The Seven Days of Peter Crumb

by Jonny Glynn

  I am a man of evil conscience…And a man of evil conscience cannot act well…

  It is late and I should to bed again and try and sleep. I have been awake for nearly twenty hours…I do have a conscience…I do.

  I am going to bed. And I fully expect to suffer terrible nightmares.

  Noon arms up, and in good spirits. Slept like a sloth–six pure hours of uninterrupted kip. I’m restored and there’s a spring in my step, as they say. Got out of bed on the right side. Feet straight into my slippers. Everything in place, no trouble with my breathing. An honest and relaxed performance. Everything quite as it should be. Behaviour–daily to commonplace routine. Normal. All of last night’s cares seem quite forgotten. I’m lifted. It is a new day. Tuesday.

  I’m sat in Don’s. I’ve just finished my eggs, scrambled this morning, and very nice they were too–consistent colouring throughout. Indulgent dollops of ketchup splashed all over. Yummy yummy. Sad reports on the wireless this morning. Videotapes have been released showing an Englishman chained in a cage, pleading for his life. The Arabs are going to cut his head off. The nation is outraged in a resigned-to-it ‘poor bugger’ sort of way. Timid English indignation–honestly, they couldn’t give a tuppenny fuck really. But I digress. So much has happened since I woke I feel quite carried away by it all. Events–freak occurrences–things that happen–unexpected knockings on your door at nine-fifteen in the morning. Who could that be, he wondered?

  I got up, shuffled down the corridor and peered through my spyhole–‘Well I never,’ he said. ‘The cleaning lady.’ He invited her in, told her I had just made a pot of tea and showed her through into the living room, which was in a bit of a state but it didn’t seem to faze her. He was right, by the way–she is Polish. Her name is Milka, I think–she said it very quickly and then didn’t repeat it, it could have been Mirka but I think it was Milka. She very politely and courteously explained to me how she was going to each flat and handing out cards offering her services as a cleaner. She suggested coming two or three times a week in my case and then joked that I could ‘use her’. He smiled at that. ‘Has anyone taken you up on your offer?’ he enquired–ever so politely, it surprised me. No, she replied, and shifted her weight and looked at her feet. I could tell she was embarrassed, ashamed of herself and the humiliating effort of life–so I cleared a seat for her and told her to sit down, and then went into the kitchen and poured her a nice hot cup of tea and brought it back out to her and sat down beside her and we had a very pleasant chat. She told me all about her husband Yaroslav and how he worked on a site in Whitechapel. How they’d come over from Warsaw two years ago and settled in Leyton. She spoke eloquently and ironically about how the business degree she’d graduated with in Poland was useless to her here, but that her formerly useless husband’s skills as a plumber were in great demand. I told her how it was just me here now and that I probably could use some help around the house with some of the cleaning and a bit of ironing. I said I’d enjoy the company as much as anything–it’d be nice to have someone to talk to, I said, as I don’t get out much. I know that’s a lie, but lying is the common currency in any human exchange. She said she could start tomorrow and I said, ‘Right, it’s a date then.’ We stood up and shook hands and smiled at each other properly, kindly, like two people. I said I’d see her in the morning and that I’d be looking forward to it. She said okay, and then off she went…She has got a lovely bottom.

  I stood in the middle of the room smelling the remains of her scent in the air…Milka. What a delightful way to start the day. Like two people, it was very nice…I felt quite moved. The simple honest yak that strangers share, a cordial fumbling, an amiable getting-to-know. It was very nice. I felt quite overtaken by it all and went and soaked in a long hot bath and thought about her. Everything had kicked off on the right foot and nothing had gone wrong. I lay there and thought about her until the water turned tepid and my skin began to curl. He said she was ever so much cleaner close up, in real life as it were, than he had ever imagined her to be when he watched her through the spyhole. I agreed, she did look clean, and her skin was ever so white. As white as alabaster, he said. As white as milk, I say. Semi-skimmed Milka. She had such a light and delicate way about her too, a fragility that made you want to protect her. Yes. And a lovely bottom. She was a pretty all right, not a stupid. I gave myself a good lather, washed my pits and shaved my face, cleaned my teeth and combed my hair. Gave myself a good polish. And I polish up well I should tell you. As a young man I was very handsome. I bet you didn’t expect that, did you? No, you probably think I’m a repugnant fiend with a hairy back, bulging warts and abnormally proportioned features and flat feet. Well, I’m not. Oh no–I’m handsome. Very handsome. A handsome youth, they used to say, when I was a boy. And I was. I turned heads, you know. Everywhere I went I was always looked at. The eyes have always been on me. Looking at me. I’ve grown used to it…Oh yes, I’m a head-turner all right–a handsome head-turner, that’s what my mum used to call me…And looking at me now, in my old suit and tie, socks and shoes, I’d say I’ve still got it…should I want it. A little worn, perhaps, here and there, but nothing shameful. Greying at the temples. Frayed around the edges, perhaps–but characterful, I’d say, yes. A handsome melancholy fellow. Yes. Handsome and melancholy, but with a spring in his step this morning. Milka. She has affected me. But I digress. She does have a lovely bottom.

