Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  And, wow, was she glad she’d done so tonight ! Little had she known what the night had in store for them when Susan’s call had ended and she had scuttled upstairs to run a bath. They had got blind drunk, witnessed the wildest show she had ever seen or even heard of and were now in the Devil’s lair . . . doing drugs ! Yes, angelic little Carol – cherub of Southfields Methodist Church – was now sat at midnight in the apartment above The Black and Blue Dahlia that belonged to its lizard king impresario, Michael Green, who was, at this moment, sunk into a red leather armchair to her right, drawing heavily on a fat joint fashioned by himself.

  In fact, Carol had taken her lead from The World Famous *BOB* (sat opposite Carol !) in politely declining Michael’s offer to indulge, when he had finished rolling it.

  “No, thank you, Michael – you know I don’t. I have enough excitement in my life,” was *BOB*s pithy demurral.

  Carol had merely chirruped, “No thanks,” at the same time thinking: 'I don’t have enough excitement in my life.'

  She had, in fact, tried marijuana when she was younger – at a college party – but had ended up being violently sick, driving the porcelain bus with her head down the toilet; an embarrassing episode she’d sworn never to repeat.

  Her friend Duncan – the party host – had given her the joint; had told her the mistake had been to try it after drinking a whole load of alcohol; and that she should try it again when sober. And she had been tempted by Michael’s offer, feeling that she would appear rather gauche by declining in this company (and worrying that she might be needlessly denying herself some genuine fun, yet again) but then she remembered that she’d drunk rather a lot of alcohol this time too and she didn’t want to disgrace herself and spoil the moment she was in.

  So she had been mightily relieved at *BOB*s refusal; and slightly surprised, having rather assumed – once she had seen the stuff come out – that it would be seen as a de rigueur badge of sophistication for all to take a tug in such worldly company.

  No, she wanted to drink all this in and remember as much as possible. And who knew where it might lead? But even if it led nowhere – and she continued merrily through her predetermined roles of worker / wife / mother / housewife / pensioner / widow / patient / deceased – she would always be able to look back, smiling, at times like this when she had briefly cut loose and lived a little.

  This was the living room of the apartment, which had a bathroom over to her right side (she knew because she had been in there not 10 minutes ago splashing water on Susan’s bewildered face); a kitchen behind her right shoulder (she knew because she’d grabbed a glass of water for Susan from there not 5 minutes ago), and a bedroom or bedrooms behind her left shoulder (she didn’t know but reasoned that must be where that passage door led).

  To her left side – behind the slumped form of Susan – was a window onto the street and, although it was clearly well glazed (you couldn’t really hear much more than a muffled echo of the Soho symphony being played outside – shouts, car horns, dance music, clacking shoes, tuneless singing and slamming doors), you could still watch the myriad colours that bounced up from the shop fascias, bar lights, street signs and traffic below.

  The room enclosed a mishmash of conflicting effects. It had clearly started out as a coordinated design, with charcoal grey walls, a steel blue fitted carpet and shiny black painted doors, but now plonked within it was an assortment of furniture, equipment, books, paintings and curios that was suggestive of an owner who was more swayed by influences bearing upon him in the moment than an overarching drive to create a planned scheme of harmony.

  Thus, the garish red armchairs in which the four of them now faced each other; the coffee table between them hewn from a big old tree, sanded and varnished; the Chinese lantern dangling from the ceiling above; the Victorian gilt mirror on the wall behind *BOB*; and so on and so forth.

  Having said all that, the one impression Carol immediately obtained was the slightly unsettling thought that this was the sort of room that might be used for shooting porn films (she was not so closeted that she hadn’t acquainted herself with the captivating spectacles that Google now made so readily available to all) but this might, of course, have been sparked by the heightened state of her senses at the time; the night they’d had; and their host’s distinctive aura.

  *BOB* was playing mum and had offered to make them all tea. The only one to decline was Michael, obviously determined that the night’s revelries were not yet to draw to a domestic tea-coloured close and, instead, pouring himself a liberal dose of Jack Daniel's Tennessee whiskey. The teas set down before the assembled ladies, *BOB* now turned to Susan and asked: “Are you sure you’re all right, darling?”

