Patrick unfolded one of the packets of coke. The shiny white paper was imprinted with a pale blue polar bear. Unlike Pierre he preferred to take coke on its own until the tension and fear were unbearable, then he would send in the Praetorian Guard of heroin to save the day from insanity and defeat. He held the packet in a funnel and tapped it gently. Small grains of powder slipped down the narrow valley of paper and tumbled into the spoon. Not too much for the first fix. Not too little either. Nothing was more intolerable than a dissipated, watery rush. He carried on tapping.
‘How are you?’ asked Pierre, so rapidly that the question seemed like one word.
‘Well, my father died the other day and so…’ Patrick was not sure what to say. He looked at the packet, gave it one more decisive tap, and another flurry of powder joined the small heap already in the spoon. ‘And so I’m a little confused at the moment,’ he concluded.
‘How was he, your father?’
‘He was a kitten,’ Patrick intoned rhapsodically. ‘And he had such artistic hands.’ For a moment the water went syrupy and then it dissolved into a clear solution. ‘He could have been Prime Minister,’ he added.
‘He was in politics?’ asked Pierre, narrowing his eyes.
‘No, no,’ Patrick replied, ‘it was a sort of joke. In his world – a world of pure imagination – it was better if a person “could have been” Prime Minister than if he was Prime Minister: that would have shown vulgar ambition.’ There was a faint metallic ringing as he directed the jet of water from his syringe against the side of the spoon.
‘Tu regrettes qu’il est mort?’ asked Pierre shrewdly.
‘Non, absolument pas, je regrette qu’il ait vécu.’
‘Mais sans lui, you would not exist.’
‘One shouldn’t be egotistical about these things,’ said Patrick with a smile.
His right arm was relatively unscathed. A few bruises the colour of tobacco stains yellowed his lower forearm, and faded pink puncture marks clustered around the bullseye of his principal vein. He raised the needle and allowed a couple of drops to dribble from its eye. His stomach made a rumbling sound and he felt as nervous and excited as a twelve-year-old in the back of a darkened cinema stretching his arm around a girl’s shoulders for the first time.
He aimed the needle at the centre of the existing puncture marks and pushed it almost painlessly under his skin. A thread of blood burst into the barrel and curled around, a private mushroom cloud, luminously red in the clear bitter water. Thank God he had found a vein. His heart rate increased, like the drumbeat of a galley rowing into battle. Holding the barrel firmly between his fingers he pushed the plunger down slowly. Like a film in reverse the blood shot back through the needle towards its source.
Before he felt its effects he smelled the heartbreaking fragrance of the cocaine, and then a few seconds afterward, in a time-lapse frenzy, its cold geometric flowers broke out everywhere and carpeted the surface of his inner vision. Nothing could ever be as pleasurable as this. He clumsily drew back the plunger, filled the barrel with blood, and injected himself a second time. Drunk with pleasure, choking with love, he lurched forward and put the syringe down heavily on the mirror. He would have to flush it out before the blood coagulated, but he couldn’t do it straight away. The sensation was too strong. Sound was twisted and amplified until it whistled like the engine of a landing jet.
Patrick sat back and closed his eyes, his lips thrust out like a child waiting for a kiss. Sweat had already broken out high on his forehead, and his armpits dripped every few seconds like defective taps.
Pierre knew exactly what state Patrick was in and disapproved strongly of his unbalanced approach, and the irresponsible way he had put his syringe down without flushing it out. He picked it up and filled it with water so that the mechanism didn’t block. Sensing a movement, Patrick opened his eyes and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
‘You should take smack at the same time,’ said Pierre reproachfully; ‘it’s medicine, man, medicine.’
‘I like the rush.’
‘But you take too much, you lose control.’
Patrick sat up and looked at Pierre intently. ‘I never lose control,’ he said, ‘I just test its limits.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Pierre, unimpressed.
‘Of course you’re right,’ smiled Patrick. ‘But you know what it’s like trying to stay on the edge without falling off it,’ he said, appealing to their traditional solidarity.
‘I know what it’s like,’ screeched Pierre, his eyes incandescent with passion. ‘For eight years I thought I was an egg, but I had total control, contrôle total.’
‘I remember,’ said Patrick soothingly.