  Another episode of note this morning was my stool. Much improved on yesterday’s–Grade 3 on the Bristol this morning: ‘Sausage with cracked surface’. (Possible title for my memoirs?)

  I’m leaving Don’s now to go and meet a man called Dieter. Dieter is German and sells drugs. I have ‘known’ him for many years. Once a month I buy an ounce of hashish from him. Today I will buy something altogether stronger. The headline in the paper this morning read:

  MY DRUGS SHAME

  I think we’re going to have fun.

  North, south-east.

  I am not myself. I am drugged, addled, and split. My mind is in pieces. Shattered, I tell you–shattered! I’m transmuted. My thinking is out of all control. I am profoundly confused. My heart is beating and then not beating. My breathing is backward. Total derangement. Rabid uncertainty. Dread behind, panic before. Fear. Uncertainty. And danger. Find the start. Begin again. Order your thoughts. Where were you? At Don’s. You left Don’s. Yes–I left Don’s. What was the headline? The headline! Yes–that’s right, I went to Dieter’s–yes, that’s right. Both arms up, eggs scrambled, newspaper, headline. You’re guessing. I can’t remember. This is terrible. Time has gone haywire. A tempest of remembrance raging unchecked without any consideration for the thinker. I am drugged. Drugged, I tell you! Drugged! I’m unhinged! And have been for some time. I cannot be certain of specifics, and will make no sense trying to. I can smell damp. It smells familiar. Dieter answered the door. Yes–he was wearing a dhoti–that’s right, a lungi–yes, a kikoi–that’s right, yes, a sarong–remember? Naked, but for all else other than only in a dhoti! And the sweet stench of incense–immediately and all consumingly soaking into me, remember? You said to remember for later thinking that you were feeling infected–it infecting you–do you remember? Stinking of it, you said–and that strange tribal music too, playing low in the background, crawling underneath, texturing the silence–d’you remember? Subverting the surroundings, you said–remember? Remember that for later, you said. Yes, and everything was red. Red–that’s right. Everything was red–and flaming. Burning. A swirling inferno. Licking every inch of her. Remember. Her hair. Smouldering red against pale skin. The ends of you split. Writhing. Remember? It was a long time ago, I concede, but nevertheless. That searing heat. You weren’t much older than a lad. A ruddy youth–red in the cheeks with the first flush of love–scuffling along in your Sunday best. I’ll never forget her–pretty in a springtime dress. Proud and haughty in a pair of muddy gumboots, with her wild red hair billowing all about her, burning the air around her. Joking and teasing and laug
hing. Days to remember, those, and with fondness recall. Yes–the comfort of each other, so at ease, walking and talking and teasing and laughing. How many happy afternoons did we giggle on the swings. Two exhausted children, panting and smiling. The gentle riffle of the wind between leaves, and the quiet ache of her branches. I was so happy, and so in love. I thought those days would never end. I wanted to hold you, and kiss you, and tell you that I loved you. But I didn’t. I mumbled and nodded and looked at my feet. A callow youth, embarrassed by his need for another. And then you said you were leaving. My heart was bursting. It couldn’t be. Those last cracked kisses, your broken blistered lips, goodbyes whispered, and tears sent to circle…I carved your name next to mine in the sycamore bark. I remember my knife catching and the blade snapping and my hand bleeding…All the tears that I shed for you, caught in a bloody palm…I loved you…

  Dear God, what’s happening to me? My memory is jumping and carnivalling all over, darting off and beginning again–it’s all I can hope for it to end. Bombarded with thoughts, jockeying and jostling–everything wrong and off at a kilter–the endless bits of forgotten in-between returning to haunt me–it’s a madness uncontrolled! That bastard Dieter. What has he done to me? You asked for it, mate. And paid for it. Put one before the other and begin. You know this. You’ll be fine.

