As Above, So Below

by Richard Lawther

  He turned over and opened a sleep-encrusted eye, but the nearby clock-face remained stubbornly out of focus ... ten? ... ten thirty – the first lecture had already finished.

  Bollocks.

  Leaning up and rubbing his hair Alex noticed that Bridgett had left the flat. With a grimace, he recalled the events of the previous night: what a shambles – a wild goose chase. By the end of the night he had Bridgett screaming in one ear, and Hammer screaming in the other; and now he had a headache.

  Bridgett had been upset about the drug chase around town; Hammer had been upset about the pointless drug chase around town – a wild drug chase. Inevitably Hammer had finally vented his frustration with a childish temper tantrum; but Bridgett, on the other hand, after succinctly saying her piece, just went to bed. She probably wasn’t speaking now.

  Alex remembered the early enthusiasm of the evening: Hammer had suggested, quite reasonably it had seemed, that diaketamine could be purchased or ordered from any pharmacy. But it soon emerged that ‘uncontrolled’ could also mean: ‘unavailable’.

  The first shop, the one over the road from his flat, set the pattern for the night. Hammer approached the white-coat behind the counter, and casually asked: ‘Good evening, I wonder, do you have any diaketamine in store?’

  The pharmacist just stared back at him blankly, before finally replying: ‘You mean diazepam?’

  This was the first setback, but more would follow. Alex and Hammer visited a further seven stores in the Deepdale district, and in every case the story was the same: none of the pharmacists stocked diaketamine. As evening turned towards night they decided to try one of the large pharmacies down town, but when they arrived at Fishergate, the big stores were all shut. That was when Hammer had his tantrum.

  Alex returned to his flat and proceeded to get an earful from Bridgett: months of resentment and worry came pouring out, and by the end of the night he felt forced to admit that, perhaps, drugs had become his obsession. A deep but fretful sleep followed, one that even persisted through his 08:00 alarm call. Maybe Bridgett had switched off the alarm! No, she worried about his poor attendances.

  He tried in vain to recall his troubled dreams, they had seemed so vivid a moment ago, but now only a surface veneer of nonsensical plot and fading emotion persisted. Soon even this would be lost. Good riddance.

  So, with the first lecture missed... he checked his timetable (even after six months, he still hadn’t memorized it) ... yes, Thursday: a good day, the next lecture commenced at two-in-the-afternoon! Excellent. This would give him a chance to watch some daytime TV...

  There was a knock at the front door.

  Alex jumped at the sound and leapt out of bed; he threw on a dressing gown as he descended the stairs. Who could this be? He opened the door gingerly only to be blinded by powerful sunshine.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Al, didn’t mean to get you out of bed!’

  ‘Hey, Cube, come in.’ Alex led Cube to the bedroom/lounge/kitchen.

  ‘Wow! Bohemia!’ shouted Cube. He always said this, or something similar, every time he visited Alex’s student hovel. Cube lived with his parents, somewhere in the unknown suburban fringes of Preston. To him, the sight of a stinking student flop always provoked a sense of wonder and awe.

  ‘Yeah, Bridgett forgot to wash the dishes,’ Alex climbed back into bed, ‘make us some tea, Cube?’

  Cube dutifully obeyed; he approached the sink and stared at the accumulated, unwashed shit. He shook his head and let out a loud, deep laugh. ‘Bohemia, HAHA.’

  Alex regarded his gangly visitor:

  Back at the start of the course, he’d largely ignored Cube, finding him to be rather gauche and naive – square. But first impressions etc... Cube turned out to have hidden depths, he was both remarkably shrewd and thoughtful, not to mention funny, and he had a liking for drugs which earned him points as well. But he did work too hard and he didn’t get laid enough, so could not truly be claimed as a fellow drop-out. No one could. All the other drop-outs had long since failed and dropped out.

  ‘In the cabinet, there, you’ll find some paracetamol, you couldn’t get me them, could you?’

  ‘You’re a lazy tosser, Stanton, get them yourself! – I’m making the tea.’

  Alex reluctantly emerged from his bed and searched for the needed analgesic. ‘How did the lecture go this morning?’ he absentmindedly enquired.

  ‘Boring, it was Cutthroat – he asked where you were. Jordan said you were dead, HAHA.’

  ‘Jordan’s a turd.’

  Cube came over with a cup of tea. ‘I’ve got some past-papers here, statistical mechanics; this stuff is horrific.’ He reached into his carrier bag and handed the papers over to Alex, who studied them closely.

  ‘Have you got your statistical mechanics notes?’

  Cube handed over a file and Alex flicked through it... all meaningless hieroglyphics...

  All through his student ‘career’, Alex had skipped lectures, run up backlogs and generally pissed about, but when it came close to exam-time he would always stop partying and try to make sense of his course notes, (someone else’s photocopied notes). This strategy worked so well in the first year – when the work was easy, but by the second year it became more difficult. His first compulsory maths module exam, at the end of the autumn term, served as a rude awakening. During the ten-week course he’d excelled himself by failing to turn up to a single lecture or tutorial. The grapevine warned of trouble ahead: this maths was tough, most of the class was struggling to come to terms with it.

  One week to go before the exam and time to glance at his photocopied notes: he couldn’t understand any of it.