  Susan interrupted her intense scrutiny of Michael to smile wanly at *BOB* and croak: “Yes, thank you . . . *BOB*?”

  “Yeah, *BOB*s the only name I need, honey.”

  Susan’s gaze swivelled back to resume her baleful campaign of staring at the man opposite.

  Her body and soul had taken quite a pasting on the way up from her chair to the stage just half an hour ago and the audible crack of her head on the floor when she’d aquaplaned across a pool of (fake) blood had proved to be the final straw for her flagging consciousness. So it was only now that she was beginning to comprehend what had actually happened in that tumultuous climax to the show’s final act, with the aid of Carol's description of the excitement that attended her incursion onto that hallowed square of performance space.

  The story went that, upon seeing the hammer raised above Martin’s prone body, Susan had leapt to her feet, screaming “No, no !” at a horrible volume; upset their table (drinks and all); begun weaving through the thickets of other people’s tables, upsetting them (drinks and all) along the way, slashing at them like some jungle explorer; and advanced menacingly to the foreground in a ziz-zag pattern, like a wrecking ball Pac-Man in a glitch-ridden video game.

  This had evidently caused pandemonium in the audience and a shocked halt by the performers, who naturally assumed that they were about to be attacked. And, indeed, they were subjected to an attack of sorts, with Susan flailing indiscriminately once she had reached the group and sobbing hysterically at the startled Martin who seemed to have snapped out of some dreamlike state, only to be confronted by a confusing nightmare.

  The Countess’ rash decision to try and resist Susan’s grab for the hammer only served to push her assailant into another gear and was quickly reversed by a dash for the back of the stage, only to be pursued by the gatecrasher, who appeared to have decided to now go for the befanged thespian. It was at this point that the blood-streaked stage floor came to their collective rescue and Susan’s mad adventure came to an abrupt end.

  At this the music stopped, the house lights were thrown on and the entire club seemed frozen just for a moment, as if caught in a particularly gruesome Bruegel, their eyes blinking in the unwelcome light that now shone on their individual nefarious activities. It made quite a biblical scene, a disturbed Adoration of the Magi: Martin – with his golden hair shining like the halo of the baby Christ, his eyes wide at the forceful agency of the moment – lay between *BOB* and the Count (as Mary and Joseph), dread etched on their faces at the threat that had visited their domestic arrangement; all of them looking across to where the fallen angel lay – blooded, body mangled and wracked by the torments of sin that had laid her so low, and stood over by the hammer-wielding, redemptive Gabriel only partly covered by a black velvet cloak . . .

  In the right wing, a chorus of the heavenly saints looked on, appalled, and among the heaving throng in the foreground was a cornucopia of delightful tableaux to pick out and linger over at leisure if only there was the time – tangled limbs, faces stuck together, wine, undress, horror.

  Eventually, Michael had gathered himself, hurried onto the stage and taken charge. Despite the general consensus that an ambulance should be called for the stricken clubber, he insisted that she would be fine and all she needed was a rest and a hot todd
y in his apartment. Still unconvinced, the Count was, nevertheless, persuaded to wrestle Susan up into his arms and carry her where Michael led to the side door and up the stairs to the first floor.

  And she had indeed started to come round even as she was being carried upstairs. She must still have been fairly groggy as the impression that she was being carried away by the very vampire from whom she had just tried to save Martin didn't seem to perturb her massively and, in fact, merely produced a wry, enigmatic smile. Once she’d had a few minutes in the chair she’d been deposited in, she gained a rather more accurate appreciation of her true circumstances beyond her apparent liberation from the earthly chains of mortality by a swarthy bloodsucker.

  And she stared at Michael. And stared and stared. To say that she had gained a rather poor first impression of Michael Green was something of an understatement. This was the man whose mere presence had apparently terrified her beau into fleeing a packed Tube station in broad daylight; who Martin had called ‘evil’, but who, nevertheless, appeared to have been the first person he had turned to upon release from the cells in preference to her; and who seemed happy and able to procure tarts for Martin at a moment’s notice, again in preference to her.

