Drowning in the Shallow End

by Charlie Mellor

  At the end of a monster session in the playroom, I’d trade-in some finely distilled self-pity for a more potent cocktail of remorse and undiluted guilt. Every night ended the same with me vowing never to smoke again. Conscious of my diminishing will power, I’d sometimes take the remains of my stash and either sprinkle it into the kitchen waste bin or, in the case of resin, flush it down the toilet. Although these pathetic rituals were designed to demonstrate ‘I mean business’ by preventing me from spliffing-up the following day, I always regretted my actions. Other nights I was so wasted, I was unable to summon up the energy required to crawl into the bathroom and flush the stash away before falling unconscious. During these episodes, it was more likely I’d wake up hours later, shivering on the floor and filled with contempt. Half asleep and feeling grim, I’d open the back door and recklessly throw the remaining bits of gear over the back fence into the field behind, away from temptation. True to form, by late afternoon the next day, I’d once again be in a frenetic state, regretting my impulsive decision. I had no qualms about scrambling around outside on my hands and knees, scouring the muddy garden beds, in a deplorable attempt to distinguish between lumps of mud and the bits of cannabis which might not have made it over the fence.

  There was no room for shame where Pennie was involved.

  Following one extended Saturday night session, I decided not to risk flushing an especially large lump of resin down the loo, in case it got trapped in the U-bend (I had retrieved resin from there before). Instead, eager to do the job properly, I stumbled outside at three in the morning, shuffling along the poorly lit road to find a public drain where I could chuck the sizable lump through the smelly roadside grill. What a relief, I could sleep soundly knowing there was no way I’d be able change my mind or hunt outside for any remaining amounts the following day. Imagine my sense of pride on the Sunday, when through desperation I created a flimsy reason to walk past the same grill. Seeing the lump of gear embedded half way down, lodged in some unthinkable rancid matter positioned inside the drain; I wasted no time lifting the heavy metal grill to get hold of the damp lump of cannabis, so I could dry it out in the oven and get out of my brain that night.

  Not only was I buying more of the stuff, but now I was doing my best to throw masses of it away through these ‘guilt appeasement exercises’. The only person who benefitted from any of this was Flick, but as things spiralled further out of control, even she was getting irritated by all the calls - so much so, I am sure she started to ignore many of them.

  Perfect, I wasn’t even able to give my money away to the local pusher!

  I tried so many times to quit. I looked for all the easy ways out and kidded myself time after time that tomorrow would be my last day with Miss Fenton. Ultimately, the benefits of having Indelible Pen around to craftily highlight all my inadequacies must have been slightly more appealing to me than not having her there, because I was clearly incapable of leaving her. Stopping smoking was never the problem. Like Mark Twain famously said, “Giving up smoking is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I've done it thousands of times.” The issue was always how to remain stopped. There was always a reason not to, always a pressing event or minor crisis to navigate through. Any tiny stressor would provide me with a suitable reason to defer my decision to quit.

  Entering my third year ‘riding the exhilarating wave of self-employment’, I was forced to adjust the few remaining career ambitions I had to enable me to spend as much time as possible off my face. By increasing my fees, to the limits of what was reasonable, I calculated I could keep the business afloat by delivering just a single day’s training a week. A revised hourly rate would, on paper, provide sufficient income to cover my overheads, commercial premises, the mortgage and of course; Flick – just as long as she’d take my friggin calls. However there were down-sides to this unambitious one-day-working business model. While I dutifully got out of bed early each morning and went to the office on all five days, my seditious mind remained dormant. Unchallenged, the ability to concentrate diminished and I found myself actively encouraging my few loyal clients to take less-profitable half-day assignments so they wouldn’t pick-up on my limited attention span. Any desire to achieve had evaporated and instead of concentrating on the possibilities I was drawn towards the problems, the difficulties and the downsides of self-employment. By the middle of year three, my sparkling career adventure had turned into a gigantic albatross, one which by this point, probably needed shooting.

