The man looks down at the ground, at a sawn off tree stump standing about a foot off the ground.
‘Perhaps you can use that,’ he says.
‘Unbelievable.’
I take a hold of the railings, place one foot on the stump and crouch. Don’t ask me how I do it, but I clear those railings in one single motion, and with my ankles tucked perfectly together, for once I’m ready for the ground that rushes towards me. The balls of my feet burn from the impact but I’ll be OK. I can run, anyway. I turn back to see a light shine through the hedgerow. It’s no more than twenty feet away. I scan the street for an exit.
‘Enjoy what’s left of it,’ I hear the man clearly say, but when I look back up at the hedgerow he’s already gone. An icy current passes over me. It makes my top lip curl.
I don’t hang about. I don’t look back either.
*
With the help of the stolen A-Z I slowly snaked my way south. I heard the siren a couple of times and once I was forced to crouch behind a parked car when a set of flashing lights passed by the end of an adjoining street. Apart from that, the police didn’t put in another appearance.
At Kentish Town I considered jumping back onto the underground, but as a neighbouring town to Crouch End it was one of the most obvious places for the law to monitor and I decided to continue on foot. I cut across the main road and criss-crossed south through the back streets.
By the time I reached the edge of Camden Town I was dehydrated to such an extent I thought my poor tongue was about to crack down the middle. I could go no further. To continue would mean risking another seizure. I needed rest, and plenty of it.
A hotel was way too risky. If I really was caught up in a murder hunt then the police would have these under surveillance too. Besides, I wasn’t sure I could handle my thoughts in the solitude of a darkened room. I might not make it out alive.
What I needed was somewhere to sit. Somewhere warm but crowded. What I needed was a nightclub.
I guess it was already into the early hours of Saturday morning when I walked down Camden High Street, but you would never think it. The area teemed with activity.
No one seemed to notice my nervy figure as I trudged into the town centre and I almost started to believe that I was being paranoid about my dishevelled appearance. But I soon realised that I was not passing by undetected. I was under constant scrutiny, by the many clumps of hooded men who stood loitering in the cracks and on the corners. And I really did look as bad as I feared. As I walked past their well trained medical eye, they would mumble their prescription to me, the cure that they could provide. The product they felt I looked in most need of. Smack.
Taking consolation from the thought that my situation could be worse, I wandered up to one of the fast food vendors dotted around the market.
‘Here, mate, is there a decent nightclub around these parts?’
He looked me up and down for a second and continued to flip his meat. ‘Underworld’s down there. Eighties’ night, should be right up your street.’
I followed his directions and found a broad, blue entrance. The doormen outside were none too impressed by the dishevelled figure approaching them, but they couldn’t argue with its sobriety and I was allowed to pass.
The air inside the club was warm and thick. I stood at the bar and acquainted myself with a couple of long, but ultimately short lived VATs, then escorted another pair to somewhere a little quieter. The soles of my feet were like treacle, totally out of place with the rest of the crowd. The revellers were so full of energy. It was like they were exploding with it. They looked so young. So happy.
At the back of the long brick room there was a sofa. I fell into it. With a drink in each hand and a comfortable place to thaw my marrow, never in my life had I felt better. If the police wanted to pick me up then this would be the best time. I wouldn’t put up any kind of struggle. I emptied one of the glasses and melted completely.
Flood blots dotted the ceiling. Like dirty tears. I knew exactly how they felt.
Time passed. The room pulsed.
*
An elbow nudges my arm.
‘Know what I mean, mate?’
I open my eyes. Struggle to refocus on the surroundings.
‘Where the fuck?’
Lick my lips. Vision clears. Shit. Still here. That means…
Sitting next to me is a gaunt but handsome guy in his early twenties. Fortunately he doesn’t appear to have noticed how much of a bitch I am to get started on frosty mornings. When he looks at me I acknowledge him with a lift of my head.
‘He’s fuckin’ mashin’ it up,’ he says, and puffs out his cheeks. It’s as though he’s blowing out the candles on an imaginary birthday cake.