  And neither did he seem to be busting a gut to make amends now. He had sauntered into the bedroom to change his sweat-soaked shirt to a green polo-necked top, and then set to building his spliff with an unconcerned air. His head still showed signs of the sweat that had screwed his ginger hair into darker, more defined curls – as if wrapped around the curlers old ladies used, heedless of the invention of curling tongs – but it was drying now, back to its softer, lighter undulations. His face had been made paler – and marked with pink blotches on the cheekbones – by the drama and exertions of the last half an hour but he had the smug, self-satisfied air of one who knows his job has been well done.

  *BOB* had decided to delay the ritual shedding of all the accoutrements of her stage persona in the dressing room downstairs in favour of sitting up here with the two girls for a while to ensure their wellbeing; along with the Count, she had questioned whether they shouldn’t have had Susan checked out at the hospital after a bang on the head like that and was now keeping a watchful eye on the girl for any signs of a problem. Thus, she had – for now – contented herself with a full-length pink towelling dressing gown; her big blonde wig thrown off to reveal straight corn-coloured hair flattened to her scalp; a hand-held mirror; and make-up remover that she was now daubing down her cheeks and across her forehead, nose and chin.

  Carol wondered how well Michael and *BOB* knew each other – when they had got up to the flat and brought Susan round, *BOB* had nagged Michael to try and find the girls a change of clothes from somewhere in a way that suggested they’d known each other for years but, nevertheless, Carol was fairly sure that they weren’t a couple.

  As it happened, both girls were adamant that they didn’t want to change clothes and, given that *BOB* had said they would get them a taxi once she was sure Susan was OK, they didn’t expect to be staying long. Thus, the two girls sat, still venting wisps of steam from the heat and sweat of the club floor, with Susan in a particularly dishevelled state – her hair like a banshee’s; one sleeve of her blouse torn; and much of her black skirt still smeared in the blood that had been her undoing on the stage and which was now being deposited liberally on Michael’s upholstery. Not that he seemed to bother. Perhaps it wouldn’t show so badly on the red leather, thought Carol, abstractedly sipping her tea.

  An awkward silence had descended upon the motley quartet at the point when Susan’s companions could no longer convincingly feign disregard of her obviously hostile appraisal of their host. Finally, it was broken by Michael after another long exhalation of smoke aimed up at the lantern . . .

  “Looks to me as though you might have some questions, Miss Susan” he drawled, smirking and looking her straight in the eye now. His speech was gruff but had good intonation and there was the hint of a West Country burr.

  *BOB*s head jerked up to look at Michael.

  “Do you know this girl, Michael?” It was only then that it occurred to Susan (and Carol) that *BOB* might have no idea of the background to all this.

  “Certainly,” Michael inclined his head to *BOB* while still smiling / smirking at Susan, “although we’ve never been formally introduced . . . *BOB*, may I introduce you to Miss Susan Sachs, youngest daughter of the Right Honourable James Michael Sachs, Secretary of State for Transport and one of the senior members of the Government of this fine country.”

  *BOB* turned her gaze to Susan, looking more, not less, concerned now. Not fazed though. And, having apparently thought about it for a moment, gave Susan her friendliest smile, dipped her head and said: “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Susan, even if it is in rather unusual circumstances," and laughed with an infectious chuckle that made even Susan smile and relax a little.

  “And . . ?” *BOB* turned her gaze to Carol. “Oh, Carol – Carol Gee,” Carol spluttered – “I’m Susan’s friend.”

  *BOB* nodded a ‘hello’ to Carol also and purred: “Well I’m sure we’re all Susan’s friends. Aren’t we Michael?”

  “You betcha,” shot back Michael, taking a slug of his Jack Daniels.

  “What’s happened to Martin?” Susan, eyes hard against Michael once more, had clearly had enough of the mock pleasantries.