  17. Alarm Bells

  One of the few things I did get right during the ‘wilderness years’ was to set aside two weeks for our annual blue-sky holiday. These treasured foreign breaks were usually the only time I felt resilient enough to cope without Pennie Fenton. Somehow the combination of a fortnight devoted to Annie and the kids while relaxing under the hot sun next to a pool, thousands of miles from home, was inherently calming. During the summer of 2005, in an attempt to build bridges with Stuart and Faye, we invited them and their two young children to join us on the remote Greek island of Tilos. Our travel agent had recommended the destination, describing it as ‘the Jewel of the Aegean Sea’ – the perfect place for a secluded break.

  It was terrific travelling with another family and the long journey provided all our kids with a brilliant opportunity get to know each other better. En route we excitedly read all about the ‘unique and friendly island of breath-taking natural beauty’; not quite appreciating this was also one of the hardest places in Europe to reach. Following an arduous fourteen hour trip (most of which was devoted to placating five cranky children over rail, air, boat and road), we reached our destination.

  On arrival we settled into our rather basic adjoining apartments, unpacked and then went straight out for a meal. On reflection, I may have been suffering with a bit of jetlag, because just after falling out with a waiter I remember blathering on to Stuart about what a tough fortnight it was going to be, not having Pennie around. I reassured him though that I’d never make the same mistake as I had on his stag night and was 100% committed to having an enjoyable time. Subject parked, we moved on to less thorny topics, with both of us deliberately introducing subjects we thought the other would want to talk about.

  “So, how’s your brother doing these days – does he still take the car to Buxton Raceway?” I asked.

  “Yeh, he’s doing OK, costing him a fortune to keep up with it though. I’ve just helped him put a new two litre Pinto engine in his car. He’s competing with it at the semi-finals on the next bank holiday,” he said, before changing tack.

  “Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask, how’s the business going? Did I hear you say to Annie that you were putting up your hourly rate again? – Things must be going well. Ever since I got back to my job, after what went on… after the accident... I mean as soon as I returned to work a couple of lads were laid off and we’re having to discount left, right and centre just to stay afloat. You must be doing all right if you can increase your charges at the moment – good on you mate,” he said, having already formed his own conclusions.

  “Ha, I wish. Actually it’s just the opposite - I’m charging more to cover my costs and pay the rent,” I said, noticing that Stuart looked a little confused by a pricing strategy which was clearly counter-intuitive.

  “Right, I suppose it’s worth a go. You can always change your mind later, can’t you? What about your sisters mate, are they both well?” he asked.

  And so our game of verbal ping-pong continued. Nothing contentious was ever muted, nothing that was likely to cause friction was ever said. Nothing with the slightest chance of creating a proper conversation was ever proposed.

  At least it’s a start, I thought to myself.

  Little did I know that Stuart had already sensed my growing tension during the journey and assumed it was because of Pennie. Totally out of character, he had set aside his own strong feelings on the subject and secretly planned to try and find some cannabis for me – here on what looked like the quietes
t little island in the world - what a fella. Unbeknown to the rest of us, the next morning, the enterprising Stuart ventured over to the sleepy port of Livadia, identified a couple of swarthy blokes outside a back street taverna who ‘knew an anthropos, who knew an anthropos’, as they say in Greece. Then, defying all laws of probability, negotiated a deal to buy a single bag of Agean grass from them at the same location on the following day. Normally this news would have been all the temptation I needed to spend the rest of the week ‘missing in action’, however when we turned up at the back of the restaurant on the next day to ‘do the deal’; the initially jovial middlemen turned more serious. Standing in a passageway used for tipping unwanted food, the stockier of the two, ushered us around a pile of overfilled rubbish bags and began talking at us in perfect English,

  “Do not worry about the flies. This is the least of your concerns.”

  “Hey, no problem – we’ve both worked in restaurants, we know the score,” Stuart said.

