The Hambledown Dream

by Dean Mayes

  My name? What’s my name? I can’t remember!

  Through a phlegm-filled throat came a single utterance.

  “An...Andy...”

  Andy?

  “Andy, my name is Dr. Ellis. You’re in the hospital. You were brought here in an ambulance.”

  Ambulance? And what’s with the weird accents?

  “Can you hear me, Andy?”

  Andy attempted to nod against the hand that was holding his head down. Ellis nodded to the other team members who were holding him. They relaxed their grip and stood back. Satisfied they had him under control, Ellis began issuing orders to all present. Bloods, chest film, CT, ECG, IV antibiotics, catheter.

  Catheter? Oh Christ!

  A hospital orderly entered through the double doors holding a small, clear plastic bag. One of the trauma room staff took it from him and casually inspected it. Wallet, keys, cell phone, a couple of guitar picks, a pack of cigarettes. Some foil-wrapped objects the size of a nickel. She gave the bag to Ellis, who rifled through it, plucking the foil objects out. He tossed the bag on a nearby bench and hastily unwrapped one of the foil objects. Inside was a white pill. He flicked it over with his finger and saw a small, vicious-looking skull imprinted in purple on its surface. He eyeballed Kost, beside him, and handed it over. They shared a knowing glance.

  The kid was coming around, yet he remained calm and submitted to their care without protest. He was in a lot of trouble and he would surely know it, Ellis thought. These idiot kids were all the same. But, as Ellis checked his vitals then turned back, he felt a sudden chill. The young man’s eyes were wide open and a strange expression had crossed over his face. He was very serene. His eyes were turned up towards the ceiling and fixed on a spot there, focused intensely. Hard and fast. Ellis shivered.

  CHAPTER 3

  The L train trundled noisily along the tracks through northern suburbs of the city. The Chicago skyline passed by the window to his right, the urban sprawl laid out before him, but he noticed none of it. He sat hunched, alone in the rear of the car, his head against the window, dozing, sleeping ... but not quite.

  Four days had passed.

  It had been four days, and no one had come to see Andy in the hospital. Not his father; nothing short of his son actually dying would have pulled him from his 18-wheeler and his long-haul runs. Not his friends; well, with maybe one or two exceptions they weren’t so much friends as they were hangers-on, attracted more to his ability to supply than to him as a person. They knew he was it when it came to getting the good shit, but now that he had been busted, they had all disappeared into nothingness. Not his girlfriend; her absence, in particular, stung him, but he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised about that either. Their relationship was more superficial than he cared to admit and was based more on his station in the underground than anything else. It’s all fine when your man is such top shit, but when it all goes to hell, then he is the last person you want to be seen with.

  Andy felt a heavy pall of depression weighing him down, a thick soup of weariness, anger, rejection, fear, loneliness.

  Loneliness.

  He sat here now in the clothes he had been found in: shirt, complete with torn-off buttons; jeans, rumpled and stained. At least someone had been kind enough to have them laundered for him, which had removed the worst of the blood and vomit. His battered khaki jacket helped to conceal the rest.

  The experience had left him drained, even though - so they had told him - he had gotten off lightly this time. It was his second time.

  Fucking idiot!

  Andy DeVries was a dealer - a courier. A nimble young man who worked in the shadows of a dark underworld where illicit substances were coveted like precious jewels. There wasn’t anything he could not obtain: Ecstasy, Ice, GHB, amphetamines. He was capable of laying his hands on just about anything. But more than that, Andy DeVries had garnered a reputation among manufacturers as someone who could move their product quickly and efficiently. He could realize handy profits, which made him highly desired. And though he was intertwined with the drug trade, Andy was not a product of it. Rather he had fallen into it through a combination of being easily led and the lure of a quick and lucrative income. He had started out as a mule but had progressed quickly. The perils of his chosen vocation had begun to take their toll on Andy. Like many who were drawn to it, Andy had become addicted to the product. And, as with any addiction, the highs were intoxicating. The ‘Ice’ was the key to nirvana, to unparalleled freedom. It unlocked your inhibitions, made you feel you could do anything. But the come-downs were earth-shattering if you didn’t know how to handle them right. Andy always believed he was able to handle them.