The rush was over, and like a surfer who shoots out of a tube of furling, glistening sea only to peter out and fall among the breaking waves, his thoughts began to scatter before the onset of boundless unease. Only a few minutes after the fix he felt a harrowing nostalgia for the dangerous exhilaration which was already dying out. As if his wings had melted in that burst of light, he felt himself falling towards a sea of unbearable disappointment, and it was this that made him pick up the syringe, finish flushing it out and, despite his shaking hands, begin to prepare another fix.
‘Do you think the measure of a perversion is its need to be repeated, its inability to be satisfied?’ he asked Pierre. ‘I wish my father were around to answer that question,’ he added piously.
‘Why? He was a junkie?’
‘No, no…’ said Patrick. He wanted to say, ‘it was a kind of joke’ again, but resisted. ‘What sort of man was your father?’ he asked hastily, in case Pierre followed up his remark.
‘He was a fonctionnaire,’ said Pierre contemptuously, ‘Métro, boulot, dodo. His happiest days were his service militaire, and the proudest moment of his life was when the Minister congratulated him for saying nothing. Can you imagine? Each time someone visited the house, which was not often, my father would tell the same story.’ Pierre straightened his back, smiled complacently, and wagged his finger. ‘“Et Monsieur le Ministre m’a dit, Vous avez eu raison de ne rien dire.” When he told that story I used to run from the room. It fill me with disgust, j’avais un dégoût total.’
‘And your mother?’ said Patrick, pleased to have got Pierre off his own parental case.
‘What is a woman who is not maternal?’ snapped Pierre. ‘A piece of furniture with breasts!’
‘Quite,’ said Patrick, sucking a new solution into his syringe. As a concession to Pierre’s medical advice, he had decided to take some heroin rather than further delay the onset of serenity with another chilling shot of cocaine.
‘You have to leave all that behind,’ said Pierre. ‘Parents, all that shit. You have to invent yourself again to become an individual.’
‘Right on,’ said Patrick, knowing it was best not to argue with Pierre’s theories.
‘The Americans, they talk all the time about individuality, but they don’t have an idea unless everybody else is having the same idea at the same time. My American customers, they always fuck me about to show they are individuals, but they always do it in exactly the same way. Now I have no American customers.’
‘People think they are individuals because they use the word “I” so often,’ Patrick commented.
‘When I died in the hospital,’ said Pierre, ‘j’avais une conscience sans limites. I knew everything, man, literally everything. After that I cannot take seriously the sociologues et psychologues who say you are “schizoid” or “paranoid”, or “social class two” or “social class three”. These people know nothing. They think they know about the human mind, but they know nothing, absolument rien.’ Pierre glared vehemently at Patrick. ‘It’s like they put moles in charge of the space programme,’ he sneered.
Patrick laughed drily. He had stopped listening to Pierre and started searching for a vein. When he saw a poppy of blood light up the barrel, he administered the injection, and pulled out the syringe, flushing it out efficiently this
time.
He was amazed by the strength and smoothness of the heroin. His blood became as heavy as a sack of coins and he sank down appreciatively into his body, resolved again into a single substance after the catapulting exile of the cocaine.
‘Exactly,’ he whispered, ‘like moles … God, this is good smack.’ He closed his eyelids lingeringly.
‘It’s pure,’ said Pierre. ‘Faîtes attention, c’est très fort.’
‘Mm, I can tell.’
‘It’s medicine, man, medicine,’ Pierre reiterated.
‘Well, I’m completely cured,’ whispered Patrick with a private smile. Everything was going to be all right. A coal fire on a stormy night, rain that could not touch him beating against the windowpane. Streams made of smoke, and smoke that formed into shining pools. Thoughts shimmering on the borders of a languorous hallucination.
He scratched his nose and reopened his eyes. Yes, with the firm base provided by the heroin, he could play high notes of cocaine all night without cracking altogether.
But he’d have to be alone for that. With good drugs, solitude was not just bearable, it was indispensable. ‘It’s much more subtle than Persian smack,’ he croaked. ‘A gentle sustained curve … like a, like a polished tortoise shell.’ He closed his eyes again.
‘It’s the strongest smack in the world,’ said Pierre simply.
‘Ya,’ drawled Patrick, ‘it’s such a bore, one can hardly ever get it in England.’