  “Not this score, you don’t. I know there are places in Europe where young people take lots of drugs, “he said, before continuing with, “The island of Tilos is not one of these places.”

  Shit what’s going on? I thought

  “We are helping you today as a very special favour,” he continued

  “The Greek authorities take these matters very seriously. If you were caught you would be deported. If we were thought to be involved, we would face many, many years in prison.”

  Recognising they were keen for us to defer to their wisdom, I said, “Oh absolutely, there is no way we’d ever let you down. We’re only here a few days. Hey, we don’t even know either of your names or what this place is called. By the time I’ve woken tomorrow, I’m not sure I’ll even remember how we got here,” I said, 50-50 about whether to casually tap him on the side of his arm in a reassuring way.

  “I am Georgios and this is Yannis. You are stood outside the Katerina Nemea Tavern. Repeat it now.”

  “You are George and he’s…” I mumbled, unsure if I’d heard him properly.

  “No – I am Georgios, this is Yannis. This time both of you repeat.”

  “Georgois and Yannis,” we said very quickly. Then, reading from the illuminated sign to our left added, “At The Katerina Nemea Tavern.”

  “Good. Let me be very clear my two English friends, if after we finish our business, you ever speak any of these names again, then my partner will shoot you both in the face.”

  To underline this threat Mr Yannis paraded the actual handgun which would be used to inflict this retribution. I’d never seen a real firearm before and thought it incredibly helpful of him not just to threaten us, but also take the trouble to build believability.

  Although now compelled to buy the illicit stash on offer, I ended up not actually smoking any of it. Not because I was worried about getting trashed on holiday; but instead because there was always a minute possibility our misdemeanour may eventually be discovered. If this happened, it could lead investigators back to these two cheeky rascals. If that happened, I knew they would keep good on their promise to show us the handgun again.

  On the up-side, at least our run-in with the Greek dealers had inadvertently provided me with clues as to how I might finally release myself from my addiction. Sat around the pool in the days that followed, I mulled over what had happened. It was apparent the threat of having my face blown off had unexpectedly reduced my appetite for getting trashed. Maybe, in order to give up permanently, I’d require another such provocation, one so petrifying it would literally shock me into finding the courage to break up with Pennie on a permanent basis. Attempting to anticipate the nature of what this monumental event might actually be, was in itself intimidating. If it had taken the threat of a loaded gun to dissuade me from tucking into a twenty Euro bag of weed, then what on earth would be required to eradicate my enduring obsession? Maybe I would need to fight Pennie on her own terms. Overpower the fear of being without her, by introducing an even greater fear which related to the consequences of remaining with her...

  We all returned to the UK with our faces intact. It was great that Stuart and I had started to bounce off each other again; this time paradoxically, because of my relationship with Pennie. Our tales of adventures with the Greek underworld were of course greatly exaggerated to anyone who would listen. The person who loved the ‘Shoot you both in the face’ story the most was a lad from Margate called Nigel Flitton. He was the boyfriend of Natasha Harmon, one of Annie’s closest school friends who’d moved away from Scunthorpe after university. Natasha was the daughter of a local police inspector and had been to many of our old parties. She was always good company. Over the years, we’d met a procession of her male friends, but noticed very few of these ever developed into anything more serious. Nigel was the only one we’d heard of who’d actually lasted longer than a couple of months, so when he accompanied her back to Scunthorpe three times in a row, we became a little more interested in him. Most of us warmed to his unorthodox wit, with the exception of Allan who was always suspicious of new people.

  From a distance Nigel, a lifetime member of the Hong Kong Phooey Fan Club, did appear to be a rather odd fella. Even in close proximity many found him to be left of centre. Dry as cracked wheat, he’d arrive with Natasha and sit quietly on his own as the rest of the group introduced new friends to each other and shared a spliff. I was perplexed by him because while he appeared totally uninterested in other people and their interpersonal concerns, he’d become very animated when overhearing anything linked to fame and celebrity. It amazed me how someone who was obviously intelligent, was more interested in news reports relating to glamour model Katie Prices’ expanding bust size, than what was happening in the contracting world. Phlegmatic in the extreme, Nigel was capable of unintentionally upsetting everyone he was introduced to. If he didn’t like the way a particular show had been presented on TV, he’d research the names of all the production team involved and then harass them by email, telling them in no uncertain terms, precisely where they’d gone wrong.