‘What a tune, eh? What…a…tune.’
The record he is enthusing about is familiar to me. It was a big hit back in the early eighties. But like so many other so-called classics, this version has been remixed with a more distinct bass line to suit present day tastes. I prefer the original. It reminds me of summer holidays, hot tarmac, paddling pools and Top of the Pops turned up so loud you could hear it in the garden. I wasn’t about to tell him that though.
‘’Ow you doing, matey?’ he asks.
‘Alright.’ My reply comes out as a phlegmy croak. I wonder how long I’ve been under. I wipe my mouth, just in case. It’s a relief to find my VAT is still afloat.
‘I am utterly fucked,’ the guy says. ‘Utterly fucked. But it’s all good. Yeah, s’all good.’
I’m not sure if he’s nodding in time to the music or confirming his assertion.
I shake myself conscious and try to sit upright which is a lot more difficult than I anticipate. The sofa’s springs are old and somehow I’ve become jammed into the soft cushions. In the end I manage to tilt myself over far enough to fumble out my cigarettes. The guy flicks me a thumb when he sees them.
‘Cheers, mate,’ he says through gnashing teeth. ‘Name’s Ant by the way.’
‘Felix.’
We kind’ve shake hands.
He smiles slyly. ‘Felix? Like the cat?’
‘Yeah, just like the cat.’
Ant turns away but continues to smile and nod. I don’t know what he’s taken, but he certainly agrees with it.
‘I fuckin’ love this place. I mean, just look at all ‘dis gash. Know what I mean?’
‘Yeah, gash.’ I touch the cut above my eye. The plasters are long gone and I can feel the soft matter of a young scab forming.
‘Yeah, what a top night. Ya gotta love the weekend. Ya just gotta fuckin’ love the weekend, know what I mean, Felix?’
I agree, but he’s not really listening.
‘I live for it, I do. The birds, the music, I fucking live for the weekend.’
I feel compelled to reply. ‘But that’s all it is now, isn’t it?’
‘Eh? Whassat?’ he bawls at me.
‘I said, but that’s all it is now, isn’t it? We’re a nation that lives for the weekend, only most of the time we can’t be bothered to wait.’ And as if to double underline my philosophy, I drain what’s left of my vodka.
Ant looks across open-mouthed. I can see the remark is being digested because for a few beats his head actually stops bobbing.
‘That’s profound dude, fuckin’ profound. What are ya, a professor or somefin’?’
I laugh. ‘You cheeky bleeder, I’m not that old. I was gonna buy you a drink as well.’
With an effort that is too tragic to be embarrassing, I release myself from the sofa’s grasp. Ant springs to his feet, making me feel every second of my age and follows me to the bar. I don’t mind. He might not be the best company, but he’s uncomplicated and helping to keep my mind from matters mortal.
‘What do you want Ant? Ant!’
‘What? Oh, nice one fella, I’ll ’ave a–’
He slaps a hand on my shoulder making me recoil. Up until now the tattoo has had no other choice than to blend in with the rest of my body’s pain, but such a
direct attack as this is impossible to ignore.
‘Holy shit, I live in there you know.’
Ant steps away and raises his palms. ‘Sorry, man.’
At any other time I might doubt his sincerity, but I can see that on a Friday and Saturday night there isn’t a malicious hair on his heavily gelled head.
‘It’s OK, it’s just that I had a tattoo earlier today and it’s still a bit tender, y’know?’
He can’t resist a slight laugh.
‘Aw shit, man, I’m really sorry. I know how the ink is. Got a big ass angel spreadin’ its wings across my back. I’ll show ya if you want.’
‘It’s a nice offer, maybe later.’ The bartender looks over at my twenty.
‘So what do you want to drink, Ant?’
‘A bottle of water, mate. Nice one.’
‘Water?’
‘Yeah, it’s to help wash somefin’ down.’
‘Let me guess. Vitamins?’
He smiles shiftily.
I pay for the drinks and let a nearby cigarette machine shoulder my lumber.
‘So what do you do for a living, Ant?’