  “To be honest, Sweet Cheeks, I don’t know. After your little turn, things got a bit . . . confused, as you may have noticed; oh – no – you were out, weren’t you?” he grinned, mocking, arrogant. “Looks like he didn’t want to hang around to catch up.” Twisting the knife a little more.

  “Why were you so upset about that boy, sweetie?” asked *BOB* after giving Michael a withering glare that told him to lay off. “That was only a bit of play-acting, you know. Michael had asked us to bring him into the act for a bit of fun as we were doing ‘Martin’ anyway. What was his name? Martin Dash? What a good looking boy that is, eh?” *BOB* blew out her cheeks to emphasise the point.

  Susan felt her cheeks blush and the sheer ignominy of the whole thing suddenly caught up with her. “I don’t know,” she stuttered “It’s all been so upsetting, what’s happened . . . and we’d had a lot to drink . . . and . . .” She put her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose, squeezed her eyes shut and her shoulders started to shake involuntarily.

  “Oh, darling, don’t.” *BOB* was off her chair in a moment and wrapped a comforting arm around Susan’s shoulder. “It’s not worth crying over, believe me, none of these men are.” She shot a venomous glance at Michael who was suddenly isolated, Carol also having leaned over to put her hand on Susan’s arm. *BOB* was now dispensing a tissue from the box she’d been using.

  Michael opened his mouth, raised his eyebrows and turned his palms up in a silent 'What?!'

  Carol realised that, if Susan felt anything like herself, she’d still be basically drunk, so it wasn’t really surprising to see this second collapse.

  However, after some loud snorting into *BOB*s tissues and a long draught of her tea, Susan had nearly recomposed herself and waved her maids away with: “I’m OK. I’m fine. But thank you.” And then she mentally girded herself to confront her inscrutable adversary once more.

  “All I want to know,” she started slowly, deliberately – “All I want to know . . . is what has happened to Martin?” She raised her hand quickly to pre-empt the response that Michael had already told her he didn’t know. “What I mean is: what has happened to change Martin from the person he was last week – the quiet, sweet man, struggling with his illness – to what now appears to be some drunken lounge lizard, pawing ageing sluts, out with . . . with you.”

  At this she glared at him and no-one could miss the tone of that. Once again Michael raised his eyebrows as if to appear genuinely hurt.

  *BOB* was trying to catch up – “What illness, dear? What’s wrong with Martin?”

  Michael leapt at this – “Ah yes, Martin�
�s illness. What indeed is wrong with him? What’s he told you at any rate, Susan?” His tone told you that the question might not have been asked in the spirit of genuine enquiry and Susan didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. But she persevered: “Anhedonia. He has anhedonia.”

  Michael slumped back in his chair with a triumphant air.

  “Anhedonia?” piped up *BOB*.

  “Yes, it’s a mental illness where you don’t have any feelings,” Susan began explaining but was cut short by *BOB*: “Yes, yes – I know what it is. I had a friend who suffered from that.”

  Susan wheeled round as if to grab a lifeline – “Really? And what was it like?”

  “Well, as you say, a very flat personality. You never got anything from her. Perfectly inoffensive, but perfectly nothing as well. I don’t think she was happy. Well, I know she wasn’t . . .” *BOB*s account trailed off.

  “How do you mean? What happened?” Susan pressed. *BOB* looked at Susan, concerned now, and appeared to be grappling with something and hesitant to speak further. Susan cocked her head to reiterate the question, to which *BOB* replied, reluctantly: “Well, you know – she’s . . . not with us anymore.”

  Susan took the meaning, paused in thought for a moment, and then turned back to Michael.

  “What’s your connection to Martin, Michael?” She was now impatient to get to the point. “When he saw you in the Tube station, he ran like he was scared to death. Then the next thing I see, he’s drinking with you like a long lost brother or something.”

  The complacent, whimsical look went from Michael’s face to be replaced by a hardening of the jaw and a sullen shadow of malevolence passed across his features. “We were brothers,” he spat out. Then he adjusted himself: “In all but the fact.” For a moment he looked vulnerable and Susan (and Carol and *BOB*) were intrigued.