  The very first time Annie and I met him, was a typical example of how he created a rather poor impression. Following an enjoyable evening where he’d been introduced to all his girlfriend’s buddies in a local bar, he was asked what he thought of Natasha’s friends – to which he replied with a blank expression, “I don’t know because…” Here, he deliberately paused to look with contempt at each of us in turn, before adding “I haven’t met any yet.”

  The dispassionate remark had led to a cavernous silence and instantly altered the mood for the rest of the night. It was going to be a slow uphill process before any of us would understand his deadpan humour and begin to warm to him.

  Nigel and Natasha had originally met after he moved into the same building as her. Keen to impress his attractive new flatmate (who at this point was still dating someone else), he’d taken her out her for a meal at a plush restaurant in Margate. At the end of the evening when she popped to the ladies room, Nigel had paid the bill in full on the QT.

  On her return to the table, he’d leant over and pretending to have insufficient money to pay the bill, whispered, “Natasha, I seem to be caught in a rather tricky predicament.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s rather embarrassing, but I realise I’ve nowhere near enough money to pay for the meal.”

  “I’ve got a few pounds with me – how much do you need?” she asked.

  “Forty-four pounds and seventy five pence – plus any discretionary tip you care to include.”

  “How much?” she exclaimed. ”What on earth did the total bill come to?”

  “Forty-four pounds and seventy five pence – plus any discretionary tip we care to include,” Nigel replied, looking surprised by the need for this additional question.

  “So you’re saying that you didn’t bring ANY money out with you?” Natasha said.

  “No, I can’t afford to eat in a place like this. I only booked it thinking you’d be
impressed.”

  “Well, let me tell you, I’m not. In fact I’m really embarrassed. I can’t afford it either. We’ll have to talk to the manager, provide some form of identification. Perhaps they’ll accept a signed IOU from us.”

  “Don’t be daft Natasha, a place like this? They’re far more likely to call the police. Look, if you follow my lead, we’ll be fine. I’ve done it loads – I think I’ve even done it in here a couple of years ago,” he said

  “Done what?” said Natasha, getting quite indignant.

  “A runner. We’ll do a runner. We used to leg-it all the time as students. Restaurants get used to it. They even budget for three or four runners a week.” While Natasha was wondering where these ridiculous statistics came from, Nigel was verbally overlaying all the reasons why they should proceed with his idea, over the top of her more rational thinking.

  “We’re near to the door, there’s no staff in sight, we don’t have any coats to collect… come on, let’s do it…”

  Before Natasha had time to bolster her argument, Nigel had leapt up, raced through the exit and started to pelt down the road. And they say romance is dead. There was nothing she could do but to follow him – hobbling along the busy pavement in her high heels and fancy frock in an attempt to catch up with her gallant suitor. This I have since learned is typical of his unconventional humour which obviously works since amazingly, just after this memorable event, Natasha ditched her boyfriend and announced she was going to marry Mr Flitton.

  In order to get to know Nigel a little better before the wedding we decided to invite them both to a weekend away, to watch a concert in Sheffield along with Allan and Stacey. By August 2005, Pennie’s control over Allan and myself meant that it was rare for either of us to venture far from the safety of our own homes. If we ever did go out, it tended to be to visit each other’s houses – particularly if Pennie had decided to park herself there for a few days. The only deviation from this pattern was whenever The Bunnymen had a new album to promote. The promise of seeing an unfamiliar live set by rock royalty usually provided us with sufficient motivation to leave the kids with relatives and venture out into the big wide world. Without exception, Pennie accompanied us to these concerts.