‘You should come and live here.’
‘Good idea,’ said Patrick amiably. ‘By the way, what’s the time?’
‘One forty-seven.’
‘Gosh, I’d better go to bed,’ said Patrick, putting the syringes carefully into his inside pocket. ‘It’s been lovely seeing you again. I’ll be in touch very soon.’
‘OK,’ said Pierre. ‘I’m awake tonight, tomorrow, and tomorrow night.’
‘Perfect,’ said Patrick nodding.
He put on his jacket and overcoat. Pierre got up, undid the four security locks, opened the door, and let him out.
7
PATRICK SLUMPED BACK IN the chair. The tension was deleted from his chest. For a moment he fell quiet. But soon a new character installed itself in his body, forcing his shoulders back and his stomach out, and launching him into another bout of compulsive mimicry.
The Fat Man (pushing back the chair to accommodate his huge stomach): ‘I feel compelled to speak, sir, indeed I do. Compelled, sir, is a mild description of the obligation under which I am placed in this matter. My story is a simple one, the story of a man who loved not wisely but too well.’ (Wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.) ‘A man who ate not from greed, but from passion. Eating, sir – I do not attempt to disguise it – has been my life. Couched in the ruins of this old body are the traces of some of the most exquisite dishes ever cooked. When horses have collapsed beneath my bulk, their legs shattered or their lungs, flooded with their own blood, or I have been forced to renounce the fruitless struggle to intervene between the seat and the steering wheel of a motor car, I have consoled myself with the reflection that my weight has been won, and not merely “put on”. Naturally, I have dined in Les Bains and Les Baux, but I have also dined in Quito and Khartoum. And when the ferocious Yanomami offered me a dish of human flesh, I did not allow prudishness to prevent me from requesting a third helping. Indeed I did not, sir.’ (Smiles wistfully.)
Nanny (huffing and puffing): ‘Human flesh indeed! Whatever next? You always were a strange boy.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ screamed Patrick silently, as he paced across the faded green carpet and turned around abruptly.
Gary (raising his eyes to heaven with a charming little sigh): ‘My name’s Gary, I’ll be your waiter tonight. Today’s specials include a Dish of Human Flesh, and a sodium-free Frisson of Colombian Cocaine nestling on a bed of “Wild Baby” Chinese White Heroin.’
Pete Bloke: ‘Haven’t you got any Hovis, then?’
Mrs Bloke: ‘Yeah, we want Hovis.’
Hovis Voice-over (theme music from Coronation Street): ‘It were grand when I were young. I’d go round t’ dealer’s, buy ’alf an ounce o’ coke and four grams o’ smack, order round a case o’ champagne from Berry Bros., take wench out ta Mirabelle, and still ’ave change from a farthing. Them were the days.’
He was dangerously out of control. Every thought or hint of a thought took on a personality stronger than his own. ‘Please, please, please make it stop,’ muttered Patrick, getting up and pacing about the room.
Mocking Echo: ‘Please, please, please make it stop.’
Nanny: ‘I know about the aristocracy and their filthy ways.’
Humpo Languid (laughing disarmingly): ‘What filthy ways, Nanny?’
Nanny: ‘Oh, no, you won’t find Nanny telling tales out of school. My lips are sealed. Whatever would Lady Deadwood think? Rolling stones gather no moss. You mark my words. You always were a strange boy.’
Mrs Garsington: ‘Who is in charge here? I wish to speak to the manager immediately.’
Dr McCoy: ‘It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it.’
Captain Kirk (flicking open his communicator): ‘Beam us up, Scotty.’
Patrick opened the packet of heroin and, in too much of a hurry to make another fix, simply tipped some of it onto the glass which protected the surface of the table.
Indignant Eric (knowingly): ‘Oh, typical, faced with a problem: take more heroin. Basically, the ultimate self-perpetuating system.’
Pulling a banknote out of his pocket, Patrick sat down and stooped over the table.
Captain Languid: ‘I say, Sergeant, shut those fellows up, will you?’
Sergeant: ‘Don’t worry, sir, we’ll bring them under control. They’re nothing but a bunch of fuzzywuzzies, black-souled bastards, sir, never seen a Gatling in their miserable, godless lives, sir.’