  ‘Petta Krum…Ve meet again.’

  His hazy delivery of the simplest sentence–d’you remember?–you said he’s totally stoned. And paranoid. Look at him, you said–remember? When he didn’t quite hear you, and looked at you in that way that you didn’t understand, and there was a breath of something between you, for less than a second–remember? I’m a customer, not a friend, you said. That’s right, and he was totally stoned. Don’t get me wrong, you said, I like Dieter, you said, he’s reliably detached, you said, won’t ask questions of any depth, you said–remember? He’ll make statements, parrot truisms and tell anecdotes, but that’s all. You like it that way. I do. He doesn’t want your friendship or your kinship, no, he wants my money…Yes, and I want his drugs.

  ‘Vat vill it be today, Petta?’ I hate the way he calls me ‘Petta’.

  ‘Your usual lump of London soap?’ Too much sneer, I remember that. ‘Or perhaps a little something stronger?’ That’s where it all went wrong. He always offers something a little stronger, but I never accept. I’m a lump-of-London-soap man. Always have been. He holds me in contempt for this, of course he does, he looks down on me as a poor customer, yes, that’s the truth of it–he despises me my moderation. I’m a poor return and he knows it. What did he give me? That vicious bastard. What have I taken? How long will this last? What did I say to him–think–think clearly–go back, see it, picture it…Red, moaning, beads, stink, tribal. I think I was sitting–what did I say? You said–of course–

  ‘Actually, Dieter, I am looking for something altogether stronger.’

  That’s right. Remember his eyes? They lit up. He looked interested, didn’t he? Interested in you. A spring in your step and he noticed. It’s Tuesday, you said. Six days left and then you’re dead–remember? Remember the whore? That dirty old sumka with her broken teeth. Irrational bloody babbling. I can’t stop exercising my jaw–obsessively shifting it, right and left, like a bloody camel. I seem to remember doing this on a bus and being looked at by disapproving women. Was that today? I have no recollection of leaving Dieter’s and getting home. What time is it? East, south-east. There are three hours unaccounted for. What did he do to me? You were lying comatose on the carpet. What? Dieter had been through your pockets and robbed you. What? Nothing would revive you. What are you talking about? You can’t recall? He kept calling your name. Yes, I remember–it was my father. He was calling me. I remember hearing my father as the reflection of the voice of God, as a human faculty, calling me, Peter, Peter. I was looking at my coins upstairs in my bedroom. D’you remember? Those coins you kept. Your collection. Remember those coins? You loved your coins. That special big one from the Jubilee. And that one with David Platt from the box of Shreddies. D’you remember? Dad was calling you down for your dinner and you were looking at your coins. Remember? They weren’t my coins. You didn’t collect coins, it wasn’t me. You’re very confused. They were Emma’s coins. Remember? Emma’s coin collection. She did a project for school. You were her father. It was you calling. It was you calling. Lying on the floor, a grown man, out of his mind, calling out for Daddy. Aren’t you ashamed? I’m exhausted. I need to rest. You’re always resting. Forever tired. No, I’m not. Yesterday you said you suffered permanent feelings of tiredness. No, I didn’t. Yes, you did. You said that’s as maybe. What? Exactly–you can’t hijack me with your syntax and tenses. I’m not German!

  ‘Vat are you after, Petta?’ ‘My drugs shame.’ That’s right. That’s it–‘My drugs shame.’ Well, you found it all right.

  He led you down a corridor and into the sitting room–that’s how it was. Everything was red, and stinking of incense, there was a tribal moaning. You took a seat on the sofa–yes, that’s right–it was an orange sofa, not red. The walls were red or the light was red, it was dark, the curtains–not curtains, a blind–that’s right, yes–a blanket nailed over the window–yes…He draped himself on the floor in front of you next to a low glass coffee table–didn’t he? Yes, and his cock fell out and he took rather too long to put it away, didn’t he?–that’s right. Why do you remember that? There was a large purple bong. The water pipe–remember?–tarnished and stained. Many hours smoking and glorious boom shanking. Did he say that? There were some scales, I think. Is that right? He saw me looking at the bong, didn’t he, and he offered it–that’s right. Remember, he said, ‘You vanna smoke a bong?’ And then he immediately set about burning lumps, and crumbling and packing. What the hell did he put in it?

