eyes gradually got used to the darkness and his ears took in the melodic vocals of Urdur Hakonardottir as she sang ‘I still have last night in my body, I want you here with me, I want you here with me’. The base of the tune was thumping through Nick’s entire body and he recognised it immediately. A rush of adrenalin (and drugs) stormed through him as he realised what was playing as he turned left and half clambered, fell down the steps onto the main dance floor in search of his friends. He didn’t have to go far before he was greeted with smiles, hugs and kisses from his assorted dancing fraternity who had kept him company all day and had partaken with equal vigour, in the cocktail of drink and drugs which had been purchased throughout the day, evening and night. They were dancing right near the DJ booth and Darren Emerson was playing another superb set. Nick looked up and gave him an acknowledging nod of the head before dancing trance like to the highs and lows of the song, his fellow clubbing fraternity decked out with matching water bottles, chewing gum and lollipops, happily chomping away at thin air, their brains unable to fully comprehend and process the sights, sounds and smells that were enveloping and over-whelming it, the rush of endorphins was becoming a tidal wave as the music and the atmosphere climbed higher and higher.
Nick hadn’t realised but he had been sweating more and more and was terribly dehydrated, the lack of water and food over the past two days had put a tremendous strain on his body. His heart, liver and lungs were working over-time to try and bring his body temperature back under control, however it was all too much and as the song reached a crescendo and the crowd were going wild Nick felt dizzy, a stabbing pain hammered through his chest, everything went white as his hearing faded and he felt as if he was under water. It only took a second for him to fall and another five for the realisation to kick in to his friends and onlookers that something was horribly wrong. However these six seconds to Nick seemed like hours as he fell to the floor and all his organs simply gave up. By the time the lights went on and the paramedics had crouched down to check for a pulse, twenty four year old Nick Donovan from the quiet village of Chorleywood was dead……
Chapter 1 - ‘Sorry red shite’