‘Nothin’, mate. Absolutely Jack. Got a few things that keep me tickin’, but apart from that, I live for the weekend. I LIVE FOR THE WEEKEND.’ He cheers and whoops an arm into the air. ‘Y’know what I mean, Felix the Cat?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply, ‘right at this moment I really do. So where’s the girlfriend?’
‘Girlfriend? Nah. I might pick somefin’ up later, if I can be bothered, like.’ He contorts his chewing mouth into a lascivious smile.
‘You’re keeping your options open?’
‘Exactly, Felix, exactly. I’m keepin’ my options open. Wide open. I’m not gonna get a bird cause I’m expected to? Fuck that conformist shit.’
He winks enigmatically.
‘Conformin’ to society is what keeps the whole machine runnin’, innit? Society says that ya need a woman, society says that ya need a job, society say this, society fuckin’ says that. Yeah? Well, society can kiss my arse, I’m not toein’ the party line.’
He starts rummaging around in the pockets of his jeans.
‘You ever noticed how all our idols represent the fruits of individuality?’
This unexpected eloquence throws me completely. ‘Eh?’
‘You fink about it, they’re everywhere: sportsmen, rock stars, movie icons. It’s always the loner that stands as an ’ero to us all. That’s why we’re all so fuckin’ mashed up. See, in our hearts we all want to be that individual, but the problem is that the system won’t let us. The system won’t let us ’cause it needs us to keep goin’ to work, to keep paying our taxes and playing the role of the pawn. And that’s the ironic dichotomy of it all. The whole fing’s just a deliberate plot to keep the masses off kilter.’
I don’t know what’s in his vitamins, but I want some.
‘I’m not sure it’s that well organised, mate. I mean they can’t even sort out the NHS, so...’
‘Exactly. They keep people focused on the cogs and wheels so that they don’t realise the machine’s headin’ in the wrong fuckin’ direction.’
‘You’re not a sociology student by any chance, are you?’
‘Am I fuck.’ He pulls his hand out of his pocket, stifles a yawn and takes a swig.
‘University of life, me, son.’
Just then the DJ begins to break the music down. The beat continues but the bass is slowly subdued to the point where the throb is completely gone.
Like the sound of a dying man’s heartbeat.
I shake the thought away and turn to Ant.
‘I thought this was an eighties’ club? This sounds more like house music.’
But he’s not listening. He’s cheering and clapping and whistling and wailing with the rest of the club.
The beat is restrained for a little longer and then allowed to build gradually back up. For close on a minute it grows and grows and grows.
Then it stops.
Only the crowd’s raucous adulation fills the room. I look around me for signs that the club is about to close, when the beat kicks back in. It’s twice as loud as before.
The room explodes.
Ant looks around for someone to share the moment with, but finds only me. The sight of my rigid figure amongst this hotbed of activity brings him back down into the stratosphere.
‘What the fuck’s wrong wiv you? Lost ya sense of rivvum?’
I wring a smile out. Dance records are like life: it’s only the first third that’s ever any good. Soon goes downhill after that. I don’t tell Ant though. It’ll bring him down too far.
‘You carry on, mate, I’ve just got a few worries on my mind at the moment.’
That’s the cue Ant’s been waiting for.
‘Well, why don’t ya get rid of ’em, then?’ he asks playfully.
‘And how do you suppose I do that? You any good at lobotomies?’
He sneers. ‘I’m the fuckin’ master.’
‘Is that so? How much?’
Ant seems to sober up instantly. He stops dancing and gestures me closer to the wall. This sudden seriousness is one aspect of drug use that I’ve always hated. For some reason people’s personalities change the instant you start trading. You buy a joint from your closest friend and they automatically feel compelled to adopt the traits of a Bolivian baron. Al Pacino has a lot to answer for.
‘Tenner a pill,’ he says, looking at me straight on for the first time all night. ‘Take it or leave it.’
When I asked the question I was only messing about, but now the idea is growing on me. If I sit down then I’ll be back in the land of nod before I know it, and bouncers don’t look kindly on slumber parties. A pill might help to keep me on my feet. There’s one reservation.