  He stopped going out, skipped lectures from other courses and crammed ten-weeks-worth of unforgiving mathematics into just a few days.

  One day to go and it still wasn’t understood.

  But then he got it. It made complete sense. Like everything else, less than half a dozen ‘big ideas’ underpinned this maths, once you understood those – it all fell into place.

  Out of a class of fourteen, only five passed at the first sitting. Alex was one, Cube was another.

  But he’d been lucky and it would be the last time he felt able to slack on such a grand scale. The exams that followed in the spring and summer of the second year demanded more attention.

  Well, a little more. Some people were just born to be bums.

  ‘Have you finished your project yet?’ asked Cube, breaking Alex from his nostalgic reflections.

  ‘No,’ he replied curtly. The project was another headache. ‘Oh, by the way, what was that shit you told Bridgett... about Geoff? Something about him still being in a coma, but the doctors trying to talk to him, or something.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s absolutely right, man, it’s freaky. They’re calling his condition “Locked-in syndrome”.’

  ‘You what!?’

  ‘They reckon Geoff’s fully conscious, but he can’t move – not even his eyes.’

  Alex was truly appalled by this shocking news. ‘That sounds horrendous! ...the worst thing imaginable. ...Why Geoff for fuck’s sake!? I mean...’ He shook his head, unable to continue.

  ‘Life’s a bitch,’ offered Cube.

  ‘Life’s fucking cruel, Cube. It ain’t a bitch, it’s just cruel.’

  Cube nodded. ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘I’m going to visit Geoff tomorrow evening, with Bridgett; to be honest, I’m dreading it.’ Alex shot Cube a guilty look.

  ‘You’ve got to go, man, it’s your duty,’ saged the wise Cube.

  ‘Yeah, you should come too, Cube – he’s your mate as well.’

  ‘Okay, sure, I’ll tag along, why not?’ No doubt Cube could think of hundreds of reasons ‘why not’, but, like Alex, he had a duty.

  Five minutes of silence followed as Alex – vacantly flicking through Cube’s file – brooded over Geoff’s fate. As he felt his mood take another downward lurch, he pulled back and tried to direct his thoughts elsewhere.

  Time for a
chemical assist:

  ‘Cube, do you want a joint? I’ve just scored some haze,’ he said, trying to raise his tone...

  ‘Err, that shit is too strong for me, you had some nice Afghani resin last time I was around?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve still got that, it’s over there, in that drawer, could you–’

  ‘Yes, yes, you sit back, enjoy your tea. Here, let me straighten that pillow.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Cube released the pillow and glided over to examine the resin.

  ‘Hmm, yes, damn fine piece of resin, this. Shall I skin up?’

  Cube loved to come across like this, as though he were some kind of druggy connoisseur. Alex recalled the previous summer:

  Hammer had managed to obtain a plentiful supply of cheap acid from one-or-other of his many dodgy sources. Keen to unload it, he’d passed on some to Alex, at cost, for him to use or sell as he saw fit. At this point Cube had become interested in trying it for the first time, but he only agreed to drop a quarter tab. Alex encouraged him to try more, but Cube remained insistent, fearing advanced psychosis should he take it too far.

  For at least a week after, he’d regaled all ’n’ sundry with tiresomely detailed descriptions of the acid’s ‘subtle’ effects.

  The acid had been garbage – Alex knew that Cube’s quarter tab had provided little more than the placebo effect.

  Five minutes later and Cube proudly inspected the misshapen reefer. When he lit up, the end flamed and the joint shrank to less than half of its original length.

  ‘You’re a real craftsman, Cube.’

  Cube put the joint to his mouth, sucked in smoke, and went cross-eyed studying the burning tip. He inhaled and proceeded to pull a wide range of facial contortions; there eventually followed an explosive exhalation. If Cube got high, it might have been due to oxygen deprivation. He handed the joint to Alex, who took a long drag.

  Cube considered the oncoming high. ‘Hmm, nice, a well-rounded, refreshing hit with just a hint of–’

  ‘Oak?’ offered Alex.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s cannabis, Cube, not a vintage wine!’

  Cube began to give a flawed impersonation of a well-known TV wine expert, but it sounded ludicrous, prompting Alex to hurl his underwear at him. This just served to encourage Cube further: ‘Oohh!! I’m feeling all drugged up–’

  From somewhere in the room, a phone began to ring and Cube abruptly shut up. Alex jumped out of bed and homed in on the sound which seemed to be emanating from his coat pocket.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Al?’ came the recognizable voice.

  ‘That Hammer?’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry about–’

  ‘I’ve found some.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard – diaketamine – I’ve tracked it down, It’ll be here at two!’

  Alex was lost for words.

  ‘Hey! you still there?’

  ‘Yes, how did you..?’

  ‘Explanations later, I’m only getting enough for two hits. It’s expensive – £50 per hit.’

  ‘What!?’

  ‘Get some cash, and be here at two, over and out.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Hammer ... err ... look, I can’t really talk about it ... err ... something’s come up.’ Alex and Cube finished the joint in silence; half an hour later Cube departed the flat and started back to the university.

  Alex searched for Bridgett’s Head and reread the article on LIFE. He read it several times, making sure he didn’t miss any details.

  7