Captain Languid: ‘Well done, Sergeant.’
Patrick sniffed up the powder, threw his head back, and inhaled deeply through his nose.
Sergeant: ‘Allow me to take the brunt of the impact, sir.’ (Groans, a spear lodged in his chest.)
Captain Languid: ‘Oh, thank you … um…’
Sergeant: ‘Wilson, sir.’
Captain Languid: ‘Yes, of course. Well done, Wilson.’
Sergeant: ‘Only wish I could do the same again, sir. But I’m sorry to say I’ve been fatally wounded, sir.’
Captain Languid: ‘Oh, dear. Well, get that wound seen to, Sergeant.’
Sergeant: ‘Thank you, sir, very kind of you. What a wonderful gentleman!’
Captain Languid: ‘And if the worst should happen, I’m sure we can get you some sort of posthumous gong. My uncle is the chap in charge of that sort of thing.’
Sergeant (sitting up and saluting, shouts): ‘Sir!’ (Sinking back.) ‘It’ll mean a lot to Mrs Wilson and the toddlers, poor little fatherless mites.’ (Groans.) ‘What … a … wonderful gentleman.’
George the Barman (polishing a glass meditatively): ‘Oh, yes, that Captain Languid, I remember him well. Used to come in here and always ask for nine oysters. Not half a dozen or a dozen, but nine. What a gentleman! They don’t make ’em like that anymore. I remember the Fat Man as well. Oh yes, not likely to forget him. We couldn’t have him in the bar towards the end, literally couldn’t fit him in. What a gentleman, though! One of the old school, didn’t go in for all this dieting, dear me, no.’
The Fat Man (standing in an especially enlarged dock at the Old Bailey): ‘It has indeed been my misfortune, sir, to live in an age of diets and regimens.’ (Wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.) ‘They call me the Fat Man, and I am fat enough to flatter myself that the epithet requires no explanation. I stand accused of unnatural appetites and an unnatural degree of appetite. Can I be blamed, sir, if I have filled my cup to the brim, if I have piled the plate of my life high with the Moules au Menthe Fraîches of experience (a dish to wake the dead, sir, a dish to charm a king!)? I have not been one of those timid waifs of m
odern life, I have not been a poor guest at the Feast. Dead men, sir, do not accept the challenge of the Menu Gastronomique at the Lapin Vert when they have scarcely swallowed the last mouthful of the Petit Déjeuner Médiéval at the Château de l’Enterrement. They do not then have themselves driven by ambulance (the natural transport of the bon viveur, sir, the carriage of a king!) to the Sac d’Argent to launch themselves with grim abandon down the Cresta Run of their Carte Royale.’ (The violinist from the Café Florian plays in the background.) ‘My last days, last days, sir, for I fear that my liver – oh, it has done me valiant service, but now it has grown tired and I have grown tired too; but enough of that – my last days have been clouded with calumny.’ (Sound of muffled sobbing in the court.) ‘But I do not regret the course, or rather the courses’ (sad little laugh) ‘I have taken in life, indeed I don’t.’ (Gathers all his dignity.) ‘I have eaten, and I have eaten bravely.’
Judge (with thunderous indignation): ‘This case is dismissed. It is a grave miscarriage of justice that it was ever brought to trial and, in recognition of that fact, the court awards the Fat Man a dinner for one at the Pig and Whistle.’
Contented Populace: ‘Hooray! Hooray!’
Patrick felt limitless dread. The rotten floorboards of his thoughts gave way one after another until the ground itself seemed no fitter than sodden paper to catch his fall. Maybe it would never stop. ‘I’m so tired, so tired,’ he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, but immediately getting up again.
Mocking Echo: ‘I’m so tired, I’m so tired.’
Greta Garbo (screaming hysterically): ‘I don’t want to be alone. I’m sick of being alone.’
Patrick slid down the wall. ‘I’m so fucking tired,’ he wailed.
Mrs Mop: ‘You have a nice fix of coke, dear, perk yourself up a bit.’
Dr Death (taking out a syringe): ‘I have just the thing for you. We always use it in cases of bereavement.’
Cleopatra: ‘Oh, yes.’ (Pouting girlishly.) ‘My bluest veins to kiss.’
The Patrick Melrose Novels Page 19