  Well, until now.

  Suddenly Andy found himself close to tears. He shrank into his seat further and drew the edges of his jacket around him. He pulled his woolen cap down over his ears and allowed his long fringe to sway back and forth over his eyes. Even though there was no one else in the car right now, there could be up ahead. He didn’t want to be seen like this.

  Emilio Vasq was going to be pissed. The police had come to see Andy in the hospital and drilled him for a good couple of hours in an attempt to get him to talk. Where did he get the drugs from? Who was the dealer? Did he know anybody connected with the manufacture of the pills? Andy didn’t yield, though, didn’t reveal anything. He’d just played dumb and they’d bought it. In the end, all they’d slapped him with was a possession charge, which wouldn’t go far. But now he was tainted, so far as Emilio Vasq would be concerned. Vasq couldn’t risk using a dealer/courier, even his most successful one, if he’d been painted by the police. So Andy’s other vocation, his other life, was now on shaky ground.

  Andy became aware of an itching on his right forearm. He scratched at his arm absently then, turning his hands over in his lap, he inspected his fingers. The black nail polish had chipped on most of them and had been completely removed from a couple of them. He shook his head angrily and squeezed his hands into fists before relaxing them once again.

  The L eventually ground to a halt at the station and Andy peeked out from behind his fringe. It was his stop. He got up and shuffled slowly towards the exit, past newly boarding passengers. He dared not look at any of them as he stepped out onto the platform and looked up and down the length of the train. It was bitterly cold out. In the handful of disembarking passengers there was no one here who looked familiar. His heart sank.

  No one had come.

  Slowly, sadly, Andy made his way from the drab station, down the ruddy sidewalks of the commercial district, then through the back streets and lane ways that he knew well. The sun struggled to shine through heavy clouds that threatened to dump down upon him. Not that Andy cared. He was single-minded in his purpose. He just wanted to get home. He trudged on through the uninspiring parks and public spaces and finally into the residential district, the apartments and houses.

  With an overwhelming sense of relief, Andy turned his key in the lock, opened the door to the apartment and locked it behind him. It was dark inside. Nobody was home. His roommate, Beck, must be at work.

  Probably pulling another long stretch, Andy figured.

  He went straight through the darkened hallway to his bedroom where he unloaded his meager possessions. His wallet, his cell phone - upon which there were still no messages after four days - his keys and his cigarettes. He inspected the pack quickly and found there were only two smokes left - almost not worth the trouble. He stripped out of his clothes and tossed the ruined shirt into the wastepaper basket beside his bed. The bedroom was sparse. All that occupied the small space was his bed, a desk with a lamp - the only light source in the room - a tacky chipboard bookshelf that held a mishmash of magazines, books and folders containing sheet music. The walls around the room were adorned with posters of various bands such as The Black Crowes, Foo Fighters, Korn, Slipknot, Pantera and Metallica. An aged analog TV sat on an old crate at the foot of the bed. There were clothes all over the floor, and no order to anythi
ng. An expensive-looking Taylor guitar stood on a stand in the corner by the wardrobe. It was the one decent possession Andy owned, and it was central to the life he lived away from the drugs and the crime. He regarded it momentarily in the half light.

  I need a shower.

  Naked now, Andy stumbled into the bathroom and felt for the shower taps. He slumped down into the bath and let the water wash over him, let the sadness wash over him and finally, he let the tears wash over him. He sobbed and sobbed until he was spent and numb. He remained there, staring into the darkness, unable to move. Distorted images from the rave flashed before him like the shards of a broken mirror. Images of the people in his life peered at him quizzically as though they were on fast-forward. His girlfriend Cassie: all wild eyes, black lipstick and faux attitude. His father: distant, dismissive and alienated from his son. His friend and roommate Beck: solid and sympathetic to Andy’s struggles but uncomfortable with many of Andy’s activities and associates like Emilio Vasq and his posse of thugs. Then, suddenly, the images coalesced into something else - something unexpected. Andy squinted, even though his eyes were closed, trying to bring the image into focus. It was a face.