  ‘Vat kind of shame you looking for, Petta?’

  ‘Whatever shame you got, Dieter.’ I remember saying that.

  ‘Shame can cost a lot of money Petta.’ Twiddling his beads. Fingering suspicion, burning lumps and crumbling powders. Shifty, you said–remember?–the way he twiddles his beads–shifty, you said, see how shifty he is. Remember? He was eyeing you. Twiddling suspicion, and eyeing you.

  ‘You looking very smart today, Petta, you got a court appearance?’

  My suit, of course, he saw me polished. That’s right–he was suspicious because I was wearing a suit, with socks and shoes. That’s right. Polished–remember?

  ‘First ve smoke a bong, Petta, then ve put our minds to something special, yah?’

  Yah…yah…yah…Hubble bubble, hubble bubble.

  What did he put in that pipe? God only knows. A mixture of all sorts. A little bit of everything–some crack, some smack, a little bit of DMT. The front of my face feels…It’s hard to explain and will make no sense, but the front of my face feels–ajar. And numb. And an incredible hum is radiating outwards from the middle of my brain and pulsing against the inside of my skull, reverberating and echoing back in on itself. All sound is heightened, layered, simple, perfect, and acute. I can hear everything as far away as Rendlesham Road. I have become an ear–I am an ear–listening and vibrating at a very low frequency. There is a continual adjustment in the lighting and, as I said, time is all over the place–I have no sense of it. I noted that down somewhere, mentally noted it down for later. Yes. And I thanked you for it too. Good for you, I said. Get stuck in, I said. I’m no man’s fool, you said. I didn’t know what you were talking about. You took the bong and the next thing I knew you were rolling your eyeballs and trying to swallow my tongue. Remember? You jumped up, wobbled, and said you had to leave, then you looked at your watch, asked what time it was and sat down again, held your head for a moment and then stood up again and said you were going to throw up. You staggered four paces, stopped, wobbled, looked giddy, lurched for the door frame and collapsed…It was hilarious. Puff Puff Puff! Swallowing huge plumes of purple haze. Then down you go–gurgling, swallowing your tongue, jerking and slathering like a slaughtered goat!
A complete fucking spectacle you made of yourself. It was hilarious! I was laughing my head off. I nearly choked.

  Dieter showed no mind of course. He’s seen it all before, simply got up and made himself a cup of tea. Came back ten minutes later to check on you, slumped on the floor with your arse in the air, totally comatose. He rolled you over and pulled you straight, remember?…Oh God. He did something, didn’t he? I knew it.

  ‘You looking for some shame, Petta? You looking for some shame, Petta Krum?’

  Oh my God…He fiddled with my trousers, didn’t he?

  ‘I’ll show you some shame, Petta Krum.’

  I remember thinking at the time that someone was fiddling with my trousers. I thought it was you. But it wasn’t. It was him.

  I knew it. I knew it then too. He’s fiddling with my trousers–I can remember thinking it. It was like a dream. I felt so heavy. It was impossible to move. He pulled my trousers down and he put something up me. Oh dear God–he raped me! No. No, he didn’t. He didn’t. He put his fingers up me. Yes, that’s what he did. He stuffed something up me. Oh dear God. What did he stuff up me?

  OPIUM. Opium. Oh thank God. It’s the opium. That’s where I am. Opium. Opium. Oh the relief. The blessed relief. Now I know where I am. I’m on opium. Oh thank Christ. It’s only the O. That bugger Dieter. Honestly. Oh thank Christ. I know where I’m up to. Yes…Yes, that’s right–‘I’ll show you some shame, Petta Krum.’ Yes–what else was there? Some cocaine, I seem to recall. Yes, I did a line of charlie, didn’t I? I can recall the preparation note-rolling and afterwards nostril-burning…yes…And then that’s when I realized. That’s when I realized it wasn’t cocaine, do you remember? It was ketamine! You fool! That came as a surprise to you, didn’t it? Great fat line of it. Chop chop chop. Two inches long and half an inch thick. Little bit of a livener, you said. One for the road, you said. Get me back on my feet before I leave, you said.