‘They’re not very trippy, are they? I’m not touching them if they are. The last thing I need right now is to start dwelling on shit.’
‘Mate, these are pure MDMA. Not like the rest of the crap you get in here. I’ve got a mate who lives in Amsterdam, ’e has ’em tested and then posts a bag over to me every month.’
‘What if I want to stay awake all night? How many would I need?’
‘Couple.’
Back in my day one would have seen you through.
‘So we’ll call it two for fifteen, then?’
Ant nods and reaches into the pocket of his jeans. I’ve been out of the game for too long to know if that’s a fair price, but the fact that he is not haggling with me means I’m probably paying over the odds. No matter. It’s a small club. If he sells me duds then I can find him easily enough.
One clumsy exchange later and I’m holding two yellow pills in my very moist palm.
I keep them there.
There are a million reasons not to take one, the most important being that I need to stay sharp. But sharp is a pipe dream. My body needs a full overhaul before it can even consider cutting anything.
Then I remember the cold night lying on the other side of the perspiring walls. If one of these pills can keep me up long enough to avoid walking the streets then it has to be a good option.
Fuck it.
I hold one tablet down with my thumb and flick my hand to my mouth. The loose pill hits the back of my throat. A strong bitter flavour fills my mouth. It’s how I imagine car battery acid to taste.
They’re definitely legit.
I swallow and swill. Vodka and tonic never tasted so good.
When I open my eyes Ant is laughing at my expression.
‘You don’t need to worry about a thing now, mate,’ he says. ‘Everythin’s good. Everythin’s tip top.’
I hope so. Sixty minutes and I’ll know one way or the other.
(Reference; KT300/9/77) (Session 13 – 1 hour)
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT OF CONVERSATION WITH FELIX SHILL
9.00pm – 10.00pm, Saturday, June 25, 1988
(cont.)
You’re not sleeping are you, Felix?
Hmm? No
.
Late night was it?
(F remains silent. Displays signs of hostility; frowning; staring into space; folded arms)
I’ll take that as a yes. Is that where you got the eye?
Ah, here we go. I’ve been waiting for this. I knew you wouldn’t be able to go an hour without bringing it up.
Do you not want to talk about it, then?
I don’t give a toss, I just expected you to jump on it sooner, that’s all.
Well I was waiting to see if you felt comfortable discussing it.
(F remains silent for nearly a minute)
Have you been fighting?
…kind’ve.
I wouldn’t like to see the other guy.
Wouldn’t you? Strange, because I would.
I see. Now, let’s go back to what we were just talking about.
What you were just talking about.
Yes. You’ve indicated in previous sessions that you often feel threatened by situations in which you lack control. Do you think this is why you’ve been so disconnected recently?
(F shrugs)
Could it be something else, do you think? Your college work? This person that you were fighting with?
(F remains unresponsive)
A girl perhaps?
(F’s face warms very slightly)
I see. She’s a very lucky girl.
Do you charge extra for the compliments?
No, Felix, they’re complimentary.
Very funny.
Thank you. Coming back to that point for a second, where do you think your need to control stems from?
I have absolutely no idea.
Well, I can tell you that typically these feelings arise from insecurity in a given situation and unless the person can overcome them, they can often escalate into frustration and anger. Does that sound familiar, Felix?
(F shows further signs of unease)
Felix, we really can’t go on like this. This session has been running for forty-five minutes and yet you’ve hardly said two words to me. Overall I think you’ve made a lot of progress during your time here. But unfortunately you’ve frequently demonstrated behaviours that, quite frankly, raise other concerns in my mind.
Really.
Yes, really. Your moods seem to fluctuate between bouts of sullenness and silence on one hand and hostility and cynicism on the other. It’s perfectly natural for a child – sorry, person – of your age to exhibit this type of conduct, however, I believe that unless you’re careful, this passive aggressive negativism could lead to problems in later life.
Felix Shill Deserves to Die Page 19