  The face...

  Well, not so much the face as the cheek of a woman’s face. Soft porcelain skin, a delicate cheekbone. Andy tilted his head in the darkness, embracing the image, trying to capture more of it, intrigued by its sudden presence. A single teardrop trickled down over her skin. She moved her head. He could almost make out her eyes. But she turned away too fast.

  Andy’s eyes snapped open as that final image threatened to leave his stream of consciousness and become an echo. It stayed there, however. Somehow, he was able capture something of the image and keep it there.

  His tranquility was broken abruptly, by a loud banging at the apartment door. Andy jumped reflexively in the bath. Dazed, he felt around for the sides of the slippery tub and scrambled to his feet. In the half-light Andy noticed the back of the shower curtain. A heavy layer of reddish-brown scum coated the curtain. The result of weeks and weeks of buildup from - Christ knows what.

  “Jesus!”

  Again the banging at the door, more insistent this time. Andy struggled to find a towel and wrap it around his still-glistening body while he searched around for the light switch.

  The banging didn’t let up.

  “All right, all right already!”

  He unlatched the door, but got no further after turning the handle. It fairly burst open at the hands of a lithe young figure who exploded into the hall and clawed enthusiastically at Andy, who could barely maintain his balance.

  “Andy, honey!” purred the wild-eyed young woman as she leapt into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and plastering him with kisses. All he could do was back into the living room and flop down on the dusty couch.

  Cassie.

  Black hair with red streaks, dark eyeliner framing wild and overtly large eyes, too much pale foundation, thick black lipstick. A tattoo of a dragon poking up from her shoulder blades at the back of her neck. Her breath was the smell of mint chewing gum and marijuana. Her clothing was a derivative of early 80’s Madonna. Fishnet stockings, ankle boots, torn denim shorts, black ripped T-shirt. She was chaos personified. And she was as horny as fuck.

  Her hand immediately slipped down under the towel and grabbed his cock, masturbating him voraciously as he struggled for air. For a millisecond, Andy considered submitting to her. But then the anger surged once more and he grabbed her shoulders and hoisted her off him, tossing her to one side.

  “Fucking stop!”

  Cassie was confused and hurt. She remained crumpled on the couch beside him as he struggled to secure the towel once again.

  “Jesus, Dev, I just wanted to give you a welcome home!” Cassie retorted angrily.

  “A welcome home!” Andy croaked, exasperated. “Four days, Cee! Four fucking days! D’ya ever consider coming to see me in the hospital?”

  “Oh, don’t be so fucking stupid! You know full well if I or any of the others had gone to see you down there, the police would have collared us right away.”

  Cassie kicked herself up into a sitting position, legs drawn up at the knees, defensive. “Vasq is real pissed right now, you know. He thinks you talked.”

  Andy hissed and launched himself off the couch.

  “Fuck Vasq,” he growled as he made his way down the hall and into his bedroom. Stunned by his summation, Cassie was forced to follow him. “I didn’t say nothin’, and if I had, he’d have had cops all over him right now.”

  He paused, glaring at her intensely.

  “Anyway, screw this! I was stuck there for four days and not you or anyone else cared enough to visit - regardless?”

  Cassie feigned concern.

  “Honey. You know I would have come if I could. I didn’t want to put you in any danger, is all. I called the hospital a bunch of times. That’s how I knew you were coming home.”

  She tried to wriggle in between his arms as he searched through the pile of clothes on the floor. His towel dropped away from his waist once again and she began stroking the insides of his thighs, running her fingers over his genitals. She smiled and licked her lips as he became hard, but it was short-lived. Again he brushed her away.

  “I don’t want it right now, Cassie, OK? I got shit to do. I need to be alone.”

  Cassie slumped back in a crouch on the floor angrily as Andy quickly threw on a T-shirt and boxers, then plucked out a pair of crumpled jeans from the pile.

  “Look, Cassie. You need to go. I am not in a good mood and I need to get shit done. I... I...”

  He searched his mind for a convincing reason to extricate himself from here. He noticed he calendar on the wall above the desk. Today was Wednesday.

  “I need to go to work.”

  Wednesday was a work day, he remembered hastily. Pulling beers at The Pub.

  “You’re not serious?” she said with disbelief.

  Andy rubbed his eyes with one hand then looked down at his girlfriend. His face was stony.

  “Well ... can I call you later?” she asked.

  He shrugged, then turned on his heel, grabbing his jacket and cap. He left the apartment.

  Cassie remained crouched awkwardly on the floor of the living room, unsure of what had just happened.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Public House stood on the corner of a busy thoroughfare that fairly bristled with traffic. Surrounded by gray, lifeless monoliths of the modern-day urban sprawls, it was an old, stately building - almost Gothic in nature - so it carried some measure of authenticity about its characteristically Irish theme. Someone had once told Andy that it was one of the oldest establishments of its type in Chicago. To Andy, it was just a means to earn an honest income. Frankly, it was not a very good one.

  As he stepped though the door to the dark, wood-paneled main bar, Andy hesitated, hoping like hell that no one here knew of his misadventure over the weekend. It was bad enough that his boss, the owner and a friend of Andy’s father, suspected that Andy was hooked up in some clandestine shit but, to date, he hadn’t called Andy out on it. If he were to discover the truth of Andy’s overdose, Andy felt certain that he could kiss his job goodbye.

  The front bar was busy but not crowded. Andy quietly slipped inside and dropped his head, trying to make himself inconspicuous.

  He was regarded as a shitty employee, but Andy’s boss was honoring an obligation to Andy’s father by keeping him there. Whatever that obligation was, Andy didn’t know other than it was a long story and it went back many years.

  Andy hurried through the main bar, skirted the counter and slipped in behind it brushing past Samantha, a young, attractive female server who was attending to two customers.

  As Andy disappeared into a cubbyhole at the back of the bar, the young woman exchanged a glance of disbelief with a large bulbous man, the owner of The Pub. Gideon Allan scratched one of his carefully manicured sideburns and checked his own watch before double-che
cking a clock high upon the wall behind him.

  Andy DeVries had never been early to work. Ever!

  Within a minute Andy emerged again, having swapped his shirt for a burgundy polo with an insignia of The Public House emblazoned on the left breast. Without a word, he had gathered up a tray and begun moving about the bar collecting empty glasses, taking orders for fresh rounds and wiping down the bar surfaces. All of them watched Andy incredulously as he went about his work.

  As Andy swung around behind the counter armed with the fully laden tray, Gideon coughed and cleared his throat.

  “Ummm ... Andrew?” he rumbled softly in a faint Irish brogue.

  Andy deposited the glasses into a washer under the bar then began pouring fresh glasses for the orders he had taken. He regarded Gideon fleetingly.

  “Are you ill?” Gideon continued, a note of sarcasm in his voice.

  “No,” Andy countered defensively. “Why?”

  Gideon gestured with a thumb back over his shoulder at the clock on the wall.

  “You’ve never been early a day in your life. I’m concerned for your well-being.”

  Andy looked up at the ancient timepiece. He was half an hour early. Shaking his head ruefully, he simply went back to pouring beers and placing them on a tray. Again, Gideon and Samantha exchanged glances.

  That’s how it went for the next few hours. Andy worked as he never had before, serving beers, taking orders for bar meals, getting them out to the customers quickly and efficiently and keeping the bar clean. He even quietly and subtly dealt with a couple of the rowdier patrons, diffusing a potential fight. Gideon studied Andy closely, with muted suspicion. Something was definitely up. The kid had never worked this hard.

  Or this well.

  Gideon regarded Andy as his worst employee. The kid was lazy, arrogant and frankly, a cock-head. What Gideon was witnessing now was bizarre and not a little disturbing. It was as though the young man was possessed.

  Somewhere close to 6pm, Samantha slid a plate in front of Andy: Irish sausages on a bed of mashed potatoes with gravy. Andy looked at the plate indifferently.